Nor was the smith, at the moment of our entrance, the only noisy member of the little village.  The more pretending establishment to which we are rapidly approaching, threw out its clamors, and the din of many voices gathered upon the breeze in wild and incoherent confusion.  Deep bursts of laughter, and the broken stanza of an occasional catch roared out at intervals, promised something of relief to the dull mood; while, as the sounds grew more distinct, the quick ear of Forrester was enabled to distinguish the voices of the several revellers.

“There they are, in full blast,” he muttered, “over a gallon of whiskey, and gulping it down as if ’twas nothing better than common water.  But, what’s the great fuss to-night?  There’s a crowd, I reckon, and they’re a running their rigs on somebody.”

Even Forrester was at a loss to account for their excess of hilarity to-night.  Though fond of drink, and meeting often in a crowd, they were few of them of a class—­using his own phrase—­“to give so much tongue over their liquors.”  The old toper and vagabond is usually a silent drinker.  His amusements, when in a circle, and with a bottle before him, are found in cards and dice.  His cares, at such a period, are too considerate to suffer him to be noisy.  Here, in Chestatee, Forrester well knew that a crowd implied little good-fellowship.  The ties which brought the gold-seekers and squatters together were not of a sort to produce cheerfulness and merriment.  Their very sports were savage, and implied a sort of fun which commonly gave pain to somebody.  He wondered, accordingly, as he listened to yells of laughter, and discordant shouts of hilarity; and he grew curious about the occasion of uproar.

“They’re poking fun at some poor devil, that don’t quite see what they’re after.”

A nearer approach soon gave him a clue to the mystery; but all his farther speculations upon it were arrested, by a deep groan from the wounded man, and a writhing movement in the bottom of the wagon, as the wheel rolled over a little pile of stones in the road.

Forrester’s humanity checked his curiosity.  He stooped to the sufferer, composed his limbs upon the straw, and, as the vehicle, by this time, had approached the tavern, he ordered the wagoner to drive to the rear of the building, that the wounded man might lose, as much as possible, the sounds of clamor which steadily rose from the hall in front.  When the wagon stopped, he procured proper help, and, with the tenderest care, assisted to bear our unconscious traveller from the vehicle, into the upper story of the house, where he gave him his own bed, left him in charge of an old negro, and hurried away in search of that most important person of the place, the village-doctor.

CHAPTER VI.

CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS.