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Updated: May 22, 2025
Her grandfather was hanged, one of John A. Murrell's robbers; and when she was a girl, her father fortified his log house and fought the law that strove to oust him for lack of title. She had moulded bullets; and when both her father and mother had been wounded, she thrust a blunderbuss through the window and with buck-shot swept a bloody road.
His usually terse speech was becoming diffuse and irrelevant, while vacant laughter issued from his lips. Yancy was apparently unaffected by the good cheer of which he had partaken, but Murrell's dark face was flushed. The Scratch Hiller's ability to carry his liquor exceeded anything he had anticipated. "You-all run along to bed, Nevvy," said Yancy, as Hannibal entered the room.
"I rode out to the Hill to say good-by to Hannibal and to you, but they said you were here and that the trial was today." Captain Murrell, with Crenshaw and the squire, came from the house, and Murrell's swarthy face lit up at sight of the girl. Yancy, sensible of the gulf that yawned between himself and what was known as "the quality," would have yielded his place, but Betty detained him.
Murrell's home, and the theater of many of his evil deeds, during the year 1834, and for some time previously, was in this county of Madison, and as we trudged along the road on this march I scanned all the surroundings with deep interest and close attention. Much of the country was rough and broken, and densely wooded, with high ridges and deep ravines between them.
The transient members who made a habit of traveling from place to place numbered twenty-two; Murrell said that there was a total list of two thousand men in his band, including all classes. To the foregoing sketch of Murrell's life Mr.
Ware neither moved nor spoke as Hues and his prisoner passed back along the path, Hues with his hand on Murrell's shoulder, and one of his companions close at his heels, while the third man led off the outlaw's horse. Presently the distant clatter of hoofs was borne to Ware's ears only that; the miracle of courage and daring he had half expected had not happened.
"We are face to face with a very deplorable condition, Mr. Yancy. Court was to sit here to-day, but judge Morrow and the public prosecutor have left town, and as you see, Murrell's friends have gathered for a rescue. There's a sprinkling of the better element but only a sprinkling.
"Howdy, sir?" she answered. Her daughter glanced indifferently in Ware's direction. She was a fine strapping girl, giving that sense of physical abundance which the planter admired. "They'd better keep her out of Murrell's way!" he thought; aloud he said, "Anybody with the captain?" "Colonel Fentress is." "Humph!" muttered Ware.
Battered, shabby and debauched, he was like some old war horse who sniffs the odor of battle that the wind incontinently brings to his nostrils. "Don't let him speak!" cried a voice, and a tumult succeeded. Cool and indomitable the judge waited for it to subside. He saw that the color was stealing back into Murrell's face.
He felt Murrell was bent on committing him to an aggregate of crime he would never have considered possible, and all for love of a girl a pink-cheeked, white-faced chit of a girl disgust boiled up within him, rage choked him; this was the rotten spot in Murrell's make-up, the man was mad-stark mad! As Ware rode away from Belle Plain he cursed him under his breath with vindictive thoroughness.
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