Staunton spectator and vindicator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1896-1916, 1906-03-16
BAD MAN" BENDER.

A convict sat in one of the northern
county pens, and loving kindness was
not in his heart There was one
farmer toward whom he bore the oil
of hatred. This convict used to dream
at night that he had his enemy by the
throat, and when he awoke his rage
was not a pretty thing to watch. His
name was Bender of bad family. He
had been a bad boy and bad man
There were many fancied wrongs in
his mind as he lay awake half the
night in the dark, but the farmer
who had given him a thrashing years
ago required above them all. He had
five years still to serve and the
thought hurt him that the farmer
might die before the debt was paid
At length a wisp Of an idea came
to him, and he carved it out excitedly
through the long days at the benches
and the longer nights in his cell. When
he was allowed to see an old friend,
he unfolded the idea. And what came
of it follows:
On a remote part of the old mans
farm, in a fence corner, a half mile
from any highway and nearly as far
from the farmhouse, was little swail,
where a company of young poplars
were shooting up. The little piece Of
land was not workable because water
lay upon it for days after a severe
rain. The farmer passed ''The Pop
PIES" as he designated the spot, on a
spring morning, when the blowing was
well started and the time was valuable
indeed. He noted a small mound CT
dirt inside through the poplar buds.
and he entered charity.
A hole the size of Saratoga trun' !;
had been dug in the midst of the
swail The farmer thought at once OF
foul play. Some one had plotted to
cover up a crime on his own land.
but had been frightened away; or per-
haps some one had been murdered and
buried there, and the remains just now
removed
The old man was in a savage mood.
The town was four miles away, and
the fields were crying for him, else he
should have been on the way to the
sheriff now. The next morning
there was another hole in the midst OK
the swail, and the former one had been
partially filled. The shoeprints in the
mire had been obliterated with the
shovel, as if the mysterious digger had
walked backward scraping his imple-
ment back and forth over the clues IN
til he reached hard ground.
Farmer Lamson forgot his work. He
rage and mystery. He determined to
sit out that night and to watch for
these decorators or criminals. He die
so, and there was light April rain
which drove him back to the house a.
midnight in the clutch of rheumatism
Scarcely had he reached the back
"stoop" when he turned toward tag
fields to see lantern shining dim in
the swail, but he could not go back.
The next day he could not get up for
the stiffness and pain in his joints, and
the day lost in the fields tortured the
very soul of him, so that he had to
hire a man for the blowing. His only
son had been driven forth from the
house years ago, and the old slave
wife who had mothered the boy still
wept.
On the third day he emerged with
difficulty into a windy but warm morn
ing, and after haggling with the hired
hand over payment, discharged him
and took the pillow. 1t was not until
noon that he reached the swail. There
were now four holes there. His face
became blotched and his hand trembled
with passion. He seized strip
OF paper which protruded from the
latest pile Of dirt. 1t was brown with
age, but bore a faded message which
the old farmer read with difficulty:
Look in Old Man Lamson's popp:e
swail for Blake Boys loot"
The old man gave hungry cry and
set to work with his fingers in the
nearest hole. He asked nothing fur
Their than the sentence which the paper
contained. The mysterious trespassers
had dropped it without doubt.
Twenty years before the Blake bro
theirs, the most notorious criminals OF
the county, had been captured after
robbing the town bank of $11 900. The
money was never found, but as no one
escaped, it was plain that the fortune
was hidden somewhere in the locality.
Everyone had searched. On Saturdays
small boys still sought the Blake treas
ure. The story was a tradition of the
countryside, and now "Old Man" Lam
son had the mania, and madness it
was indeed
There was no work done on his farm.
From dawn until dark, he toiled and
watched with shotgun at night. In
town four miles away they were al
ready laughing at him, for the old
man was little loved, but he did not
know nor care.
Ten days passed. He turned over
every foot of soil in the swail to a
depth of six feet. but still he did not
give up, until he fell from illness and
fatigue. The aged wife, bringing his
dinner on the tenth day, discovered
him down and delirious.
Forty-eight hours later, when the
farmer found his mind, his first
thought and his first coherent words
concerned the swail. The woman was
hidden to go there and watch. She
turned over an old rusty tea kettle,
quite empty save for note, which
read:
eff you don't find the treasure, &C
and ask Lem Blake"
Inasmuch as God, man nor the law
had been ahla to wiring the Xherea-