Jasper County Democrat, Volume 9, Number 23, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 September 1906 — A TALE OF REVENGE [ARTICLE]

A TALE OF REVENGE

“Manuel, I’ll have to leave you for some time. Let everything go on as if I were here,” said Robert Seton one afternoon. “Yes, senor. Senor has a sweetheart?” ; “Tes, Manuel, I have a sweetheart; but I doubt if my arrival in the United States will please her as well as it will me. t “I shall not see you again before I go, so goodby, Manuel.” “Adois, senor.” Seven years before Robert Seton had landed at Caracas with but little money in bis pocket and no friends. He had plenty of money now, but was still without friends. As he sat in his tent smoking his thoughts centered upon a little New England town, “t will open their eyes when I get tkere,” he was thinking. “That cursed Ratcliffe will rue the day he ever married Maude Adams. She will be sorry too. So pretty and yet so false. She said she loved me, but she threw me over when father broke up. Poor father! Banker Adams caused his death, I’m sure. Curse him! He wanted the old homestead, so he foreclosed the mortgage he held. Well, maybe some wouldn’t hold malice toward any one who has treated them the way those people treated me. I hold malice. I’ll be revenged for the death of my father and the loss of my bride. I'm not one of the soft, forgiving kind. The poop fools, not to know that I would revenge myself at any cost.” Such thoughts welled up in his mind whenever he thought of home. Eight years before he had been in his senior year at Harvard. His father was wealthy—supposedly so, at least. He was engaged to be married to a beautiful girl. The world looked very bright to him. Then one morning he received news that his father was dead—had blown his brains out, in fact. Following upon that, the news came that his father was bankrupt, and a letter from his sweatheart telling him that she loved another. He learned enough to know that Banker Adams had been instrumental In causing the bankruptcy of his father and the breaking of his engagement. When, some years before, Robert Seton had come from college to attend the funeral of his father and found himself penniless, his bride promised to another man, he had solemnly sworn that he would one day own the Seton homestead and cause the bankruptcy of Banker Adams, as his father had been made bankrupt. Then Maude Adams, she who had never known poverty’s blighting, cursing effects, should suffer too. He would bankrupt her husband too. His vengeance would be complete indeed. Now it is morning, and the wagon train has started out. It Is still dark. The white capped wagon containing the bedding and provisions and the ore wagons form the main body. The mounted men, each one carrying a gun and revolver, ride ahead. The mountains are infested with bandits, and one must go armed. No bandit, however, Is likely to attack the Americano. So say the swarthy teamsters as they wrap their cloaks more closely about them. Now they are starting up a long ridge, and the drivers jump from the wagons and walk up. Seton’s thoughts ramble from one thing to another, but always come back to the home of his childhood. He wondered If Maude Adams, now Ratcliffe, was happy. What mattered it to him? His poor old father’s image as he lay cold in death came back to him. “I wonder how Adariis will look after I'm through with him?” he muttered. “He has the courage to kill himself,” It was still dark. A man rode up to him and In excited tones informed him of the presence of bandits a few miles ahead. Seton rode forward and, placing a dozen men under his lieutenant, ordered him to advance and engage the bandits if there were any. He knew this fellow, the bandit chief, Montero. He had pursued him for 100 miles. He was not at all uneasy; so many reports are only rumors. How will he announce his arrival at home? What will people think of him? He does not care for their opinion. He thinks only of his poor dead father. Banker Adams might at least have spared his old friend. He has them under his thumb now. Say the word and they are penniless. It is lighter now. As they go higher and higher up the slope the lighter it gets. A faint breeze springs up. The time between sunrise and break of day is here. Hark! What is that? The faint crack of rifles is heard now. He spurs ins horse forward and with the guard dashes up the road. Now they have reached the place. Two or three meu are lying upon the ground. Farther down the road they are fighting, hand to hand. His men have been fired upon and have charged the enemy. Down the road Seton saw one of his guards fall, his skull cleft by a machete stroke from the hands of the bandit chieftain. With cries of “Forward!” he rides down upon them. The fight is soon over. Nearly all the bandits were killed. It had been a surprise to them. The victorious guards return from the charge. That body lying upon the grass, supported by the lieutenant, is not that of a native. No. Upon the grass lies all that is mortal of Robert Seton, a bullet in his brain. And as the lieutenant, seeing the uselessness of tarrying longer, arises the first beam of the rising sun gleams across the ghastly red stream flowing from the little hole in his forehead. And soon the body of Robert Seton was buried in a shallow grave and covered with stones to keep the jackal away. And thus, when he had reached the alm of his life, that life was taken away and the alm destroyed.—Cincinnati Poet