The Matagorda County Tribune. (Bay City, Tex.), Vol. 68, No. 22, Ed. 1 Friday, June 12, 1914 Page: 12 of 16
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PAUL KEITH’S
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It was still very hot, though- hotter, the
oldest inhabitants said, than it had been for
years.
, Every day Paul worked steadily at the
forge, and every night he and Alice took long
strolls together, laying plans how they should
furnish the cottage, on which the last pay-
ment had been made.
They were to be married in October, and
already, as the blissful day drew near, their
hearts grew lighter and more tender.
One night their walk lay past' Enderly.
Paul, as was his wont, glanced somewhat re-
gretfully toward the grim old mansion whose
black outlines could just be distinguished
through the trees.
Was it a dim light that flashed through the
chinks of one of the boarded upper windows?
Or was it the moon’s beams falling aslant the
old house?
“Is that a light, Alice?” he asked, point-
ing toward the window.
“No—yes! I don’t know!” she cried, with
a frightened glance toward the house. “Oh,
let us get away, Paul!, They say that the
spirit of old Kent Keith roams about Enderly
at night, hunting for his buried gold. Who
knows ? ’ ’
“Nonsense,” said Paul, and he darted an-
other glance toward the house. ‘ ‘ I hope you
are too sensible to be frightened by the peo-
ple’s foolish fears and fancies.”
?‘Oh, come away—come away!” pleaded
Alice, tugging at his arm; and he, satisfied
at last that the mysterious light was caused
by the moon, allowed himself to be led away,
and soon forgot all about the matter.
The next day, Jack Gaffney, deputy United
States marshal, stopped at Paul’s shop to
have a horse shod.
He was a bluff, garrulous old chap, and
while Paul was at work he regaled the black-
smith with wild stories of life among the
mountains, whither .he had recently been on
a raid after moonshiners.
“I’ve got a big case in this neighborhood,
Keith,” he said at last. “There’s a gang of
counterfeiters hidden somewhere about Here.
There’s a thousand dollars reward for their
arrest, and if I don’t earn it my name’s not
Jack Gaffney.”
He paid his bill, mounted his horse and
rode off. Paul watched him from the door
of thq shop.
When the marshal disappeared among the
great trees which surrounded Enderly, like
a flash Paul’s mind reverted to the myste-
rious light he had noticed the night before.
“What better hiding place could men of
evil deeds want?” he asked himself.
And all day he hammered away, with his
thoughts on other things.
That night his little shop was broken into
and robbed.
The thieves took but little; for there was
not much to take—a few fools and some bits
of iron.
“Thieving vagabonds!” was Paul’s ejacu-
lation, when he discovered his loss; and he
was particularly surly when old “Uncle
Mose” thrust his form through the door of
the shop.
“Mornin’, Marsa Paul,” said Mose, pull-
ing off his hat.
“Well, what do vou want?” growled Paul,
recognizing his visitor. “Looking around, I
suppose, for something else to steal?”
“Deed I ain’t, Marsa Paul,” replied Uncle
Mose, scornfully. “I nebber stole so much ez
er nickle’s wuff in my life. Some low-down
triflin’ brack man may have stole sumfin’
from yer.”
“They did,” said Paul, curtly. “Last night
my shop was broken into and some tools—”
“Is dis yere one uv de hammers dat you
los,’ Marsa Paul?” interrupted Uncle Mose,
holding up a small finishing hammer.
“Yes,” cried the blacksmith, recognizing
it at once, ‘ ‘ where did you get it ? ”
“Pound it jes’ er little minute back, down
de ole big house, whar, ef yer had yer rites,
■ ■ I’ A
‘1 It was supposed that besides Enderly my
uncle had laid by a goodly store of money.
He was chary of all investments, and never,
trusted to the banks. When he was buried
we made a diligent search for his hidden
treasures, and found—”
“The will!” interrupted the little man,
who had grown excited.
“Yes, the will which gave all his property
to Charles Carmichael, and turned me into
the road a beggar,” was Paul’s answer, and
Ke sprang to his feet.
“That was too bad,’’"said the little man,
sympathetically.
“It can’t be helped, though,” answered
Paul.
And then, noticing that the sun was begin-
ning to sink toward the western horizon, he
stretched his muscular arms and re-entered
the dingy shop, which to him seemed dingier
and more hateful than ever.
“I’ve wasted a half hour, gabbing about
the might-have-beens of life,” he said; and,
seizing the bellows lever, he began to pull it
up and down; “and all that time the to-be’s
have been neglected.”
“Your story has interested me exceeding-
ly, ’ ’ said the little man, still standing in the
doorway. “I’m a stranger hereabouts. I’m
stopping at Mayswell, and came out for a
walk. I’ll go as far as this old mansion, and
then return to my hotel.” *
“You’ll find it only a dreary place at best,”
said Paul, poking up the fire, “although it
was once very beautiful. Good day, sir.”
“Good-day, Mr. Keith!” said the dapper
little man, courteously, raising his hat and
his sun umbrella at the same time.
While Paul Keith hammered away at the
hot iron, the man walked slowly down the
road, climbed the rotting fence that inclosed
the park at Enderly, and approached the old
mansion.
He surveyed it from all sides, making fre-
quent entries of his observations in a small
note book.
“It’s just the place,” he said at last.
And, replacing the note-book in his pocket
he turned his face back toward the little city
whence he had journeyed this sultry summer
day.
It was dark when he reached the pike-road,
and, when he passed Paul Keith’s blacksmith
shop, the building was shut up and deserted.
He met the young blacksmith further down
the road. A slender girl, in a dress of dainty
white, leaned lovingly on Paul’s arm, and
looked up shyly into his face.
When the couple passed the little man lie
raised his hat politely, and Paul acknowl-
edged the salutation. ,
“Who is that, Paul?” asked the girl, when
the stranger had passed.
“I do not know his name,” answered Paul.
And then-he told her about the man’s visit
to the blacksmith shop that afternoon, and
the story he had tpld of Kent Keith’s death.
“Why will you constantly brood over that
Paul? ’’ asked the girl. “If you were ten times
the owner of Enderly, I would not love you
better. As the wife of Paul Keith, black-
smith, I shall be just as happy as I would be
if he were to make me mistress of Enderly.”
“I know you will, Alice,” said Paul; and
he bent down and kissed her upturned face.
“But I can’t help thinking of the might-have-
been sometimes, although these thoughts
don’t in the least interfere with my work.”
“I’m glad they don’t, Paul,” said Alice
Lee. “The little cottage is nearly paid for,
you have plenty of work, and' who knows but
some day we may be rich enough to buy En-
derly ! ” '
“I will be some day, I fear,” said Paul,
with a dry laugh.
And then, to shake off the bitter feeling
that had come over him, he turned the con-
^versation into brighter channels.
ML month passed away, and sultry August
B way to the cooler breezes of September.
Marsa Paul, you orter be libin’ dis yei^eden-
tikul day. ”
Paul took the hammer, and stood holding
it in his hand without speaking for some time.
“How do you reckon it found its way to
Enderly, Line!© Mo&e? ” he cried at last.
“I don’t know ez how it walkbd dere!”»
said the old man, with a, loud guffaw. “Some^
body mus’ ha’ toted hit thar, Marsa Paul, an’
dat’s er fac.”
“Undoubtedly!” mused Paul.
And then speaking aloud, he said:
“You’re a:' honest man, Uncle Mose, and
do credit to your raising. If you are going
by Mr. Lee’s stop and tell Miss Alice to give
you a dram of peach and honey. Say I sentr ’
you.”
“T’arik you, Marsa Paul!” said the old
man, with a pleased grin. “You’s er born
gemman. One ob der rale ole quality, an’ I
wish yer better luck
“Thank you, Uncle Mose!” said Paul.
And he turned again to his work, while
the old man hobbled off down the road.
It was quite dark when Paul Keith quit
work that night. He put on his coat, thrust
a large pistol, which had boor, ]oft at the shop
for repair, in his pocket, and after locking
the shop, turned his stops toward Enderly.
“I may as well earn that thousand dollars
as Jack Gaffney,” he muttered, as he strode
along the road. “I need the money worse
than he does.”
When he reached the grove he crept
through the decaying fence and cautiously,*- >
approached the old mansion. It looked dark- A
er, drearier and more forbidding than ever. ■
Keeping in the shadow of the trees,'he sur* 1
veyed it carefully from all four sides.
“I may be mistaken,” he muttered, under ■
his breath when at last he had completed the I
circuit and came to a halt leaning against a I
tree.
He was debating what next ip do, when he I
caught the sound of approaching footsteps. ’
He crouched down beside the tree, clutch- —
ing his pistol with a firm grip.
Two men came through thef grove, converse
ing together earnestly, in low tones.
As they approached, Paul recognized ond
as the dapper little man who had listened so
attentively to his story of Kent Keith’s death
that sultry August day.
“I was right,” he thought, and he hugged
the tree closer.
The men halted under the very tree whose
trunk he was hugging, and continued their
conversation.
“You think it wisest, then, Sam,” said the*
little man, “to hide everything in that old
vault which you and Bob accide "
ered, and skip?”
“ I do, ” answered the other man. f ‘Deputy
Marshal Jack Gaffney has a keen scent, and
I am sure he has tracked us hither. Bob took
five hundred thousand of the goods away IjM
night. He bdarded the boat at Ripley, aW
is now safely on his way to New York. yJH
and I can take the rest. It is in two sma^B
packages. Bob and I lugged the press-platesM
and all the tools down into the cellar before^B*
he went away, and piled them up in the vaulh ■
Low all we’ve got to do is to brick up the 1
entrance, slip off, and, when the thing blows 1
over, we can come back and remove every-* '
thing..”
“t agree with you, Sam,” said the littk/
man. “And the sooner we get at the job the
* won(^er that vault was built
“Can’t say. But ’twas lucky for us.”
“Did yqu explore it?”
. ^°t I- Curiosity about the contents of
hidden subterranean vaults is not part of my
“ 1 told you the story that young black*
smith, whose tools we borrowed the other
night to repair the press, told me the day IS
hunted up this place.”
“Yes. What of it?”
“If you ’ll remember, the old uncle who dis-
inherited his nephew spoke about a vault as
he was dying.”
“Well?”
“This may be the identical vault. Those
old planters were very rich. Who knows but
in this vault was buried the hoard of years
and the will that made the blacksmith his
heir?”
“Nonsense, Tom! You’re always romanc-
ing, ” said Sam. “Come on and let’s get td
work. ’ ’
“All right; I’m agreeable,” answered the
little man. “But before we brick up that
mysterious vault I’m going to explore it.”
“You’re a fool!” muttered Sam, and the
two walked away.
Paul Keith, with his hand on his pistol and
his heart strangely stirred by the conversfe
tion he had heard, followed them. *
They entered the cellar of the old mansion
through an open window in the rear, and Sam
producing matches and a lantern, lighted and
led the way toward the front of the house.
Paul Keith, keeping well in the shadow,,
followed along in the rear.
Finally the two men halted, and Paul, from
his hiding place, could see what he had never
seen before—the entrance to a vault, guarded
by a heavy iron door, and hitherto concealed
behind the cellar wall, which had been dug
away by the men he was watching.
“There’s the press,, plates and all the
tools,” said Sam, pointing into the vault, the
door of which was open. “You couldn’t find
a better or a safer hiding place if you were to
try a lifetime. Shut the door, and we’ll turn
masons and restore the wall.”
“First, though, I’m going to explore the
vault,” said the little man. taking the lantern
from Sam’s hand.
4 ‘ Don’t be a fool, Tom! ’ ’ retorted his com-*
panion. “There’s nothing in there. Let’s
get to. work. If we don’t hurry, we ’ll miss
the up-boat. ’ ’
But the little man shoc(k his head, and hold^
r
ARD work, ain’t it?”
The man thus addressed paused
for a moment at his work of forging
a horse shoe and the cherry-colored
iron began to turn black as he leaned
oyer the anvil, wiped the perspiration from
his forehead, and nodded affirmatively to-
ward the questioner—a dapper little man,
with restless black eyes, which never fixed
themselves for more than a second upon any-
one thing.
i ‘ That it is, sir, ’ ’ answered the blacksmith,
and he thrust the cooled iron into the forge
fire again, and began to work the long bel-
lows lever up and down. “It’s hard work
and dirty work, but it’s honest, and earns me
clean money.”
The dapper little man laughed—a dry,
chuckling laugh—and continued:
“You’re a philosopher, Mr.—ah—” He
glanced up at the black sign above the door,
and added, inquiringly, “Paul Keith?”
“That’s my name, and I’m not ashamed of
it, ’ ’ answered Keith; and the iron he was fash-
ioning having reached the proper degree of
heat, he quickly transferred it from the forge
to the anvil, and, while the dapper little man
watched the sturdy strokes of the hammer
with lazy interest, he finished the shoe he
had been engaged upon, and tossed it upon
a heap of its fellows in one corner of the shop.
Then he laid down his hammer, wiped his
face with a towel hung about his neck, and
stepped to the open door in which the dapper
little man still stood.
“It’s a very hot day,” said Paul; aryl he
glanced first up and then down the ‘ sun-
baked, dirty road, his gaze at last lingering
on a grove of large and spreading trees some
distance below his shop, among whose top-
most branches could be seen a stack of tall
chimneys.
“It’s cool enough there,’’ said the stranger,
following Paul’s eyes.
“That it is,” responded the blacksmith,
with a bitter sigh; “and if old Kent Keith
had not been a secretive man, and so securely
hid his last will and testament that we have
never been able to find it, I might be enjoying
myself under those grand old trees this day,
instead of hammering away here at red-hot
iron in this stifling shop.”
“Indeed! You astonish me!” ventured the
dapper man, and he looked interested. “Per-
haps if—I beg your pardon, but my curiosity
is—”
“The story’s not a long one,” said Paul,
anticipating him; and the blacksmith stepped
outside the shop, and threw himself at full
length on a little strip of green grass, protect-
ed from the sun by the overhanging eaves.
The stranger took a seat beside him, and
bent forward in a listening attitude.
“That grove,” began Paul, with a back-
ward motion of his hand toward the green
trees, “belongs to Enderly. You can see the
chimneys of the mansion house above the tree
tops. . 1
“It was, ten years ago,when my uncle, Kent
Keith, died, the finest blue-grass farm in Ken-
tucky. Since then, though, the grand old
place has run sadly to seed. The present
owner, Mr. Charles ’Carmichael, lives in New
York, and is a very rich man. I doubt if he
lias ever been to Enderly. At the further side
of the property,’-beyond the Licking river, is
a tenant house, in which my uncle’s favorite
• servant, John, lives. He pretends to take
care of the place, being paid for that service
by Mr. Carmichael; but it’s very little care he
gives to Enderly.”
“You interest me exceedingly,” said the
stranger, rubbing his hands briskly. “You
say no one lives in the mansion?”
“No. The windows are boarded up, and
the furniture and carpets are left to the mil-
dew and the rats. The people about here be-
lieve the place is haunted, and give it a wide
berth. ’ ’
“Indeed! indeed!” said the stranger, still
rubbing his hands. “ Quite romantic! ”
“It is a stem and bitter reality to me, sir,”
said Paul, with some show of feeling. “Kent
Keith raised me. My father had a quarrel
with him when they were young men, and
Kent swore he would never see his brother’s
face again. He kept his word; but when first
mother died, and then fatherland I was left
a beggar and an orphan at eight years, my
uncle softened his heart sufficiently to give
me a home at Enderly. I lived with him until
he died, and the old man grew to be very fond
of me. He told everybody that I was to be
his heir, and the last words he spoke were .in
confirmation of that idea. We were alone
together. He had been asleep. Suddenly he
started up.
“ ‘Paul!’ he cried, huskily, and he seized
my hand.
‘ ‘ I raised him up and gave him some water
to drink.
“ ‘Long years ago,’ he continued, ‘your
father and I quarreled. I swore I’d never
forgive him, and I had a will drawn up mak-
ing Charles Carmichael, my sister’s only
child, my heir. But the old days are past and
forgiven, Paul. I made a new will when I
felt this sickness coming upon me. You have
been a son to me—a loving, dutiful son—and
I’ve left you everything. I don’t trust the
lawyers and the banks. They’re all rascals.
It’s a handsome fortune, Paul, and you’ll be
a gentleman. Keep Enderly. Bury me be-
side— ’
“He was seized with a sudden spasm of
pain, and appeared to be choking. I put water
to his lips, but he could not swallow. He
clutched at his throat, gasped and moaned.
I was frightened, and started to ring for as-
. sistance. He clutched my arm, and, pulling
my head down to his, he gasped these words:
“ ‘In the vault! At last—at last!’
‘^Another horrible spasm overcame him,
ancPwhen a servant came in answer to my
frantic ring, Kent Keith was dead.”
Paul was silent a few moments,\ and thej
stranger did not interrupt’him.
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Smith, Carey. The Matagorda County Tribune. (Bay City, Tex.), Vol. 68, No. 22, Ed. 1 Friday, June 12, 1914, newspaper, June 12, 1914; Bay City, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth1299678/m1/12/: accessed July 16, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting Matagorda County Museum & Bay City Public Library.