A Wilderness of Tigers: A Novel of the Harpe Brothers and Frontier Violence

By Kenneth Tucker

With the cessation of the Indian Wars, Silas Magby believed that Western Kentucky would be safe for his wife and children. But then the Harpes came—two mysterious brothers, Micajah and Wiley, with three devoted women followers, leaving a wake of ghoulish and seemingly motiveless murders—men, women, children, infants, bludgeoned, stabbed, shot, or set on fire. Earlier Magby had participated in a fruitless attempt to capture the brothers, but word comes that they are seeking him to enact retaliation. Now Magby must somehow stop the brothers before they can kill his wife and children.

Although fiction, A Wilderness of Tigers based upon one of the earliest recorded serial killer rampages. In the 1790’s roughly 35 persons were murdered by the Harpe brothers.

Kenneth Tucker has woven a haunting story whose characters linger beyond a final page of history or text."- Katherine C. Kurk, Kentucky Philological Review

"Tucker tells a fascinating story of these evil doers... It's an interesting part of our history..."- Jesse Stuart Foundation.

"Tucker effectively uses dialogue and and clear, graphic details to bring to light a sad chapter in Kentucky's history." - Steve Flairty, Kentucky Monthly

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 14, 2005
• ISBN: 9781463458690

Book preview

A WILDERNESS OF

TIGERS

A NOVEL OF THE

HARPE BROTHERS AND

FRONTIER VIOLENCE

Revised Edition

BY

KENNETH TUCKER

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AuthorHouse™

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© 2005 KENNETH TUCKER. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  03/04/2021

ISBN: 978-1-4184-8238-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4184-8239-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-5869-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2004099752

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Afterword

Acknowledgements

For Jerry Herndon, who

first told me of the Harpes.

Me seems I hear, when I do hear sweet music,

The dreadful cries of murdered men in forests.

Sir Philip Sidney, Double Sestine from The Arcadia

Chapter One

Magby stood gazing at the rubble—the piles of glowing coals, the scattered darkened shingles, the fallen joists, and charred logs—the remains of what until sometime during the long night before had been the two-room cabin of Moses and Mary Stegall. The odor of wood smoke was still sharp, and old Tompkins and Will Grissom were moving cautiously amid the smoldering wreckage, using shovels to push aside smoking logs and scrape away small mounds of ashes in search for further bodies. As Magby dug the bowl of his corncob pipe into the battered leather pouch at his side, he strove to suppress a visceral shudder.

Why does a day like this one have to be so bright? he thought almost unwittingly. The sky should be leaden, overcast, foreboding.

Unexpectedly, from somewhere in the summer forest behind him, a bird began to trill. Magby paused in raising the pipe. The notes fleetingly lulled him. He could not recall the kind of bird that made that song, but for a strange and piercing moment, he felt as though he stood amid a dream and as though the smoking rubble were unreal. All that mattered, seemingly, was the bird’s self-pleasing notes.

Then Tompkins called something to Grissom about there being no need to search further. Grissom nodded. And as Magby lighted the pipe, the shudder—sharp, deep—quivered down his spine.

Tompkins and then Grissom stepped from amid the ashes and tossed shovels to the earth. As they walked slowly toward him, Magby tugged at the edge of his broad-brimmed hat, then stooped and picked up his long rifle from the tall, gently waving grass at his moccasined feet. He sensed that he needed to grasp it just then. Amid the whirl of his thoughts, he did not know why, only that somehow it seemed like an epaulet. He did not speak as they approached but watched them, noting their features as though they were strangers: Old Tompkins, short, turkey-neck lean, and grizzle-bearded, wearing a soiled buckskin shirt and a frayed coonskin cap; and Will Grissom, young, erect, block-shouldered, his shirt stripped off, his face round, serious, weighty, yet retaining a hint of the softness of boyhood. Magby had known them both for several years and felt especially close to Grissom, but now he was struggling with the uncanny feeling that they were all three strangers living one hallucination.

With faces haggard and tense, they stopped before him.

No sign of the babe? asked Magby, with a trace of hoarseness.

None, said Tompkins.

I guess then maybe there’s a chance it’s alive, said Grissom.

Magby noticed the submerged tremor in his young friend’s voice.

I doubt hit, said Tompkins. They’s little reason them kind of men’d keep a babe alive. They probly kilt hit. Probly, though… hit’s body bein’ so tiny, hit was burnt up with the cabin.

I reckon that’s the state of things, said Magby. No sign then of Moses?

None, said Grissom, hands on hips. I’m fair to certain, Silas, us three couldn’t have overlooked another body.

I am, too, said Magby.

So, said Grissom, them over there’s the only two grown folks that perished here last night or early this morning—whenever it was. He nodded beyond Magby’s shoulder.

Automatically, Magby turned and stared toward the two partially charred corpses, lying about twenty paces away, near where his horse and those of his companions were placidly grazing. Ten minutes or so before, he and his fellows had carried the barely recognizable body of the man from the ashes and had laid it there. As they had stepped again toward the blackened jumble of logs, he had told Tompkins and Grissom that he wished to pause a moment and study things over before continuing the search. Grissom had nodded, but had said tensely that he wished to go on looking then. Waiting to know the answer was not good. Tompkins had agreed.

Two bodies, Magby muttered, returning his eyes to Grissom.

Yep, said Tompkins. Stegall’s missus and that surveyor-fella, Major Love.

I heard tell, Magby said, how he was coming here yesterday to see Stegall about some land purchase or other. I guess Moses and his wife asked him to spend the night.

Unexpectedly, Tompkins chuckled. The hoarse, strained cackle rang with an odd mixture of delight and apprehension. I reckon that Major’s spirit, if’n hit can look down from wharever hit is, regrets acceptin’ that invitation. Him plannin’ to spend the night in Stegall’s cabin and them two hell-bent devils a-showin’ up and splittin’ his head wide open with an axe!

What’d shame King Herod, said Grissom, his usually poised voice quivering, is what they done to Stegall’s missus. There must be over thirty stab wounds all over what’s left of her body, and that one knife was shoved so deep up inside her that the handle wasn’t even scorched.

I know, said Magby. Men that would do a thing like that, they don’t seem human.

Tell me, Silas, said Grissom. You fought the Redcoats and then the Injuns in Tennessee. Did you ever see anything as bad as what these men do?

Magby thought a moment. I reckon in my thirty-eight years, I’ve seen a lot of what people don’t like to tell their womenfolk about. I seen men bleeding to death, Will, and dying of gangrene. I’ve seen men’s bodies after the Injuns scalped them, and I’ve seen some men still living and moaning after the redskins done that to them. But these two brothers—I don’t know.... What they do is beyond God’s comprehension. Lord, I don’t know. It’s like there’s some strange disease or poison in their blood. I’ve never encountered men like them.

Tompkins looked squarely at Magby. The small man’s pale blue eyes showed an unwonted intensity. Squar Magby, I reckon you won’t like what I’m going to say, ‘cause you got a reputation of being a man of book reading, and a lot of men of learnin’ don’t believe such things, think they’re foolish. But just maybe there’s some truth in what the niggers and a lot of white folks is startin’ to say. He paused, looking nervously at Magby.

Magby nodded for him to continue.

They’s a lot of folks a-saying them brothers, they ain’t nacheral humans like you, me, and Will here. That they’re the devil’s sons sired by Satan himself on a witch woman, and when they look at you, they hex you with their glittering eyes like a sarpent, and you just lose all will and stand dumb until they come up and tomahawk you.

Magby pushed back the brim of his hat and for a moment looked askance at Tompkins. More than one farmer about Robertson’s Lick chuckled that Old Jim Tompkins was a trifle daft. A spare old bachelor, living alone in a rundown cabin, given to bouts of heavy drinking and outbreaks of sudden temper, Tompkins certainly encouraged such rumors. Magby himself had more than once wondered about Tompkins’ soundness. But as he stared at the man’s narrow, sunken, vulture-blue eyes, he brushed aside the question of whether the old farmer was a bit touched.

Tompkins’ words were simply an unhappy reminder that Western Kentucky was infested with rife and bedeviling superstition. A ramshackle body of beliefs that kept young girls creeping to the cabins of beldams for love pfilters and that provoked frightened families to place a broom and a Bible upon the doorstop on the assumption that a witch had to count every broom straw and touch each page before entering the cabin— tasks that presumably would take all night. Magby sighed almost inaudibly. Such beliefs infected lives with rootless hopes and pestering fears. Yet there was little that he or any man could do about them. But no need existed to criticize Tompkins. Magby sucked on his pipe, then said, I’m afraid, Jim, I can’t accept those beliefs."

Well, maybe you’re right, Squar Magby. But something nowadays ain’t right. Maybe hit’s these here August dog days. When they come, everything goes rotten. The world gets blighted like a bad crop.

But the question is, said Grissom, "where’s Stegall?’

I don’t know, said Magby. Maybe for some reason he left the cabin last night and did not return.

Or perhaps those two bastards dragged him off into the woods here-abouts and hacked him to pieces.

Could be, Magby acknowledged.

Aw, I don’t reckon that’s right, said Tompkins. What call would they have for takin’ him off in the woods when they was planning to massacre ever’ son of God in that house?

Or ... Magby slowly began. But he let the words die on his tongue. No fairness resided in voicing such a suspicion about Stegall—not yet, not at such a time as this.

Tompkins plucked at the lobe of his right ear and said with a note of discomfort, Aw, I don’t reckon they have the evil eye after all. Else they would of used hit on me last night.

Are you sure it was them—the Harpes—that came to your cabin? said Grissom. Maybe we’re just getting jumpy—maybe they ain’t come to Henderson County after all. Maybe some other scum done the murders.

Magby spoke with an even tone. From what Tompkins said, I’ve no doubt it was the two Harpes that called on him. He described them just like Governor Garrard’s bill.

God’s my witness, said Tompkins. "I didn’t know hit was them. They seemed so polite, so gennimanly. Both of ‘em a-dressed up like Wesleyan preachers, and that big dark ‘un—Micajah?

Yes, said Magby. That’s his name.

He spoke a fifteen -minute grace, praising God and loving ever’body and askin’ God’s mercy on all the souls of humanity.

Humpf, said Grissom. The devil can quote scripture.

And when I remarked I couldn’t provide ‘em with no meat since I was out of podder for my rifle, Micajah--or Big Harpe as some calls him--—he smiled, sorta chuckled, and lent over the table, and said, ‘No man oughta be without podder,’—or something like that and then poured out of his own horn. Hit’s right here. He tapped the dull white horn dangling at his side.

Them giving a man a gift! said Grissom bitterly. That beats almost everything folks tell about ‘em.

Magby eyed Tompkins closely. When was it they left your cabin?

Oh, about an hour after sundown.

I see. Then they would have had more than enough time to make it to my cabin by seven.

What’s this, Silas? said Grissom.

Magby looked at him uncomprehendingly, then recalled that amid the bustle and excitement of the headlong ride from Grissom’s farm, he had forgotten to tell the younger man of the uncertain callers the night before. They came to my place last night. Leastways, I’m sure it was them. I was trying to do a bit of my reading by the lamp. Emma was mending one of Young Silas’ shirts when we heard the hunting dogs. They all broke out with barking almost all at once. Like they were crazed by some fury, as if they were all frightened and wild. We hurried to the door and looked out. Two men were down the slope with the dogs round ‘em. Both the strangers had weapons. We could see that. They didn’t call for help, so I figured they were up to no good. I didn’t call off the dogs.

Then what happened?

The men fled, several of the dogs a-trailin’ after them.

God, said Grissom. It looks like they were aiming to kill you.

I know. There can be little doubt about it.

You reckon hit was because you helped chase ‘em once? said Tompkins.

Who can say? Magby said bitterly. They’re kill-crazy. Whether you’re a man, woman, or child—it don’t matter to them.

Maybe they weren’t looking for you ‘specially, said Grissom, cautiously advancing hope. Maybe they just blundered onto your farm.

No. From what Tompkins here says, they asked directions to my place.

They did! chirped Tompkins. Said they was old friends of the Squar’s. And hell, I didn’t suspect no different. I told ‘em how to get there real easy.

Silence drifted amid them. Magby slowly eyed the sun-reddened faces of the two men, then wiped his brow with his left hand. The heat was swarming down upon them from the glittering morning sun. It seemed a good day to remain indoors with a cool jug of bourbon and to lose oneself amid random, trivial thoughts, but circumstances denied him leisure.

Well, there’s little more we can do here, he said. We can send some volunteers to bring the bodies to town in a wagon.

You goin’ back to your place now? asked Grissom.

Not yet. I want to investigate those tracks we found. Excuse me. I want to clean this out. He gestured with the pipe.

As he stepped toward the smoldering rubble, he again became aware of the bird, unseen, distant, yet somehow seemingly near, joyfully singing, presumably upon some hidden limb, expressing some gladness that his heart could not entertain. The notes fluttered from Magby’s awareness as he bent and tapped the dottle into a pile of ashes.

As he turned, Grissom was picking up his soiled linsey shirt from where he had dropped it. Magby motioned for the two men to follow him to the left, to a brownish patch of earth, which had once spread before the doorway into the Stegall cabin. There Magby knelt and began examining the clutter of hoof and moccasin prints in the dry, powdery earth.

Like I said, Silas, said Grissom, tugging the shirt down about his torso, sure seems like there was a lot of visitors about Stegall’s place during the last few days.

True, said Magby, almost without emotion.

That is a puzzlement, said Tompkins. Ain’t nobody heard much about strangers in these here parts.

Except the Harpe band, said Magby dryly. But what interests me now is this apparent pattern of hoof and moccasin prints; it seems to be moving toward the path to the road. Let’s see where they go.

He rose, and they followed him onto the narrow path. They walked for nearly thirty paces to where the ground was more firm. Still the tracks were visible.

If’n hit’s them, said Tompkins, they had several horses with them. Maybe they was ridin’ them.

No, said Grissom. The moccasin tracks. The men must have been usin’ the horses as pack animals."

In that case, said Magby, the Harpes must have looted the cabin after they did what they did to Missus Stegall and Major Love, and before they set the cabin afire.

But, Silas, there’s more than two sets of moccasin tracks, said Grissom.

Aye, said Magby, mopping his brow with the brim of his hat. It looks like two or maybe all three of their womenfolk was with them.

Ha, said Tompkins, I bet their harlots waited outside in the shadows until the men murdered them folk, then helped the men rob the cabin.

I wouldn’t rule it out, said Magby.

Grissom looked directly at Magby. I swear, Silas, I still ain’t sure but what them women are being forced to follow the Harpe brothers. Silas, it ain’t natural for three women to give up family and home to tag after bloodthirsty men like Micajah and Wiley Harpe. And one of them women—the Rice girl—being a preacher’s daughter.

Magby eyed his young friend closely and refrained from letting a patronizing smile curve his lips. Grissom, no matter what the circumstances, always found it in himself to be hopeful about something. For a moment, Magby envied him.

True, Will, a lot of folks say that, but the facts are that several times the women were separated from the Harpe brothers, and each time hastened to rendezvous with them. I don’t reckon just fear would make a woman do that.

I know, Silas, I reckon you’re right. But it’s just that nobody seems to understand those women. There must be something downright unnatural about them.

Magby did not reply. He let his eyes rove along the path down to the road that wound toward the nearby wilderness.

Silas, came Grissom’s voice. Its strain was evident. If the Harpes are in these parts and are... lurking about or searching for you, what are you going to do?

Go after them, Will. I’m afraid I have no choice but that. Those dad-blamed old sisters, the Fates, have decided for me. Besides, I’m the local justice of the peace. Besides acting as a judge, it’s my duty to protect the vicinity from marauders and brigands.

I see. I just thought—it bein’ the Harpes—maybe you’d want to bring your family and move in with me until the Harpes had gone on.

I can’t do that, Will. I’ve got to get up a band of volunteers, regulators, and go after ‘em.

I guess so, Silas. It’s something a man has to do. Magby avoided Grissom’s eyes, then swallowed hard. Let’s get the horses and follow this trail a bit. I want to get some idea where they might have gone.

You plan to ride long? said Grissom.

No. I don’t think we better be away from the womenfolks any longer than need be.

They made their way back down the path, past the remains of the dwelling, to where the horses were grazing. Magby stepped toward his—a sturdy brown stallion with a small splash of whiteness upon the forehead, whom Magby had affectionately named Whitestar. As Magby raised himself into the saddle, he felt a pinch of strain in his midriff and mentally chided himself for allowing too much fat to creep about his middle. He was a fool for eating and drinking too much. True, he wasn’t what most men would call fat, but five or six years before, he had lost all appearance of slimness.

A man in his position shouldn’t let himself get too far out of shape. He vowed to refrain from eating extra helpings of Emma’s cooking.

A sharp click sounded as Tompkins checked the mechanism of his flintlock. Grissom nodded that he was ready.

Let’s go, Magby said.

Slowly they guided their horses past the blackened ruin and onto the path. The sun boiled above them like molten gold. Magby felt droplets of sweat darting down the nape of his neck. They turned onto the road and continued following the tracks left by what they assumed was the Harpe band. No one spoke. Magby felt a perverse impulse to whistle an old ballad, but refrained. Allowing himself to do so would not display an air of sobriety and seriousness. And he needed that air, if only for his own comfort. Already he was being nagged by doubt as to whether he would be able to meet the ordeal that fate had thrust upon him. He uncomfortably reflected upon Grissom’s words about whether he would wish to hide out until the Harpe menace had passed. He knew Grissom well enough to know that the words had not been uttered to give offense. They had simply resulted from the deep, almost superstitious awe that farmers in Kentucky and Tennessee had regarded the Harpes with since the string of wild, indiscriminate murders had begun nine months before upon the wilderness back roads.

Still, he bleakly wondered whether Grissom, Tompkins, and the farmers living about Robertson’s Lick—who were probably just then hearing scattered rumors of what had happened at Stegall’s—held even a shadow of confidence that he could lead a band of regulators against the devilish Harpes.

He knew that, by and large, his neighbors respected him. He had a reputation as man of book learning and wisdom, but most of his education had been piecemeal. He had spent only a few scattered years in one-room schoolhouses. He had a reputation for possessing courage. Although at times his heart had quivered or pounded within his rib cage, his courage had never failed him—not when he had been a lad of nineteen at King’s Mountain, nor when he had forged with other white men into the forests of Tennessee, nor upon those occasions since he had become a justice when he had had to disarm rowdy, drunken, roaring boys. Yes, he had courage, but would it one day fail him?

He hoped not, but still he wondered whether he were inwardly fit for what lay ahead. At odd moments indeed he questioned whether in some ill-defined sense he were as rugged, as brass-nerved as most of the settlers who had crossed the mountains into Kentucky after the Revolution. Could he order a robber, a brigand, to throw down his flintlock rifle and then, without a wink, fire a bullet into the blackguard’s heart—an act of bestial treachery that he might well be forced to resort to if he wished to rid the Western Country of such devils as Micajah and Wiley Harpe.

Could he? He did not know. And he was uncertain whether he wanted to know.

But brooding and allowing quandaries to overpower his mind did him no good. Whether or not he liked it, a task, a duty lay before him. For the sake of himself, his family, those who lived about him, he had to accept the dangerous cup.

They followed the tracks for nearly two miles along the seemingly peaceful, tree-shadowed road until the prints turned sharply toward a sparsely treed field that rose toward a line of thick timber.

Shall we go on, Squar? said Tompkins.

I think not. We’re too few. They could be lurking amid those trees.

Ain’t that the God’s truth, said Grissom. Those bastards could be hiding anywhere among those trees. It’d be just like ‘em to plan to ambush anyone who might be in pursuit.

Besides, I want to get back to Emma and the young ‘uns, said Magby. I left Sam guarding them. He’s a good shot, despite his years. But still I want to get back. The Harpes could have swung back through the woods toward the cabin.

Silas, said Grissom, tugging on the reins to steady his horse, you’ll be needing men to ride with you.

True.

I’ll be one.

Good. I appreciate that, Will.

I reckon I’ll join up too, said Tompkins with a hoarse chuckle. ‘Cause I ‘spect Harpe-hunting ain’t gonna be a very popular recreation.

Magby stared at him briefly. I thank you. He lowered his eyes and wondered whether he had been unjust in his estimation of Tompkins.

Silas, said Grissom, I’ll ride about this afternoon and tell folks what happened, see if I can round up a band to go with us.

Good, said Magby. We need to be gathering all the men we can.

Are you goin’ to be taken this road back to your cabin, Silas? asked Grissom.

Magby thought a moment. I guess I’ll ride along with you and Tompkins. It won’t take that much longer if we ride fast.

Yeah, said Grissom. We’ve been away from the womenfolk too long.

They set spurs to their horses’ flanks and rode back along the dust, onto Stegall’s property, past the blackened debris, then onto the shadowed forest trail beyond. No man spoke. The hoof clatter forbade any utterances.

Magby sensed that his fellows were alone with their own discomfiting thoughts, turning over in their minds what they had witnessed, and imagining what had happened. Then he experienced an unexpected twinge of guilt. Perhaps he should have taken the road toward his farm. But a prickly sense of foreboding had urged him not to travel down that winding forest byway alone. True, only a slight chance lingered that the Harpes, after so many hours, would double back through the woods and attack his cabin in daylight. Perhaps no grounds existed for him to worry about Emma and the children. Still, tension crawled about inside his stomach like a huge, hairy spider.

Further uncertainties troubled Magby. Later, he reckoned that what he had witnessed, especially the bloodied, partly blackened thing that had been Mary Stegall, was enough to force any sane man to ponder the course of his life. As Whitestar bounded along the trail, Magby questioned again whether he had been rash, foolhardy to bring Emma to Kentucky seven years before. The land was still wild, still untamed; too many of its dwellers riffraff, roisterers, and thieves. Known murderers lived in its towns, and highwaymen plied their trade upon the back roads. It was not a land where, with calmness of heart, a man could watch his children grow. Despite the long years since the clearing of his land, he still was not sure that Emma had ever been wholeheartedly willing to leave North Carolina. When he had first broached the possibility a year or so after their marriage, she had seemed a trifle stunned, and indeed hesitant to agree to the journey. During the two weeks following, she had avoided discussing the proposed move. Then her mother had died, and one night, a week after the burial, while he and Emma had sat up late beneath the moon-blanched apple tree in their dooryard, she had looked straight into his eyes and, placing her hand softly upon his knee, had told him in a clear, certain tone that, of course, she would go. Indeed the possibility of immigrating to a new land excited her. Unexpectedly gladdened, he had again proclaimed that moving to Kentucky was their only chance to acquire a large acreage and to build a prosperous future for themselves and the children they would have. Thereafter, when he spoke of Kentucky and told of the progress of their plans, she had seemed attentive, often cheerful. Keen anticipation at times had enlivened her speculations of fresh, green land, although on that morning of their departure, after she had bade farewell to her father and sisters and had climbed beside him upon that creaking, ramshackle wagon, she had broken into tears and wept as they had traveled for nearly eight or ten miles, while he in stunned and awkward silence, had guided the plodding horses.

Since those days—although on the whole she seemed adjusted to their rugged and demanding life upon the frontier—listless moods would steal upon her, and she would admit that she missed North Carolina and her parents’ house and its amenities. For that reason, he had spent many Spanish reals having a harpsichord brought overland from Virginia—she had played one so well in her father’s parlor. She had never told him that she regretted their decision, and always averred that her life was pleasant. But would she have been happier had they stayed in North Carolina and he had taken up the trade of scrivener? He could not know. He did not like to muse upon that possibility.

Nevertheless, it had been his dream, his plans, his urgings that had brought her to Kentucky—spirited her from her native town when she had still been a fair, soft-eyed girl of eighteen. Now if the tomahawk of Micajah Harpe should crush her face or Young Silas’, or those of the other children—his soul shuddered. Flashingly, he could almost imagine himself placing the round, cold tip of a pistol against his temple…. He shook the grisly whimsy from his mind.

They left William Grissom at his cabin. Then he and Tompkins rode a quarter of a mile until the old frontiersman branched off upon a fork to go to his land. Magby, within the oubliette of his mind, traveled the remaining mile and a half alone.

Chapter Two

Minutes later, as he rode over the shoulder of a grass-covered hill and saw his cabin, the stable, the cornfields, and the small, one-room log cabin which served as his office, still just as he had left them, he experienced a warm rush of relief. He welcomed the wisp of smoke that curled lazily from the stone chimney of his house. Emma was undoubtedly preparing the noon meal. He guided Whitestar slowly forward.

As he dismounted before his two-room cabin, he heard the rasp of the opening door. He raised his eyes sharply. Sam stepped out, clutching a rifle. The slave’s black skin glistened in the vicious August sunlight.

I seen hit was you, Squire Magby, said the Negro. I thought that I’d come on out. I wasn’t gonna leave your missus and chillun alone.

That’s all right, Sam, said Magby, tying the reins to a hitching post.

What did you find at Mr. Stegall’s?

Briefly Magby told him.

Sam lowered his eyes, then raised them. Was it them Harpes?

Most likely so. He took a hesitant step toward his home. Uh, Sam, wait here a moment before goin’ back to your cabin. I want to send the children out to play a bit. Some things I want to discuss with the missus. I don’t want them wandering too far from the cabin.

Sure, Squire Magby.

Magby nodded, then opened the door and stepped into the dim dogtrot, separating the two rooms of his dwelling. A few steps later, he opened a second door and stepped into the left room, which served as their eating and cooking area as well as a place to spend whatever moments of leisure they had. Young Silas was playing with several corncob Indians on the hard puncheons near the door. Susan was fondling a doll by the hearth, and Wade, the baby, was asleep in the cradle. Emma, kneeling before the fire, was stirring something in the iron pot. Upon hearing his entry, she bolted upright and turned about. Silas, she said, did you find the Stegalls? Or were they as those men this morning thought?

We found two bodies, Emma—Mrs. Stegall’s and a Major Love’s. There was no sign of Moses or their babe.

What’s this, Papa? said Young Silas.

Turning, Magby noticed that his elder son had discarded the make-believe Indians and was at standing at his side, eyes and ears all attention. Susan, too, was looking at him, her face perking up with curiosity.

There’s been a terrible accident, children, over at the Stegalls’.

You mean the new neighbors? asked Susan.

Yes, said Magby. A fire.

How’d it start? said Young Silas. Was Mrs. Stegall clumsy with the cookin’?

That’s enough now, said Magby. You children go out and play. Sam’s waiting for you. I’ve got some important words to discuss with your mother.

Why can’t we stay and hear about the fire? responded his freckled seven-year-old son.

I don’t want to play if old Sam’s gonna watch us, said Susan.

Children, obey your father, said Emma, the accustomed note of sternness in her voice that was there when she reproved the children.

Go on, said Magby to the children.

Emma stepped past him and, despite protests, ushered the children from the room and into the dogtrot. Momentarily alone, Magby again mused upon the tangled paths of his and Emma’s destinies that had brought them to Kentucky. Again he questioned whether those long years ago, he had done right by his wife. Without doubt, Kentucky had been rough on her. She still retained much of her youthful beauty. But the endless work and hot summer climate were beginning to exact their toll upon her once-elfin features. Her knuckles were frequently red and chafed. The skin of her pretty heart-shaped face was beginning to lose its girlish freshness. Again, as he sometimes did in moments of unhappy self-examination, he struggled with the question of whether she would have been happier had she married someone else.

The opening door notified him that she had returned. She stepped hesitantly toward Magby. The thumb and forefinger of her left hand played nervously with the middle finger of her right. Silas, was it them—the Harpes?

I assume so, Emma. All of what we know points the damned finger in their direction.

Why would they do that to the Stegalls?

He almost voiced the unhappy suspicion that he had been entertaining all morning about Stegall, but decided to withhold his speculations. There was no sense in rashly blackening a man’s character. Who knows what drives them to do what they do?

Then those strange men here last night—they were the Harpes.

I fear little doubt exists that the Harpe brothers called on us last night.

Silas, they came to kill us.

In a finger snap, the color had drained from her tanned features. He put his arm about her shoulders and tried gently to comfort her as best he could by patting her left side. He was at a dismal loss to know what to say. He could not make her believe that the Harpes were not dangerous. She knew as well as he that the brothers murdered without apparent rhyme or reason. After a moment, she removed his arm and said, I’m all right. Just a little uneasy.

He looked wearily across the room. Let’s sit at the table. I feel a bit drained.

She nodded. Wordlessly, they moved to the table and sat on the hardwood benches, facing each other. Seemingly, Emma had mustered some of her reserve. Upon occasion, it could be quite strong. Her lips and eyes betrayed no hint of the tension that had gripped her moments before, but he knew that unsettled emotions were boiling beneath the controlled lines of her face.

Magby hesitated to speak, but after several strained seconds, he spoke slowly, toying with a butcher knife that had been left on the tabletop. I’m afraid that I’ll have to ride after them.

Emma’s mouth sagged open as if she would speak, but no words came.

I’ve no choice, Emma. Those monsters are in this part of Henderson County. I’m the justice of the peace.

But do you have to do it, Silas! I mean, so many bands of regulators have tried to capture the Harpes! None have succeeded!

But twice they were captured.

But they escaped each time. What I mean is, so many men have failed. Those two men are so strangely evil, Silas, as though the dark powers watch over them. You know as well as me that the band you were with that was hunting them—most of the men turned and fled like frightened puppies when you all came upon the Harpes.

Magby smiled wincingly. Still it seemed inconceivable that so many men had fled—all hardy backwoodsmen, some veterans of the Indian wars, yet they had done so. He had seen them. Indeed the luck… the destiny of the Harpes—or whatever it was—seemed uncanny. But because those men turned tail, terrible things have happened.

I know. The sudden low solemnity of her voice made him think of a marble vault. She pursed her lips as though struggling to couch a thought, then said, How many people have they killed?

Who knows for certain? As far as I know, they have about twenty-five victims to their black credit. But Lord knows how many undiscovered bodies they’ve hidden behind logs or sunk in rivers.

And those women are frightening. Her eyes darkened as though the mere thought of the women chilled her bone marrow.

Aye. But one thing’s certain now: I’ve no choice but to go after those devils.

I reckon that’s true, Silas, she said slowly.

Obviously they’re here, somewhere hereabouts. They came to this cabin last night, most likely intending to murder us. He felt a painful need to justify himself. They could hide in the forests in these here parts for three or four weeks. During that time, Emma, we wouldn’t know but what some night while we was sleeping, they would draw nigh to this cabin and do what they did at Stegalls’.

She did not reply, but looked with troubled eyes at the scarred tabletop. He sensed, however, a stoical acceptance in her motionless features.

So, tomorrow morning I’m leading a group of regulators to try to find the Harpe band. Will Grissom’s going too. Right now he’s rounding up some men. I’ve been thinking, Emma, with his cabin being the only other one close by, except Tompkins’, it would probably be wise for him to leave his wife and young’uns here while we’re scouting for the Harpes.

That would be all right with me, Silas.

Good.

Do you think many men will volunteer?

Who knows. Hopefully enough. I’ll leave Sam here to help protect you. There’ll be several guns.

What about the other Negroes—Jake and his family?

I’ll provide them with a rifle or two. They can’t crowd in here. There wouldn’t be enough room.

But what about Stegall, Silas? Does he know?

We found no trace of his body. Either he wasn’t there last night, or those white savages took him with them. If so, Moses Stegall is not alive.

He rose from the bench, intending to leave for the small cabin he called his office; then, looking at his wife, he decided to voice the murky suspicion which had been coiling snakelike amid his thoughts. I don’t know about Stegall. I mean his character.

What do you mean?

I heard something rather suspicious—one of the men who came here this morning to tell about the fire told me that Jim Taylor’s son was squirrel-huntin’ a few mornings ago and passed by the Stegall place. The lad saw three strange women outside the cabin talking with Moses’ wife.

Three women? You don’t mean the Harpe women?

I hope not, but I haven’t beard of any recent travelers in these here parts. That’s something folks tend to hear about. And we found no bodies of the women in the wreckage.

Then if what you’re saying is true, the Stegalls were puttin’ up the Harpes, she said.

Or maybe only their women.

If so, then Stegall’s paid a dreadful price.

I don’t know, but something’s always bothered me about Stegall, something vague, something I cannot put a finger upon. Something smacking of the roustabout. Besides, the Stegalls came here three months ago from Knoxville, where the Harpes used to dwell. He sighed. I’m doin’ him a devil of an injustice, considering what has happened. I don’t know. After all, even if the Harpe women did stop at his cabin, maybe he didn’t know who they were.

He told Emma that he needed to go to the office and make preparations. Instead of walking to the door, he moved to the corner and picked up a jug of whiskey.

Silas, you’re not taking that with you, are you?

I reckon so, he said, inwardly uncomfortable, hoping that she was not preparing to nag him about drinking too much. I feel a bit drained.

Silas, don’t drink too much. It will only fog your mind.

Experiencing a twinge of annoyance, he told her that he would not, then said, It’s best not to tell the children what I’ll be doing concerning those damned brothers. Let’s say me and some of the men are goin’ on a hunting trip.

#

Forty-five minutes later, alone in his office, Magby felt slightly lightheaded. But the raw liquor brought him no cheer. His mood continued to darken. Intermittently he vividly saw again the two charred bodies. His mind roved to Emma. God knows, he thought, she had not had the best of lives. Her girlhood had not been among the happiest. Her father, a merchant, had become so addicted to his business that he had scarcely noticed her or his other two daughters. Moreover, he had had a frenzied temper. (Once she had told him that she had never felt close to her father. I feel love for mama but not for him, Silas, she had once said.)

The year before he had met her, the old man had lost many of his investments and property holdings in a scheme to make thousands that had turned into a financial bubble. The family had had to leave their large dwelling on a hill overlooking a river and move into a less comfortable, more modest house; the old man had turned to heavy drinking and violent raging against his wife and daughters. A year after he and Emma had traveled to Kentucky, her father, body and soul eroded by liquor and humiliation, had been carried to the churchyard. Perhaps her father’s eccentric behavior was one of the reasons for her periodic bouts with nervousness and recurring gloom. And now because of a decision that he, Magby, had made years before, she would have to endure the approaching ordeal.

The clomping of hooves outside upon the dried August earth returned his mind to the cabin, and he looked up. The chinking between the logs had been removed to ventilate the room during the summers, and through the interstices he caught a fragmented glimpse of a piebald horse and a rider. A few seconds later, Grissom, weary-faced, sweat-beaded, yet enlivened with a nervous intensity, stood before the oak table that served as Magby’s desk. Thus far, Silas, I got three men willing to ride with us. I wouldn’t have believed men could be so lacking in regard for their own welfare and that of their neighbors.

Magby chuckled without mirth. Harpe-hunting, as Tompkins would say, is not the most popular pastime. Who are the volunteers?

Tompkins, of course.

Magby nodded.

Neville Lindsey.

I don’t know him too well, but I hear he’s a good man.

And John Leiper.

Magby knew that his jaw had tightened. The remembrance of the lean man’s tight-skinned face rose ghostlike from the reservoir of Magby’s memories. Little was known about Leiper. He had moved into the area five or six months before from somewhere in Tennessee, and lived alone in a small cabin on a windy knob overlooking a backwoods stream. Rumors, whispers had bruited about unpleasant tales about the solitary man, who occasionally consorted with some of the area’s rowdies and bully boys. It was hinted that Leiper had once been a member of a gang of highwaymen who lurked amid the dangerous forests along the Natchez Trace. Magby had also heard that while a certain Mrs. Allen’s husband had been away on a two-month trip to New Orleans, Leiper was seen making nightly trips to the secluded