“Sharp justice! and which of these punishments will they be likely to bestow upon the Yankee?”

“Well thar’s no telling; but I reckon he runs a smart chance of grazing agin the whole on ’em.  They’ve got a long account agin him.  In one way or t’other, he’s swindled everybody with his notions.  Some bought his clocks, which only went while the rogue stayed, and when he went they stopt forever.  Some bought ready-made clothes, which went to pieces at the very sight of soap and water.  He sold a fusee to old Jerry Seaborn, and warranted the piece, and it bursted into flinders, the very first fire, and tore little Jerry’s hand and arm—­son of old Jerry—­almost to pieces.  He’ll never have the right use of it agin.  And that ain’t all.  Thar’s no counting up his offences.”

“Bad as the fellow is, do you think it possible that they will torture him as you describe, or hang him, without law, and a fair trial?”

“Why, Lord love you, ha’n’t I told you that he’ll have a fair trial, afore the regilators, and thar’ll be any number of witnesses, and judges, and sheriffs, and executioners.  But, ef you know’d Bunce, you’d know that a fair trial is the very last marcy that he’d aix of Providence.  Don’t you think now that he’ll git anything worse than his righteous desarvings.  He’s a fellow that’s got no more of a saving soul in him than my whip-handle, and ain’t half so much to be counted on in a fight.  He’s jest now nothing but a cheat and a swindle from head to foot; hain’t got anything but cheat in him—­hain’t got room for any principle—–­not enough either to git drunk with a friend, or have it out, in a fair fight, with his enemy.  I shouldn’t myself wish to see the fellow’s throat cut, but I ain’t slow to say that I shall go for his tasting a few hickories, after that a dip in the horsepond, and then a permit to leave the country by the shortest cut, and without looking behind him, under penalty of having the saft places on his back covered with the petticoats of Lot’s wife, that we hear of in the Scriptures.”

Ralph Colleton was somewhat oppressed with apathy, and he knew how idle would be any attempt to lessen the hostility of the sturdy woodman, in respect to the wretched class of traders, such as were described in Jared Bunce, by whom the simple and dependent borderers in the South and West, were shockingly imposed upon.  He made but a feeble effort accordingly, in this direction, but was somewhat more earnest in insisting upon the general propriety of forbearance, in a practice which militated against law and order, and that justice should he administered only by the proper hands.  But to this, Mark Forrester had his ready answer; and, indeed, our young traveller was speaking according to the social standards of a wholly different region.

“There, again, ’squire, you are quite out.  The laws, somehow or other, can’t touch these fellows.  They run through the country a wink faster than the sheriff, and laugh at all the processes you send after them.  So, you see, there’s no justice, no how, unless you catch a rogue like this, and wind up with him for all the gang—­for they’re all alike, all of the same family, and it comes to the same thing in the end.”