The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters (Arbor House Library of Contemporary Americana) by Robert Lewis Taylor Page B
Authors: Robert Lewis Taylor
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of shooting me, but I had begun to take heart a little, and felt brasher.
“I’m mighty glad you found me, sir. I was lost—I got separated from my Uncle Jessie and the others. They were on their way toMemphis to see Uncle Jessie’s stepbrother. Merle, that runs the brewery.”
“Hold on, hold on—you’re running away with yourself. Who’s this Uncle Jessie? Why ain’t you home with your maw and paw?”
“I’m a poor foundling boy,” I said, using a word from out of an English book they handed us at the Secondary School, a very good story that I’d read through four or five times. “He isn’t my blood uncle—they left me on his doorstep, in a basket, one night when it was snowing and sleeting. I was near about froze when they found me, him and my Aunt Harriet, his second wife; the first was shot while poaching hares.”
This didn’t seem to fit the occasion, but I was stuck with it, so I let it go, and anyway it was in the book.
The old man looked up at his companions and said, “Durn me, if this boy ain’t the champeen long-distance talker of Missouri, and they was
all
born with a flappy jaw hereabouts, if I’m any judge.” Turning back to me, he says, “Son, your tongue waggles like a billygoat with the St. Vitus.”
I didn’t relish the compliment, specially when the beefy man spoke up to suggest that, “Let’s cut it out and improve his looks.” Behind him on the horse, I could see the black-haired girl stiffen up and look frightened and miserable.
It took me only about five minutes to make up my mind that these were common highwaymen, dangerous, too, and that I’d better watch my step, and not get frisky. Even so, I was beginning to fix a sort of plan in my mind.
The three of them had drawn off for a consultation; now the old man came back. Just as I thought, he’d been working on my story, and didn’t altogether care for it.
“You say you was separated from your Uncle Jessie? Now how in the name of common sense can anybody with the brains of a muskrat get lost on a wagon trail? And why didn’t they send back to search?” He put his face down—I hadn’t noticed before what a wild glitter his eyes had—and said in a tone that made me gulp,“Son, if you want to live long and die hearty, you’d better spit out the truth and spit it out quick.”
Before I could answer, he said, “Now ain’t the facts that you’re an apprentice and have run off to shirk toil? Ain’t that so? Talk up, or by Jupiter, I’ll—”
Seizing my jacket, he gave me a yank that put a crick in my neck, and I began to blubber.
“I couldn’t stood it any longer. I was black and blue the whole first year. He beat me up regular, whether I deserved it or not, and didn’t give me anything to eat except cold leavings from the second table.”
“That’s all well and good; the point is, what’s to be done
now
?”
I tried to look pitiful, but he went on:
“My partner here, Mr. Baggott, who’s known for his merciful ways and love of children, favors putting a bullet in you, so you won’t have to suffer any more. What do you think of that?”
I commenced to sniffle again, and said I hoped they would spare me—I couldn’t do them any harm, but only wanted to escape in peace, so that nobody would take me back for the reward.
The old man’s ears pricked right up.
“What reward? See here, who was you bound out to, anyway? And whereabouts?”
“Mr. Chouteau, sir,” I said, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. “Up in St. Louis. He’s the wealthiest merchant in those parts, and the meanest. He placed a reward of two hundred dollars on me out of spite and revenge, because he couldn’t have wanted me back, seeing how he treated me.”
“How’d
you
know about this reward?” he inquired suspiciously, putting his face down again.
“I hid out for two days under some pilings by the river, foot of Market Street. I saw the notice on a handbill when I was out nights rummaging through garbage cans.”
It
“I’m mighty glad you found me, sir. I was lost—I got separated from my Uncle Jessie and the others. They were on their way toMemphis to see Uncle Jessie’s stepbrother. Merle, that runs the brewery.”
“Hold on, hold on—you’re running away with yourself. Who’s this Uncle Jessie? Why ain’t you home with your maw and paw?”
“I’m a poor foundling boy,” I said, using a word from out of an English book they handed us at the Secondary School, a very good story that I’d read through four or five times. “He isn’t my blood uncle—they left me on his doorstep, in a basket, one night when it was snowing and sleeting. I was near about froze when they found me, him and my Aunt Harriet, his second wife; the first was shot while poaching hares.”
This didn’t seem to fit the occasion, but I was stuck with it, so I let it go, and anyway it was in the book.
The old man looked up at his companions and said, “Durn me, if this boy ain’t the champeen long-distance talker of Missouri, and they was
all
born with a flappy jaw hereabouts, if I’m any judge.” Turning back to me, he says, “Son, your tongue waggles like a billygoat with the St. Vitus.”
I didn’t relish the compliment, specially when the beefy man spoke up to suggest that, “Let’s cut it out and improve his looks.” Behind him on the horse, I could see the black-haired girl stiffen up and look frightened and miserable.
It took me only about five minutes to make up my mind that these were common highwaymen, dangerous, too, and that I’d better watch my step, and not get frisky. Even so, I was beginning to fix a sort of plan in my mind.
The three of them had drawn off for a consultation; now the old man came back. Just as I thought, he’d been working on my story, and didn’t altogether care for it.
“You say you was separated from your Uncle Jessie? Now how in the name of common sense can anybody with the brains of a muskrat get lost on a wagon trail? And why didn’t they send back to search?” He put his face down—I hadn’t noticed before what a wild glitter his eyes had—and said in a tone that made me gulp,“Son, if you want to live long and die hearty, you’d better spit out the truth and spit it out quick.”
Before I could answer, he said, “Now ain’t the facts that you’re an apprentice and have run off to shirk toil? Ain’t that so? Talk up, or by Jupiter, I’ll—”
Seizing my jacket, he gave me a yank that put a crick in my neck, and I began to blubber.
“I couldn’t stood it any longer. I was black and blue the whole first year. He beat me up regular, whether I deserved it or not, and didn’t give me anything to eat except cold leavings from the second table.”
“That’s all well and good; the point is, what’s to be done
now
?”
I tried to look pitiful, but he went on:
“My partner here, Mr. Baggott, who’s known for his merciful ways and love of children, favors putting a bullet in you, so you won’t have to suffer any more. What do you think of that?”
I commenced to sniffle again, and said I hoped they would spare me—I couldn’t do them any harm, but only wanted to escape in peace, so that nobody would take me back for the reward.
The old man’s ears pricked right up.
“What reward? See here, who was you bound out to, anyway? And whereabouts?”
“Mr. Chouteau, sir,” I said, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. “Up in St. Louis. He’s the wealthiest merchant in those parts, and the meanest. He placed a reward of two hundred dollars on me out of spite and revenge, because he couldn’t have wanted me back, seeing how he treated me.”
“How’d
you
know about this reward?” he inquired suspiciously, putting his face down again.
“I hid out for two days under some pilings by the river, foot of Market Street. I saw the notice on a handbill when I was out nights rummaging through garbage cans.”
It
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