As we rode slowly homeward, behind the trap which conveyed the dear-bought slave, Moore was extremely moody and disinclined for conversation.

“Is your purchase not rather an expensive one?” I ventured to ask, to which Moore replied shortly ­

“No; think he is perhaps the cheapest nigger that was ever bought.”

To put any more questions would have been impertinent, and I possessed my curiosity in silence till we reached the plantation.

Here Moore’s conduct became decidedly eccentric.  He had the black man conveyed at once into a cool, dark, strong room with a heavy iron door, where the new acquisition was locked up in company with a sufficient meal.  Moore and I dined hastily, and then he summoned all his negroes together into the court of the house.  “Look here, boys,” he cried:  “all these trees” ­and he pointed to several clumps “must come down immediately, and all the shrubs on the lawn and in the garden.  Fall to at once, those of you that have axes, and let the rest take hoes and knives and make a clean sweep of the shrubs.”  The idea of wholesale destruction seemed not disagreeable to the slaves, who went at their work with eagerness, though it made my heart ache to see the fine old oaks beginning to fall and to watch the green garden becoming a desert.  Moore first busied himself with directing the women, who, under his orders, piled up mattresses and bags of cotton against the parapets of the verandahs.  The house stood on the summit of a gradually sloping height, and before the moon began to set (for we worked without intermission through the evening and far into the night) there was nothing but a bare slope of grass all round the place, while smoke and flame went up from the piles of fallen timber.  The plantation, in fact, was ready to stand a short siege.

Moore now produced a number of rifles, which he put, with ammunition, into the hands of some of the more stalwart negroes.  These he sent to their cabins, which lay at a distance of about a furlong and a half on various sides of the house.  The men had orders to fire on any advancing enemy, and then to fall back at once on the main building, which was now barricaded and fortified.  One lad was told to lurk in a thicket below the slope of the hill and invisible from the house.

“If Wild Bill’s men come on, and you give them the slip, cry thrice like the ‘Bob White,’” said Moore; “if they take you, cry once.  If you get off, run straight to Clayville, and give this note to the officer commanding the cavalry.”

The hour was now about one in the morning; by three the dawn would begin.  In spite of his fatigues, Moore had no idea of snatching an hour’s rest.  He called up Peter (who had been sleeping, coiled up like a black cat, in the smoking-room), and bade him take a bath and hot water into the room where Gumbo, the newly purchased black, had all this time been left to his own reflections.  “Soap him and lather him well, Peter,” said Moore; “wash him white, if you can, and let me know when he’s fit to come near.”

Peter withdrew with his stereotyped grin to make his preparations.

Presently, through the open door of the smoking-room, we heard the sounds of energetic splashings, mingled with the inarticulate groans of the miserable Gumbo.  Moore could not sit still, but kept pacing the room, smoking fiercely.  Presently Peter came to the door ­

“Nigger’s clean now, massa.”

“Bring me a razor, then,” said Moore, “and leave me alone with him.”

When Moore had retired, with the razor, into the chamber where his purchase lay, I had time to reflect on the singularity of the situation.  In every room loaded rifles were ready; all the windows were cunningly barricaded, and had sufficient loopholes.  The peaceful planter’s house had become a castle; a dreadful quiet had succeeded to the hubbub of preparation, and my host, yesterday so pleasant, was now locked up alone with a dumb negro and a razor!  I had long ago given up the hypothesis that Gumbo had been purchased out of pure philanthropy.  The disappointment of baffled cruelty in Moore’s brother would not alone account for the necessity of such defensive preparations as had just been made.  Clearly Gumbo was not a mere fancy article, but a negro of real value, whose person it was desirable to obtain possession of at any risk or cost.  The ghastly idea occurred to me (suggested, I fancy, by Moore’s demand for a razor) that Gumbo, at some period of his career, must have swallowed a priceless diamond.  This gem must still be concealed about his person, and Moore must have determined by foul means, as no fair means were available, to become its owner.  When this fancy struck me I began to feel that it was my duty to interfere.  I could not sit by within call (had poor Gumbo been capable of calling) and allow my friend to commit such a deed of cruelty.  As I thus parleyed with myself, the heavy iron door of the store-room opened, and Moore came out, with the razor (bloodless, thank Heaven!) in his hand.  Anxiety had given place to a more joyous excitement.

“Well?” I said interrogatively.

“Well, all’s well.  That man has, as I felt sure, the Secret of the Pyramid.”

I now became quite certain that Moore, in spite of all his apparent method, had gone out of his mind.  It seemed best to humour him, especially as so many loaded rifles were lying about.

   “He has seen the myst’ry hid
   Under Egypt’s pyramid,”

I quoted; “but, my dear fellow, as the negro is dumb, I don’t see how you are to get the secret out of him.”

“I did not say he knew it,” answered Moore crossly; “I said he had it.  As to Egypt, I don’t know what you are talking about ­”

At this moment we heard the crack of rifles, and in the instant of silence which followed came the note of the “Bob White.”

Once it shrilled, and we listened eagerly; then the notes came twice rapidly, and a sound of voices rose up from the negro outposts, who had been driven in and were making fast the one door of the house that had been left open.  From the negroes we learned that our assailants (Bill Hicock’s band of border ruffians, “specially engaged for this occasion”) had picketed their horses behind the dip of the hill and were advancing on foot.  Moore hurried to the roof to reconnoitre.  The dawn was stealing on, and the smoke from the still smouldering trees, which we had felled and burned, rose through the twilight air.

“Moore, you hound,” cried a voice through the smoke of the furthest pile, “we have come for your new nigger.  Will you give him up or will you fight?”

Moore’s only reply was a bullet fired in the direction whence the voice was heard.  His shot was answered by a perfect volley from men who could just be discerned creeping through the grass about four hundred yards out.  The bullets rattled harmlessly against wooden walls and iron shutters, or came with a thud against the mattress fortifications of the verandah.  The firing was all directed against the front of the house.

“I see their game,” said Moore.  “The front attack is only a feint.  When they think we are all busy here, another detachment will try to rush the place from the back and to set fire to the building.  We’ll ’give them their kail through the reek.’”

Moore’s dispositions were quickly made.  He left me with some ten of the blacks to keep up as heavy a fire as possible from the roof against the advancing skirmishers.  He posted himself, with six fellows on whom he could depend, in a room of one of the wings which commanded the back entrance.  As many men, with plenty of ready-loaded rifles, were told off to a room in the opposite wing.  Both parties were thus in a position to rake the entrance with a cross fire.  Moore gave orders that not a trigger should be pulled till the still invisible assailants had arrived on his side, between the two projecting wings.  “Then fire into them, and let every one choose his man.”

On the roof our business was simple enough.  We lay behind bags of cotton, firing as rapidly and making as much show of force as possible, while women kept loading for us.  Our position was extremely strong, as we were quite invisible to men crouching or running hurriedly far below.  Our practice was not particularly good; still three or four of the skirmishers had ceased to advance, and this naturally discouraged the others, who were aware, of course, that their movement was only a feint.  The siege had now lasted about half an hour, and I had begun to fancy that Moore’s theory of the attack was a mistake, and that he had credited the enemy with more generalship than they possessed, when a perfect storm of fire broke out beneath us, from the rooms where Moore and his company were posted.  Dangerous as it was to cease for a moment from watching the enemy, I stole across the roof, and, looking down between two of the cotton bags which filled the open spaces of the balustrades, I saw the narrow ground between the two wings simply strewn with dead or wounded men.  The cross fire still poured from the windows, though here and there a marksman tried to pick off the fugitives.  Rapidly did I cross the roof to my post.  To my horror the skirmishers had advanced, as if at the signal of the firing, and were now running up at full speed and close to the walls of the house.  At that moment the door opened, and Moore, heading a number of negroes, picked off the leading ruffian and rushed out into the open.  The other assailants fired hurriedly and without aim, then ­daunted by the attack so suddenly carried into their midst, and by the appearance of one or two of their own beaten comrades ­the enemy turned and fairly bolted.  We did not pursue.  Far away down the road we heard the clatter of hoofs, and thin and clear came the thrice-repeated cry of the “Bob White.”

“Dick’s coming back with the soldiers,” said Moore; “and now I think we may look after the wounded.”

I did not see much of Moore that day.  The fact is that I slept a good deal, and Moore was mysteriously engaged with Gumbo.  Night came, and very much needed quiet and sleep came with it.  Then we passed an indolent day, and I presumed that adventures were over, and that on the subject of “the Secret of the Pyramid” Moore had recovered his sanity.  I was just taking my bedroom candle when Moore said, “Don’t go to bed yet.  You will come with me, won’t you, and see out the adventure of the Cheap Nigger?”

“You don’t mean to say the story is to be continued?” I asked.

“Continued?  Why the fun is only beginning,” Moore answered.  “The night is cloudy, and will just suit us.  Come down to the branch.”

The “branch,” as Moore called it, was a strong stream that separated, as I knew, his lands from his brother’s.  We walked down slowly, and reached the broad boat which was dragged over by a chain when any one wanted to cross.  At the “scow,” as the ferry-boat was called, Peter joined us; he ferried us deftly over the deep and rapid water, and then led on, as rapidly as if it had been daylight, along a path through the pines.

“How often I came here when I was a boy,” said Moore; “but now I might lose myself in the wood, for this is my brother’s land, and I have forgotten the way.”

As I knew that Mr. Bob Moore was confined to his room by an accident, through which an ounce of lead had been lodged in a portion of his frame, I had no fear of being arrested for trespass.  Presently the negro stopped in front of a cliff.

“Here is the ‘Sachem’s Cave,’” said Moore.  “You’ll help us to explore the cave, won’t you?”

I did not think the occasion an opportune one for exploring caves, but to have withdrawn would have demanded a “moral courage,” as people commonly say when they mean cowardice, which I did not possess.  We stepped within a narrow crevice of the great cliff.  Moore lit a lantern and went in advance; the negro followed with a flaring torch.

Suddenly an idea occurred to me, which I felt bound to communicate to Moore.  “My dear fellow,” I said in a whisper, “is this quite sportsmanlike?  You know you are after some treasure, real or imaginary, and, I put it to you as a candid friend, is not this just a little bit like poaching?  Your brother’s land, you know.”

“What I am looking for is in my own land,” said Moore.  “The river is the march.  Come on.”

We went on, now advancing among fairy halls, glistering with stalactites or paved with silver sand, and finally pushing our way through a concealed crevice down dank and narrow passages in the rock.  The darkness increased; the pavement plashed beneath our feet, and the drip, drip of water was incessant.  “We are under the river-bed,” said Moore, “in a kind of natural Thames Tunnel.”  We made what speed we might through this combination of the Valley of the Shadow with the Slough of Despond, and soon were on firmer ground again beneath Moore’s own territory.  Probably no other white men had ever crawled through the hidden passage and gained the further penetralia of the cave, which now again began to narrow.  Finally we reached four tall pillars, of about ten feet in height, closely surrounded by the walls of rock.  As we approached these pillars, that were dimly discerned by the torchlight, our feet made a faint metallic jingling sound among heaps of ashes which strewed the floor.  Moore and I went up to the pillars and tried them with our knives.  They were of wood, all soaked and green with the eternal damp.  “Peter,” said Moore, “go in with the lantern and try if you can find anything there.”

Peter had none of the superstitions of his race, or he would never have been our companion.  “All right, massa; me look for Brer Spook.”

So saying, Peter walked into a kind of roofed over-room, open only at the front, and examined the floor with his lantern, stamping occasionally to detect any hollowness in the ground.

“Nothing here, massa, but this dead fellow’s leg-bone and little bits of broken jugs,” and the dauntless Peter came out with his ghastly trophy.

Moore seemed not to lose heart.

“Perhaps,” he said, “there is something on the roof.  Peter, give me a back.”

Peter stooped down beside one of the wooden pillars and firmly grasped his own legs above the knee.  Moore climbed on the improvised ladder, and was just able to seize the edge of the roof, as it seemed to be, with his hands.

“Now steady, Peter,” he exclaimed, and with a spring he drew himself up till his head was above the level of the roof.  Then he uttered a cry, and, leaping from Peter’s back retreated to the level where we stood in some confusion.

“Good God!” he said, “what a sight!”

“What on earth is the matter?” I asked.

“Look for yourself, if you choose,” said Moore, who was somewhat shaken, and at the same time irritated and ashamed.

Grasping the lantern, I managed to get on to Peter’s shoulders, and by a considerable gymnastic effort to raise my head to the level of the ledge, and at the same time to cast the light up and within.

The spectacle was sufficiently awful.

I was looking along a platform, on which ten skeletons were disposed at full length, with the skulls still covered with long hair, and the fleshless limbs glimmering white and stretching back into the darkness.

On the right hand, and crouching between a skeleton and the wall of the chamber (what we had taken for a roof was the floor of a room raised on pillars), I saw the form of a man.  He was dressed in gay colours, and, as he sat with his legs drawn up, his arms rested on his knees.

On the first beholding of a dreadful thing, our instinct forces us to rush against it, as if to bring the horror to the test of touch.  This instinct wakened in me.  For a moment I felt dazed, and then I continued to stare involuntarily at the watcher of the dead.  He had not stirred.  My eyes became accustomed to the dim and flickering light which the lantern cast in that dark place.

“Hold on, Peter,” I cried, and leaped down to the floor of the cave.

“It’s all right, Moore,” I said.  “Don’t you remember the picture in old Lafitau’s ‘Moeurs des Sauvages Americains’?  We are in a burying-place of the Cherouines, and the seated man is only the kywash, ’which is an image of woode keeping the deade.’”

“Ass that I am!” cried Moore.  “I knew the cave led us from the Sachem’s Cave to the Sachem’s Mound, and I forgot for a moment how the fellows disposed of their dead.  We must search the platform.  Peter, make a ladder again.”

Moore mounted nimbly enough this time.  I followed him.

The kywash had no more terrors for us, and we penetrated beyond the fleshless dead into the further extremity of the sepulchre.  Here we lifted and removed vast piles of deerskin bags, and of mats, filled as they were with “the dreadful dust that once was man.”  As we reached the bottom of the first pile something glittered yellow and bright beneath the lantern.

Moore stooped and tried to lift what looked like an enormous plate.  He was unable to raise the object, still weighed down as it was with the ghastly remnants of the dead.  With feverish haste we cleared away the debris, and at last lifted and brought to light a huge and massive disk of gold, divided into rays which spread from the centre, each division being adorned with strange figures in relief ­figures of animals, plants, and what looked like rude hieroglyphs.

This was only the firstfruits of the treasure.

A silver disk, still larger, and decorated in the same manner, was next uncovered, and last, in a hollow dug in the flooring of the sepulchre, we came on a great number of objects in gold and silver, which somewhat reminded us of Indian idols.  These were thickly crusted with precious stones, and were accompanied by many of the sacred emeralds and opals of old American religion.  There were also some extraordinary manuscripts, if the term may be applied to picture writing on prepared deerskins that were now decaying.  We paid little attention to cloaks of the famous feather-work, now a lost art, of which one or two examples are found in European museums.  The gold, and silver, and precious stones, as may be imagined, overcame for the moment any ethnological curiosity.

Dawn was growing into day before we reached the mouth of the cave again, and after a series of journeys brought all our spoil to the light of the upper air.  It was quickly enough bestowed in bags and baskets.  Then, aided by three of Moore’s stoutest hands, whom we found waiting for us in the pine wood, we carried the whole treasure back, and lodged it in the strong room which had been the retreat of Gumbo.