The plan was laid open to the colonel by the man from Dearborn county, Indiana, the same who was dressed in disguise.  He was told by the colonel that the papers (meaning the package) had been taken, and he could not furnish them, as he had no possible knowledge who had done the deed.  This reply, to the council of Grand Masters, was like “a clap of thunder in a cloudless sky,” so confident were they that he had them and would produce them when thus requested.  There was now only one alternative, the life of the colonel must be taken, which they could and did accomplish, as the sequel will show.

CHAPTER X.

From the time of the visit by the Dearborn county man till the death of Colonel Brown, embracing about six weeks, there were constant and fierce wranglings among the fraternity.  A considerable change had been made in the feelings of some of the colonel’s former sworn friends, which of course made those who knew him innocent more bitter against any one they might suspect guilty of bringing such a calamity upon him.  His friends and foes were equally interested in finding the retainer of the lost package, but all to no purpose.  There was, however, but one sentiment in the Grand Council; they still believed that the colonel had them, and designed, as soon as he was liberated, to make a general exposure of the whole organization to the world.  But their own consciousness of personal injury—­of having acted a treacherous part against this man—­was, in reality, the ground of their conviction as to his guilt; for it was not in the nature of the man to be false to his pledged honour.  It only remained that they should prevent his liberation; and the most effectual way was to act in accordance with the assassin’s maxim, “Dead men tell no tales.”  Their hatred rose to such a pitch that they began to exhibit their enmity toward any one that either sympathized, befriended, or was even familiar with the colonel.  Here was the ground of their deadly animosity toward me.  They supposed I was his confidant, and might be an agent for the execution of his designs.

These murderers,—­(I ask no pardon for so harsh an epithet, for they were such in thought and deed,)—­these Grand Masters, who visited the colonel while I waited upon him, and thus became personally known, have, ever since that event, assumed a hostile attitude toward me.  It is true they have never attacked me publicly, yet I am confident they have hired others to do it.  From the time I drew the money put in deposit by Sandford, and bore off that object of curiosity, so carefully concealed in the bed, until the day I was chased as a mad dog by an infuriated mob through the streets of New Orleans, and finally made good my escape through a troop of less hostile cotton snakes, as recorded in my Gambling Unmasked, I was singled out as an object of open and private hate by the whole tribe of organized desperadoes.  To recover those papers, no steps were too desperate for the Grand Masters—­they having any amount of money to accomplish their object; and I am now about to present the reader with another exhibition of their daring and indefatigable perseverance.