When I arrived upon the St. Francis river, I
found myself compelled by the state of the weather to stop at a
parson's--I don't know what particular sect he professed to belong to;
but he was reputed to be the greatest hypocrite in the world, and the
"smartest scoundrel" in the Arkansas.
My horse was put into the stable, my saddle into the hall, and I
brought my saddle-bags into the sitting-room. Then, as usual, I went to
the well for a purification after my day's ride. To my astonishment, I
found, on my return, that my saddlebags had already disappeared. I had
in them jewels and money to rather a considerable amount for a person in
my position, and I inquired of a woman cooking in the next room what had
become of them. She answered she did not know, but that probably her
father had put them out of the way.
I waited a long while, standing at the door, with no small anxiety, till
at last I perceived the parson crossing an Indian-corn field, and coming
towards the house. I went to meet him, and asked what he had done with
my saddle-bags; to which question he answered angrily, he did not know
what I meant; that I had no saddle-bags when I came to his house; that
he suspected I was a knowing one, but could not come round so old a fox
as he was.
As by that time I was perfectly _au fait_ to all the tricks of Arkansas
smartness, I returned to the hall, took my pistols from the holsters,
placed them in my belt, and, seizing my rifle, I followed his trail upon
the soft ground of the fields.
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