CHAPTER I
ON SPECIAL SERVICE
IT WAS already growing dusk when the Staunton Battery of Horse Artillery returned wearily to camp after hours of hard field drill, the men ever conscious that no evolution, however trivial, was being overlooked by "Stonewall" Jackson, sitting astride his sorrel on a little eminence to the left, his stern face unrelieved by even the semblance of a smile. He would criticise without mercy, but never praise, and the artillerymen insensibly stiffened to the work, as eager to do well as though they were in action.
The time was early spring, some remnants of snow still clinging to the hollows out of reach of the warming sun, and a chill wind blowing through the passes of the western mountains. The comparative idleness of the past winter months, given over to foraging and drill, together with the comforts of a permanent camp, had engendered forgetfulness of the hardships of the last campaign, and left the men eager to confront the dangers of the future. In no heart was there doubt of the final result—the Army of the Valley pinned its faith on "Old Jack." They were soldiers—veterans already—anxious for active service; their depleted ranks filled up once more with recruits, well drilled and efficient through constant training; and while many remembered with regret the old faces—the dead, the wounded, the missing—they nevertheless realized that never before were they in sterner mood or better prepared for grim fighting.
The winter quarters of the Staunton Artillery were slightly off the main road, back within the shelter of a grove of oak trees, and I remained for some time overseeing the care of the horses before approaching the hut where the non-commissioned officers had mess. We were all of us still at the table, discussing the incidents of the drill, when a lieutenant appeared suddenly in the doorway, and glanced inquiringly about the room, scarcely able to distinguish our faces in the dull light of the lantern which alone illumined the interior.
"Sergeant Wyatt?" he inquired briefly.
I arose to my feet.
"Here, sir," I answered in some surprise.
"You are requested to report to General Jackson at once."
"At Winchester, sir?"
"No; his headquarters for tonight are at Coulter's farm, on the dirt pike. You will ride your own horse."
I endeavored to circle the others, and thus reach the door in time to ask further questions, but was too late; the lieutenant, his message delivered, had already disappeared in the darkness. I stared after him in perplexity. What could Jackson possibly want of me? On whose recommendation had I been thus singled out for special service? How, indeed, had the commanding general even learned my name? I stood hesitating in the open door, listening to the hoof beats of the officer's horse, my mind filled with wonderment. But I was a soldier, thoroughly disciplined, and orders must be obeyed. The pause, the doubt, were but momentary. Five minutes later I was guiding my own horse down the same dark road, bending low in the saddle, obsessed with a feeling that this mission, whatever it might turn out to be, promised a change in my fortunes.
It was an ugly path, rutted deep by artillery wheels, and dangerous for the horse. On either side glowed the blaze of camp fires, and the sound of voices could be heard. One group was lustily singing songs of the South, and I passed a shop, the door wide open, the farrier busy shoeing cavalry horses, their riders lounging idly without.
I was an hour reaching the dirt pike, although the distance was not great, and I knew the way well. There I encountered infantry pickets, who became more vigilant, and inquisitive, as I approached closer to the Coulter house. This was a double log cabin, erected in a grove of trees, some fifty feet or more back from the road, and surrounded by a slab fence. A squadron of cavalry were encamped in the yard, their horses saddled, and tied to the palings, while the lights gleaming through the windows, together with the dying glow of a fire to the right, dimly revealed a group of men clustered on the front porch. It was with some difficulty that I made my way through the obstructing guard to the foot of the steps, where an officer, whose face was indistinguishable, took my name, and repeated it to an orderly stationed at the closed door. The latter disappeared in a sudden blaze of light, and I stood there silently in the shadows waiting.
Ten minutes must have elapsed before the door opened again, and I heard my name called. The group of waiting officers fell aside, and I passed in between them, unable to recognize a face. Once within I glanced curiously about the bare room, noting its occupants, and their rude surroundings. It was a rough appearing, commonplace interior, the log walls once whitewashed, but now streaked with dirt, the only furniture visible a few home-made chairs, and an ordinary kitchen table. A sturdy fire burned in the fireplace, and three lamps illumined the scene, revealing the presence of five men, among whom I instantly recognized Ewell, Ashby, together with Jackson, and his chief of staff. The fifth occupant of the room sat alone in one corner, his face partially concealed, revealing little other than a fringe of gray whiskers. Jackson and his aide were seated behind the table, which was littered with papers and maps, and as the former glanced up, at the announcement of the orderly, I came instantly to attention, my hand lifted in salute. The general's stern blue eyes surveyed me intently.
"Sergeant Wyatt, Staunton Artillery?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long, may I ask, have you been in the service?"
"Since May, '61, sir."
"Ah! indeed. And your age?"
"Twenty-four, sir."
He made some remark aside to the aide, who nodded back, and pointed to a map before them.
"You are a younger man in appearance than I had expected to see, Sergeant," Jackson said slowly. "Yet I have learned within the last year to have confidence in young men. War is a swift developer of manhood. Your colonel speaks of you in the highest terms, and informs me that you are a native of Green Briar County."
"Our home was at Lewisburg, sir."
"Then you are doubtless intimately acquainted with that section?"
"Very well, indeed, General."
Jackson sat motionless and in silence for what seemed a long while, his grave eyes on my face, but his mind evidently elsewhere, one hand unconsciously crumpling a folded paper. Ashby moved his chair, causing it to crunch noisily on the floor, and the commander aroused at the unusual sound.
"By any possibility are you related to Judge Joel Wyatt?" he questioned slowly.
"He was my father, sir."
"I thought it was not improbable. There is a noticeable resemblance, and I recall he lived west of the mountains. I knew your father in Mexico. Is he still living?"
"He has been dead two years."
"I regret to hear it. Your mother, unless I am mistaken, was a Farquhar, of North Carolina?"
"Yes, sir—she has returned to her old home."
"The best of southern blood, gentlemen," he said smilingly, glancing toward the others, but with watchful eyes instantly returning to scan me. "Was she driven out of Green Briar by the state of unrest in that section?"
"In a measure—yes," I replied promptly. "It was hardly safe for her to remain there alone. The county is filled with Union sympathizers, and roamed over by bands of guerrillas, claiming allegiance with both sides, but sparing no one. At present, I understand, Federal troops have been sent there from Charleston, and are in control."
"Your information is partially correct; but in order to perfect plans now contemplated I require a still more definite knowledge of existing conditions. I need to know accurately the number and distribution of the Union forces in Green Briar, and also more complete information regarding those irregulars who are in sympathy with us, as well as the character of their leaders. Judging from the recommendation given you by Colonel Maitland I felt that you were peculiarly adapted to render this service. However, Sergeant Wyatt, I propose stating plainly that this may prove an exceedingly dangerous detail, and if you decide to accept it, it must be done as a volunteer."
He paused questioningly, and I drew a quick breath, realizing suddenly the seriousness of the situation, and the importance of my decision.
"I am perfectly ready to go, sir."
"I have felt little doubt as to that, but I wish you to comprehend clearly that we can offer you no protection if your secret mission is discovered."
"I so understand, General Jackson, I know the usages of war, but this is not a question of danger, but of duty. You desire that I depart at once?"
Ewell broke in impatiently with his high pitched voice.
"May I ask if it be generally known in Green Briar that you are enlisted in the Confederate service?"
"To but very few, sir," I answered, turning to look across at my unexpected questioner. "To none I am at all likely to encounter. My mother and I left the county at the first outbreak. My father's affiliations were with the Union element."
"Most fortunate. Nothing could be better, General Jackson. The sergeant can very safely travel as a Federal officer in search of recruits. The matter of papers can, of course, be easily arranged."
Jackson turned toward his aide.
"What Federal troops are now garrisoning Charleston, Swan?"
"An Ohio brigade, with a regiment of Pennsylvania cavalry. There is also a company of heavy artillery outside the town."
The commander leaned his head on his hand.
"I would like to suggest, sir," I ventured to say respectfully, "that General Ewell's plan be adopted. I think I shall have no difficulty in assuming the role."
"You are willing then to assume the risk?" He looked at me gravely. "It may eventually mean a drum-head court-martial, and death as a spy."
"If I fail—yes, sir; but this method surely offers the greatest possibility of success."
"I can clearly perceive that, but it was not my original plan to send you into the lines of the enemy in Federal uniform. However General Ewell's judgment is probably correct. Have you a late Army List there, Colonel Swan?"
"Yes, sir, issued the fourteenth." He turned the pages slowly, leaning forward to the light. "Here is a Lieutenant Raymond, Third U. S. Cavalry, reported on recruiting detail. His regiment is stationed at Fairfax Court House."
"He will answer as well as any other. It is scarcely probable the man would be known in that remote section. What is the full name? and where is he from?"
"Charles H.; appointed from Vermont."
"Is this choice satisfactory to you, sergeant?"
"Perfectly, sir."
"You are prepared to depart immediately?"
"As soon as I can be furnished with the necessary papers and equipment."
"Colonel Swan will arrange the first, and the quartermaster can doubtless supply the other requirements. Orderly, have Major Kline step in here at once. Ah, Kline, have you among your trophies of war a Federal lieutenant's uniform which will probably fit this man?"
"I believe so, sir," and the officer addressed ran his eyes appraisingly over my figure. "Any particular regiment?"
"Third, United States Cavalry. Have it pressed and sent here at once, securely wrapped, together with saber and revolvers. Where is your horse, sergeant?"
"Tied to the palings outside."
"Do you desire a better mount?"
"No sir, the animal is fresh, and a good traveler."
"Then that will be all, Kline; except, of course, complete Federal cavalry equipment for the horse."
The officer saluted, and disappeared, the door instantly closing behind him, cutting off the hum of voices without. There was a moment of silence.
"You had better retain your present dress until after you leave the valley," counseled Jackson, slowly. "Swan will furnish you with a pass, which should be carefully destroyed after passing our pickets at Covington. It will be of no service to you beyond that point. My best wishes for your success, Sergeant Wyatt."
He stood up, and I felt the firm grasp of his hand. Then Ashby gripped my shoulder.
"Wyatt," he said kindly, "if you ever desire to change your arm of the service, you are the kind of man I want to ride with me."
I smiled in appreciation, but before I could answer, the man who had been sitting silently in the corner arose, and stood erect in the light. The gleam of the lamp instantly revealed his face still shadowed by the wide hat brim, the firm, bearded chin, the gravely smiling eyes.
"General Ashby," he said with quiet dignity, "Sergeant Wyatt, I am sure, performs this important duty without thought of reward. It is the South that has need of such men in every branch of her service." He came forward, and extended his hand cordially.
"I am General Lee, and am very glad to greet, and wish God speed to the son of Judge Wyatt. If you return in safety, you will report to me in person at Richmond. General Jackson will so arrange with your battery commander."
They were all upon their feet, standing in respectful attention. I murmured something, I scarcely knew what, bowing as I backed toward the door. And this was Lee—Robert E. Lee—this man with the kind, thoughtful face, the gentle voice, the gravely considerate manner. And he had greeted me in words of personal friendship, had spoken to me of my father. I know I straightened to soldierly erectness, every pulse thrilling with a new resolve. A moment I stood there, my eyes on the one face I saw before me, and then went out into the darkness. The orderly closed the door.
CHAPTER II
AN UNWELCOME COMPANION
IT WAS in the chill of a cold, gray morning that I rode into Strasburg, jogging along at the rear of a squadron of Fifth Virginia cavalrymen who chanced to be headed for the same place. These found quarters in the town, but I proceeded a mile or more south on the valley pike, until I reached a cabin hidden behind a low hill, and so surrounded by a dense growth of scrubby trees as to be nearly concealed from observation. Only a chance glance in that direction had revealed its presence, but its very look of desolation instantly attracted me. Here was a place to rest quietly for a few hours in safety. I turned my willing horse aside, following an ill-defined path through a tangled mass of shrubbery, until I attained the door. The building was a single-roomed cabin, exhibiting marks of age and neglect, yet still intact, heavy wooden shutters barring the windows, the door closed and securely fastened. The place to all appearances was deserted, and had been for a long while. Although situated scarcely a hundred feet back from the valley turnpike, which was never without its travelers, and along which armies marched and counter-marched, the surroundings were those of a remote wilderness. I bent down from my saddle, and rapped sharply on the wood. There was no response from within, not even when I struck more heavily with the butt of a revolver. There was a faint trail leading about the corner, and, grown curious and impatient, I dismounted, and leading my horse, pressed a difficult passage through the bushes. To my surprise the rear door stood slightly ajar, and my eyes perceived the movement of an ill-defined shadow within.
"Hello, there!" I called out, yet instinctively drawing a step backward. "Is there any room here for a tired man?"
The tall, angular figure of a mountaineer immediately appeared in the doorway, and a gray, wrinkled face, scraggly bearded, looked forth, the eyes glinting, and filled with suspicion.
"Wus it you-all poundin' at the door?"
"I knocked—yes."
"Knocked! Ye made noise 'nough ter raise the dead."
"It seems I didn't raise you."
"I want lookin' fer no visitors. Wal, who be ye? an' whut do ye want yere?"
"I am a soldier," I replied, rather shortly, not particularly pleased with either the man's appearance or manner. "Myself and horse are about worn out. I mistook this for a deserted cabin."
"Wal, it ain't precisely. Are you Confed?"
"Of course—no Yank would be along this pike."
"I ain't so blamed sure o' thet. Whar be ye bound? an' whut may ye be up to a travelin' alone?"
I smiled, endeavoring to retain my temper.
"See, here, friend," I returned shortly. "I have as much reason to ask you such questions as you have me. However, I am willing enough to answer. I am on furlough, and am going home across the mountains to see my folks."
"Whar to?"
"Over Beckley way."
"The hell ye are! Don't ye know the Yanks are all through the kintry now? They'll gobble ye up afore ever ye git to New River."
"Oh, I reckon not—I know that section, and where to hide out. That is why I am going back there now. Do you know Raleigh County?"
The man, who was now standing upright in the doorway, one hand gripping the barrel of a musket, the early morning light on his withered face, stared unwinkingly into my eyes.
"I rather reckon I do, young man," he replied slowly. "Fur I was raised up on the Green Briar. What mout be yer name?"
"Cowan," I answered promptly, my mind instantly alert, and aware I had made a mistake."
"Ho! Ye don't say! One o' ol' Ned Cowan's boys?"
"No. I am a son of Widow Cowan, over on Coal Creek."
There was not the faintest glimmer in the cold, blue eyes, no evidence of any recollection in the wrinkled face. His jaws rose and fell on the tobacco which extended his cheek.
"I don't reckon I've been over that a way fer nigh on fifteen year," he said at last reflectively. "An' somehow I don't just recall no Widow Cowan—but I know ol' Ned mighty well. He's took to the brush with his whole breed since this fracus started, an' som' cusses burned his house, an' sent the ol' woman after 'em. It's plumb hell in Green Briar. Maybe yer a Cowan, but I'm damned if ye look like eny o' thet outfit ever I see afore. What part o' the army wus ye with?"
"Sixty-fifth Virginia—Covington Company, Captain Daniels."
The older man chewed awhile in silence, evidently impressed with the seeming frankness of the reply.
"Wal, ye mout be a Cowan, o' course. I ain't takin' no sides on thet fer I don't know all ther breed," he admitted reluctantly. "Enyhow I reckon it don't make no great difference, fer if ye be goin' ter Green Briar we kin ride awhile tergether. Two is better than one these days. Hitch yer hoss out thar in the scrub along side o' mine, an' then come in yere. We'll eat a bite fust, an' then lie down a spell, fer I've been a ridin' most o' ther night myself."
His voice was hardly as cordial as his words sounded, but I felt it best to accept the rather surly invitation. I led my horse down the dim path indicated, until I came to where the other animal—a rangy, ill-groomed sorrel—was securely hidden. I had blindly stepped into a trap, but just what kind I could not as yet determine. I must win the man's confidence, and learn what I could. The fellow, whoever he might prove to be, was evidently in concealment—but for what reason? Was he deserter? or spy? And, if it was true, as he claimed, that he was also bound for the Green Briar, how was I to easily avoid traveling in his company? To refuse would arouse suspicion at once, and might plunge me into greater peril. Yet, if, on the other hand, we did continue to consort, how was I to conceal my real purpose and identity? Once we were in the neighborhood of Lewisburg, my impromptu claim of being a Cowan would be easily exploded. I had assumed that particular name on the spur of the moment, chancing to remember there was such a family prominent along the Green Briar, but the deception would be very apparent so soon as we crossed the mountains. Even now I had grave reason to doubt if I had actually deceived this man by my sudden invention. There had been a look in those glinting blue eyes that told of cunning suspicion. However, at present nothing remained but to play out the game and thus gain all the advantage possible. Whoever the man might prove to be—spy, scout, bushwhacker, or deserter—beyond all question he possessed intimate knowledge of the country lying beyond the Alleghanies. He knew the existing conditions there, and was acquainted with the people. Once his confidence could be fully secured, providing his sympathies were with the cause of the South, as was most probable, his information would be of the utmost value. And surely, if we journeyed together, there would be some revelation of his identity, his reason for being where he was, and the side he espoused in the quarrel. Reticent as he was, suspicious and close-mouthed, a silent, typical mountaineer, he could surely be induced to let fall some scrap of information. And somewhere along the way an opportunity must surely arise whereby I might escape from his company, if such a move became really desirable. The fellow could not remain on guard night and day, and once convinced of my honesty his suspicions would naturally relax. Revolving these thoughts rapidly in my mind I returned to the hut, carefully bearing the bundle containing the Federal uniform tucked under my arm. The gaunt mountaineer, busily engaged in preparing breakfast at the open fireplace, scarcely favored me with a glance of recognition, but began to arrange the scant supply of food on an overturned box.
"Just pitch in, an' help yerself, Cowan," he said affecting a cordiality of manner not altogether natural. "Thar ain't much of it, but we'll eat whut we've got, an' then rest awhile. If yer a goin' ter travel along with me it will be done mostly at night til' we git down Covington way."
I seated myself without ceremony.
"You are in hiding then?" I asked carelessly, not even glancing up at the expressionless face opposite.
"Wal, not exactly. Thars nuthin' I'm specially feered of, an' I reckon it's more habit than enything else. We've grown pretty skeery back in the hills—nobody thar knows their friends frum their enemies these days. Yer liable ter git popped at most eny time, an' never know who did it. Yer ain't been thar lately, I reckon? "
"No; not for over a year."
"Things has changed sum since then. Nobody lives ter hum eny more. It's sure hell in Green Briar these days—somebody is gettin' kilt every day er two. The cusses travel in gangs, murderin' an' burnin' from one end o' the county to the other." He spoke in an even drawling voice, with not the slightest show of emotion, as though telling an ordinary bit of news: "Damned if I know which outfit is the wus—the Yanks, or the Rebs."
"Which are you with?"
"Who, me!" He paused in his bolting of food, and gave vent to an unpleasant laugh. "I rather reckon it would puzzle the Lord Almighty ter find that out. I don't give a whoop fer neither of 'em. I'm fer ol' Jem Taylor, an' it keeps me tolor'ble busy tending ter his affairs, without botherin' 'bout no government."
"Then your name is Taylor?"
"I reckon it has been fer 'bout sixty years. Thars a slew o' Taylors over along Buffalo Crick, an' som' of 'em are Yanks, an' a parcel of 'em are Rebs, but they don't git ol' Jem ter take nary side. At that, I'm gittin' all the fightin' I hanker arter. Naturally, I'm a peaceful critter, if th' cusses let me alone."
"Quieted down some over there lately, hasn't it?"
"Not thet I've heard of."
"Why I understood that the Federal troops from Charleston were in control, and held the county?"
"Huh! Thar's a rigiment o' blue-coats at Lewisburg, an' a few cavalrymen ridin' ther pikes. Don't amount ter a hill o' beans as fer as ther boys are concerned. All they got ter do is go further back in the hills, an' be a bit more keerful. I reckon, young man, ye'll find plenty o' deviltry going on in Green Briar, if ye ever git out that away. Wal, thet's all thar is fer us ter eat, an' I'm goin' ter take a snooze."
He closed the door, fastening it securely with a wooden bar, and stretched himself out on the floor. The room was dark as the only window was tightly boarded up, and, using my bundle for a pillow, I lay down also. For a short time I remained staring up through the dim light, thinking, and endeavoring to plan some feasible course of action, but there was no reason to remain awake, nothing to fear immediately, for his heavy breathing was evidence enough that Taylor slept. Slowly my heavy eyes closed, and I lost consciousness.
The sun was below the mountain ridge, when the heavy hand of the old mountaineer shook me into sudden wakefulness. I had aroused once during the day, and lay listening to the sound of heavy wagons passing along the pike—a strongly guarded train to judge by the voices of men, and the thud of steadily marching feet. Ammunition, no doubt, destined for the Army of the Valley, in preparation for the coming campaign. Then my eyes had closed again in dreamless sleep. With nothing left to eat we were not long in preparing for departure, I endeavoring vainly to get my silent companion to converse, being rewarded merely by grumbled and evasive answers. Finally I desisted in the attempt, content to follow his lead. Taylor, astride his sorrel, with gun resting grimly across his knees, rode straight through the brush, away from the pike, down the valley of a small stream. In crossing, the horses drank their fill.
"How about the valley road?" I asked as we climbed the opposite bank.
The leader glanced back at me.
"This yere way is nigher, an' a darn sight mor' quiet," he answered gruffly. "Soldiers been marching over the pike all day. Mout be all right fer yer, if yer've got a pass—but I ain't got none. We'll hev' good 'nough ridin' in 'bout a mile mor'."
"You are aiming for the cut-off?"
"I be—yer do kno' sumthin' of this yere kintry, I reckon, but yer've got more eddication than eny Cowan I ever hooked up with afore. Yer don't talk none like mountin' folks."
I drew a quick breath, sensing the return of suspicion.
"That's true," I admitted readily. "You see I went to school at Covington; they were going to make a preacher out of me."
"The hell they wus!" and he chuckled to himself. "A blue-bellied Presbyterian I'll bet a hog. Their the ol' stock—them Cowans—hell fire, infant damnation. So you wus goin' fer ter be a preacher—hey?"
"That was the program."
Taylor stared into my face, his vague suspicion seemingly gone.
"Well, I'll de damned—a preacher."
He rode on into the dusk, chuckling, and I followed, smiling to myself, glad that the man's good humor had been so easily restored.
We were fed at a hut far back in the foot-hills, where an old couple, the man lame, were glad enough to exchange their poor food for late news from the army, in which they had a son. Then we rode on steadily to the south along a deserted, weed-bordered road, meeting no one to obstruct our progress. Earlier in the war the Army of the Kanawa had passed along this way on forced march, and the ruts left by battery wheels were still in evidence, the frozen ridges making fast riding impossible. There were no villages, and only a few scattered houses, but the night was not so dark as to prevent fairly rapid progress. When dawn came we were to the west of Waynesboro, in broken country, and all through those long night hours scarcely a word had been exchanged between us. We camped finally in the bend of a small stream, where high banks concealed us from observation. There was little to eat in our haversacks, but we munched what we had, and Taylor, his eyes on the horses, broke the silence.
"I reckon the critters don't need mor'n a couple hours' rest," he said. "They ain't been rid noways hard, an' I'm fer gittin' through the gap durin' daylight—the road ain't overly good just now."
"Across the mountains? Is there a gap here?"
"Ther road ter Hot Springs is 'bout two miles below yer. I cum over it ten days ago an' I reckon I kin find my way back. It's 'bout forty miles frum thar ter Lewisburg, mostly hills, but a good trail. I know folks et Hot Springs who will take good keer o' us, onct we git thar."
We rested dozing, but neither sound asleep, for nearly three hours. Whatever might be in Taylor's mind, the lonely night had brought to me a new thought relative to my companion. The fellow was evasive, and once he had frankly lied in seeking to explain his presence in the valley, and the reason for his secrecy of movement. By now we were decidedly at cross-purposes, each vigilantly watching the other—Taylor in doubt as to what the bundle contained, which I never permitted out of my grasp, and myself as deeply interested in gaining possession of a packet of papers, a glimpse of which I had caught in an inside pocket of the mountaineer's coat. The belief that the fellow was either a Yankee spy, or a messenger between some Union emissary in the Confederate camp, and the Federal commander in western Virginia, became clear and distinct. His explanation that he had been seeking payment for losses occasioned by Confederate troops, was far from convincing. Had this been true he would certainly have been provided with a pass, and there would be no necessity for riding these back roads at night to avoid being challenged. His mission, whatever it might be, was secret and dangerous. Of this his ceaseless vigilance was proof.
We rode on side by side through the rocky gap in the chain of mountains, and along the rough hills beyond, through gloomy stretches of wood, and over wind-swept ridges. It was cold and blustery, the clouds hanging low, and threatening storm. We were silent, suspicious of each other, never relaxing our vigilance. We encountered few travelers, and with these scarcely exchanged a word. Not a soldier was seen, although there was a Confederate garrison at Covington a few miles to the south. The light of a dying day still clung to the western sky when our wearied horses bore us into the village of Hot Springs. It was like a deserted hamlet, few houses appearing inhabited, and the shop windows boarded up. Occasionally a face peered at us cautiously through closed windows, and a man, tramping across the square, paused to stare curiously in our direction; but these were the only signs of life visible. Over a stone building—possibly the post-office—flapped a small Confederate flag, ragged and disreputable. Taylor, glancing neither to right or left, apparently indifferent to all this desolation, rode straight down the main street, and turned onto a pike road, leading to the left. A mile beyond, a frame house, painted white, barely visible through the deepening dusk, stood in a grove of oaks. The fence surrounding it had been broken down, and the gate stood wide open. The mountaineer turned up the broad driveway, and dismounted before the closed door. Almost at the same moment the portal opened slightly and a black face peered out.
CHAPTER III
THE BODY ON THE FLOOR
TAYLOR stood at the foot of the steps, pausing in uncertainty.
"Is that you, Sam?"
"Yas, sah, but I don't just make out who you gentl'men am, sah."
"Well, never mind thet now. Is Mister Harwood, yere?"
I insensibly straightened in my saddle. Harwood? What Harwood, I wondered—surely not Major Harwood of Lewisburg, my father's old friend! What was it I had heard about him a few months ago? Wasn't it a rumor that he was on General Ramsay's staff? And the daughter—Noreen—whatever had become of her? There was an instant's vision before me of laughing eyes, and wind-blown hair, a galloping horse, and the wave of a challenging hand. She had thus swept by me on the road as I took my mother southward.
"I don't peer fer to recollect no such name, sah," replied the negro, scratching his wool thoughtfully. "I done reckon as how you got the wrong house."
"No, I reckon not," said the other drily. "Git 'long in, an' tell him Jem Taylor is yere."
The door opened wider.
"Suah, I know you now, sah. Just step right 'long in, the both of yer. I'll look after them horses. You'll fin' Massa Harwood in the dinin' room, sah."
I followed the mountaineer up the steps, and into the hall, utterly indifferent as to whether my company was desired or not. But Taylor paid no apparent heed to my presence. The interior was that of an old fashioned residence, which, as yet, had not suffered from the ravages of war. Evidences of neglect were numerous enough, yet the furniture remained intact, and the walls firm. The hall was carpeted, and the stairs leading upward were covered with a rug of brightly woven rags, yielding a touch of color. It was not yet dark, but a lamp burned on a near-by table, and a cheerful fire glowed at the farther end. A door standing open revealed what must have been the parlor, a seemingly large room in which hair-cloth chairs and sofas were dimly visible. But a brighter glow of light streamed from a room beyond, and Taylor, evidently acquainted with the house, walked directly forward, around the bulge of the stairs, and stepped within the open door. Determined to miss nothing, I was so close behind, that my quick eyes caught what I believed to be a swift signal of warning to the man within. This, however, was an impression born from my own suspicion, rather than any real movement, for Taylor took but a single step across the threshold, and stopped, leaning on his gun. Behind him, standing in the open door, I had full glimpse of the interior.
There were two lights—one hanging above the table, the other on a sideboard to the right. The room itself was panelled in dark wood, the two windows heavily draped with hanging curtains, a few pictures decorating the walls. There was a fire-place, with a grate fire smouldering, and over it a pair of crossed swords and an old powder horn. The single occupant sat upright, before him the remnants of a light repast, his hand toying with a spoon, and his eyes shifting from Taylor's face to that of mine. He was heavily built and broad of shoulder, the face, illumined by the hanging lamp, strong and masterful, the jaw prominent, the forehead broad, the nose roman. It would have been a hard face, but for a gleam of good humor in the eyes, and the softening effect of gray hair, and a gray moustache. The man had aged greatly, yet I recognized him instantly, my heart throbbing with the possibility that I also might be remembered. Yet surely there was no gleam of recollection in the eyes that surveyed me—and why should there be? I had been an uninteresting lad of fifteen when we last met. This knowledge gave me courage to meet that searching glance, and to lift my hand in the salute due to an officer of rank.
"Ah!" said Harwood in deep voice, "a soldier from the valley?"
"Yes, sir," respectfully, "the Sixty-fifth Virginia."
"Oh, yes; there was a company of mountainmen from Covington way in that command. Daniels your captain?"
"Yes, sir."
"Deserter?"
"No, sir; on thirty days' furlough."
"Oh, indeed! so 'old Jack' thinks he has plenty of time, and can let part of his army go home, does he? Well, that's his business, of course. How does it happen you wear artillery uniform?"
Expecting the question I answered unhesitatingly.
"They'd lost so many gunners, some of us were detailed to help. Recruits are coming in now."
"What was your battery?"
"Staunton Horse Artillery, sir."
"Stationed?"
"At Front Royal—that was our winter camp."
He nodded, tapping his spoon against the table, favorably impressed by my prompt replies. His keen eyes sought the face of the silent mountaineer.
"You know this man, Taylor?"
"Wal, I can't exactly say thet I dew, Major," he said drawlingly, shifting his feet uneasily. "He wus sorter wished on me, an' as he wus bound this way, I reckoned as how it wus best fer us to ride 'long together. He says he's a Cowan, frum over on Buffalo Crick."
"A Cowan!—you mean—"
"No, he don't claim ter be none o' ol' Ned's brood—his mar's a widder woman. They ain't no kin, I reckon."
Whatever thoughts might have been in Major Harwood's mind were concealed by an impassive face, as he sat there for a moment in silence, gazing at the two of us.
"No doubt you did what you believed to be best, Taylor," he said at last quietly. "We will talk it over later. You are both hungry enough to eat, I suppose? Draw up some chairs, and Sam will find something. No objection to remaining here over night, Cowan?"
"I'd be glad to get on, sir, but, my horse is about used up. The roads have been hard, and we have traveled rapidly."
"Well, there is plenty of room, and you are welcome. This house," he explained, "belongs to a friend of mine, who had to leave the country—too Yankee for his neighbors. I find it rather convenient at times. Ah, Sam, that rasher of bacon looks prime—I'll try some myself."
The three of us talked upon many subjects, although Taylor said little, except when directly addressed, and I noted that few references were made to the war. Occasionally Harwood would carelessly, interject a question relating to Jackson, but I remained ever on guard, exhibiting a lack of information such as was natural to a soldier in the ranks, and thus more and more disarmed suspicion. I apparently knew little beyond the disposition of my own battery, and the fact that the main camp was still at Front Royal, engaged in constant drills. In return I ventured to question my host on the condition of things in Green Briar, but made no attempt to learn the number of troops in the region. That Harwood was in the Federal service I had no doubt, although he was not in uniform, and, if this was true, then it must be also a fact that Taylor was a Union spy. The meeting here had not been by chance, although a mystery involved the hidden reason why I, a known Confederate soldier, had been encouraged to accompany the mountaineer to this secret rendezvous. What could be Taylor's object in bringing me there to meet Harwood? Various theories flitted through my mind, as I sat there, endeavoring to carry on my share of conversation, but none wholly satisfied my judgment. At last the meal ended, and the Major pushed back his chair, and motioned for Sam to clear the table.
"You two men are tired out," he said genially, "and you had better turn in, and get a good night's sleep. We'll all of us ride on into Green Briar to-morrow. I'll talk with you a minute Taylor in the parlor before you go; but Cowan does not need to wait. Help yourselves to the tobacco. Oh, Sam!"
"Yes, Major."
"Show this soldier up to the back bedroom, and see he has everything he needs."
"Yes, sah."
It was clearly apparent that Harwood desired a private word with Taylor, and so, after deliberately filling my pipe, I rose to my feet, stretching sleepily. The black returned with a small lamp in his hand, and led the way up the broad stairs. My last backward glance through the open door revealed the two sitting just as I had left them, except that Harwood was leaning slightly forward across the table, and speaking earnestly. A moment later I was left alone in a small room at the end of the upper hall. As the negro closed the door, clicking the latch into place, I glanced about me curiously. It was a narrow room, containing only a chair, a washstand and a single bed, a strip of rag carpet on the floor, and the one window so heavily curtained as probably to render the light invisible from without. I placed my bundle on the chair, and examined the door; it was securely latched, but there was no lock. Then I was not being held a prisoner. Still smoking I sat down on the edge of the bed, my mind busy with the situation.
It occurred to me now with new clearness of vision that Taylor had some special object in his friendliness. If he was a Union spy his natural preference would have been to travel alone. Instead, the fellow had almost insisted on my companionship; indeed, the tactiturn, silent mountaineer had even endeavored to simulate geniality to that end. But for what possible reason? Suspicion no doubt of my real purpose—a vague questioning of my identity, the truth, of the story I had told. One thing was certain I must break away from these men at once, or face exposure. Good fortune had been mine so far, for Major Harwood had failed to recognize me, but if Taylor believed evil of me his tale would certainly influence that officer, and arouse his suspicion likewise. If I could get safely away from the house that night, my escape unknown until morning, I might never encounter either of the two again. 'Twas likely Harwood had come from Charleston, where Ramsay was in command, and he would return there to make his report, while the mountaineer might be dispatched in any direction, but scarcely into the mountain districts of Green Briar, where my duty would take me. Nor would they waste much time in following me—for, at best, their suspicions must be vague, uncertain. Nothing had occurred to render them definite. I had said nothing, done nothing, which was inconsistent with the character I had assumed. They would most naturally suppose I was eager to get on, and preferred to complete the journey alone. No doubt they would dismiss the whole matter with a laugh when they discovered me gone.
I extinguished the light, and looked out of the window. It was quite a drop, though not necessarily a dangerous one, to the ground. Those dim outlines of buildings were probably the stables, where I would find my horse. With no guards the trick of getting away unobserved would be easy enough, and I knew the road sufficiently well to follow it safely. But I desired to learn first what these two men were actually up to. Such information might prove more important than my investigations in Green Briar. I stole across to the door and opened it noiselessly, surprised to discover it had been left unguarded. Either the men below were careless, were innocent of wrong intent, or else were completely deceived as to my character and purpose. There was no one visible in the upper hall, and I leaned over the stair rail gazing down, and listening. A light still burned within the dining room, but there was no sound of voices, or of movement. I waited there motionless for several minutes, unable to assure myself that the conference of the two men had been terminated so quickly. Surely they must be there—yet where the lamp burned no doubt, and would resume conversation shortly.
The silence continued, and I began to cautiously steal passage down the carpeted stairs, crouching well back against the side-wall. Little by little I was able to peer in through the open door—the chairs were vacant; there was no one there. The gleam of the lamp revealed a deserted room, the table still littered with dishes. What had become then of Harwood and Taylor? Could they have gone to bed already? Surely I must have heard them if they had climbed the stairs. If not, had they ventured forth together on some secret mission into the night? or were they sitting beyond in the darkened parlor? This last supposition was possible, and I must be fully assured that neither remained in the house, before I sought to trail them without. I crept to the half-closed door, and endeavored to gain glimpse within. The room was black and silent, although I could perceive dimly the outlines of furniture. Nothing appeared strange, except that the chair nearest the door had been overturned. Surely every article of furniture stood straight and stiff enough, when I glanced that way before, on my first entrance. I recalled clearly how rigid that parlor looked, every piece of furniture placed as if by mathematical lines.
Something—some vague sense of mystery, of danger, gripped me. I felt a strange choking in the throat, and reached for the revolver at my belt. It was not there; the leather holder was empty. My first sensation was fear, a belief I was the victim of treachery. Then it occurred to my mind that the weapon might have fallen from the open holster as I rested on the bed—a mere accident. At least I would learn the truth of that dark room. I stepped within, circled the overturned chair, and a groping foot encountered something lying on the floor. I bent down, and touched it with my hand; it was the body of a man. The whole truth came to me in a flash—there had been a quarrel, a murder, unpremeditated probably, and the assassin had escaped. But which of the two was the victim? An instant I stood there, staring about in the dark, bewildered and uncertain. Then I grasped the lamp from the table in the other room, and returned holding the light in my hands. The form of Major Harwood lay extended on the floor, lifeless, his skull crushed by an ugly blow. Beside him lay a revolver, its butt blood-stained. Beyond doubt this was the weapon which had killed. I picked it up wonderingly—it was my own.
CHAPTER IV
INTO THE ENEMIES' HANDS
THE truth in all its ugliness came to me then in sudden revealment. This was no accident, no result of unpremeditated quarrel between the two men. Harwood's death had been deliberately planned, and the effort made to cast suspicion on me, while the murderer escaped. This was why Taylor had insisted on our traveling together so long. It accounted for many things which had puzzled me in the conduct of my companion. And the plot had been successful so far as Taylor knew. The Major lay dead, with my blood-stained revolver—evidently the weapon which had struck the blow—lying beside him. Dawn would reveal the deed, and I would be discovered alone in the house. Only my wakefulness, my desire to investigate, had interfered with the complete success of this hideous plan.
But why had Harwood been murdered? What purpose did his violent death serve? Who was Taylor? And what had brought him all that distance to do a deed like this? The two men were apparently friendly; there was a secret understanding between them; they met in this lonely place by appointment. There could be no doubt as to that, for I had caught the swift sign of warning passing between them caused by my presence; and had felt the desire for my early retirement, so they might converse freely. Could it be possible some misunderstanding had arisen which had led to this tragedy? One fact alone combatted this thought—the stolen revolver; the evident purpose of the murderer to cast the burden of the crime on an innocent man. That was no impulse of the moment, no sudden inspiration. Taylor had prepared himself for this emergency, had deliberately taken the weapon for that very purpose. Where had the fellow gone? In which direction had he fled? A knowledge of this might help to clear up the mystery, might reveal, at least, whether he sought refuge with the Union or Confederate forces. And what had become of the negro?
All these questions flashed through my mind as I stood there, lamp in one hand and revolver in the other, staring down at the dead face. The first feeling of dazed bewilderment changed into anger, and a desire to revenge the death of this man who had once been my father's friend. I cared nothing at that moment for the uniform the Major had worn, that we were opposed to each other in arms; I recalled merely the genial nature of the man, his acts of former friendship, and his motherless daughter. Out of the mist floated the face of the girl, the girl who had waved to me in the road. The vision brought back to me coolness, and determination. I wiped off the blood stains from the revolver on the carpet, and slipped the weapon back into my belt, assuring myself first that it remained loaded. Then I felt through the pockets of the dead man—if robbery had been the object of this crime, that robbery did not involve the taking of money. I found a knife, keys, and a roll of bills untouched, but not a scrap of paper. On the floor, partially concealed by one arm, was a large envelope, unaddressed, roughly torn open. It was some document, then, that the murderer sought. This once attained, his purpose had been accomplished, and he had fled with it in his possession. What paper could justify such a crime? The negro—perhaps the negro knew.
Intent now on my one purpose of discovery, my mind active and alert, I returned the lamp to the dining room table, and revolver still in hand began a rapid search of the house. The front door was fastened and barred, proving Taylor had not left that way. There was but one other room on that floor, a kitchen in considerable disorder, as though the servant had made no effort to complete his work; but its outer door stood unlatched. The porch without was dark and deserted, yet through here, undoubtedly, the murderer had fled, seeking the stable and a horse. But what had become of the negro? Was he victim, or accomplice?
Satisfied now that Taylor had left the house, and escaped from the scene of his crime, I hastily searched the upper rooms, but found no trace of any other occupant. The servant was not there, nor had any bed, except my own, been occupied, or disarranged. Then Sam must have gone with the mountaineer in his hasty flight—must be equally guilty. This was the only conclusion possible, and the knowledge that I was left there alone rendered my own position more precarious. Harwood had mentioned no escort, yet surely he had never ventured into this doubtful region without having soldiers within call. No doubt they were quartered in the village, who, if he failed to appear when expected, would search for him. Before they came, and made discovery of the dead body, I must be safely beyond reach. If found there, no defense, no asseveration of innocence, would ever save me from condemnation. Their vengeance would be swift and merciless. Thinking now only of my own escape unobserved, I crept back down the stairs, my nerves shaken, extinguished the lights, without even venturing to glance again into the dark parlor, and felt my way into the night without. It was sufficiently dark to compel me to feel passage cautiously over the uneven ground, the path, circling an old garden, leading toward the stable. Twice I stumbled over the remnants of a broken fence, and once I stepped blindly into a shallow trench, and dropped my bundle. The recovery of it brought me a new thought—this would be Federal territory; or if not, already, my night's ride would bring me well within their lines before dawn. My pass, my Confederate uniform, would only serve to increase the peril of possible capture. There might be those back yonder in Hot Springs who would recall our passage through the village, who would describe the artillery sergeant to Harwood's questioning cavalrymen. A change of clothing would throw them off the trail. I slipped instantly out of the soiled suit of gray, and donned the immaculate blue, buckling the belt about my waist, and securely hooking the saber. Then I scooped out a hole in the soft dirt, and buried the old uniform, tearing my pass into shreds, scattering the fragments broadcast. It was so lonely and still all about, not even a breath of wind stirring the leaves, that I felt a return of confidence, a renewed courage. The house behind me, and the stable before, were mere outlines, scarcely discernible through the gloom. Yet I had only to follow the path, guided by the remains of a fence, to attain the latter. It was not a large building, and the path led directly to the single door, which stood wide open. I could hear the uneasy movements of a horse within, which was a great relief, as I had been fearful lest the fugitives had left me without a mount. Obliged to feel blindly in the dark, and not knowing what the black shadows might conceal, I was some time in leading the animal forth, properly saddled. But there was no alarm, no occurrence to unnerve me, and while there were three horses in the stable, I found it easy to choose my own. Once safely in the saddle, I circled the gloom of the house silently, and followed the roadway to the gate.
Not a light gleamed in any direction, and I could recall no other house near by. While it remained in view I could not remove my eyes from the mansion I had just left, or forget the dead body lying there in the dark. War had already taught me to look upon death by violence with a certain callousness. I had walked over battle fields, strewn with corpses, almost unmoved. But this was murder, foul and treacherous—the victim a man whom as a boy I had been taught to respect and revere. The shying of my horse at the gate alone caused me to note the black something lying against the post. At first I deemed it a mere shadow, but the animal would not respond even to the spur, and I dismounted better to ascertain the cause of his fright. The negro lay there, dead as his master, a knife thrust in his heart. Then it was Taylor alone who had done the foul deed—and he had left no witnesses behind. Why had the fiend spared me in his bloody work? There could be but one reason—a thought in his cunning brain that I would be the one suspected—I, a helpless, unknown stranger, wearing the Confederate uniform, condemned by my own revolver lying beside the corpse—a hope that he would thus escape unfollowed. If he took such pains to cast suspicion on me, the man must have been aware that Major Harwood was not alone; that his death would be quickly discovered, and an effort made to avenge it.
There was nothing I could do, but flee swiftly through the night. My own position was now far too desperate to permit of my giving any alarm, or seeking to trace the murderer. To fall into Union hands would be my death-warrant, irrespective of Harwood's fate, and my duty lay in carrying out the orders of "Old Jack." To allow myself to be captured would spoil everything. Satisfied that the negro was indeed dead, I led my trembling horse past the motionless body, seeking as I did so to learn, if possible, in which direction the murderer had disappeared. But in this I failed, the night being so dark there was no tracing of horse's hoofs on the hard roadway. I swung back into the saddle and turned to the left. I had no knowledge as to where this road—apparently not a main highway—led, but I was acquainted with the pike running west from Hot Springs. To venture back through that hamlet might, indeed, expose me to discovery, yet once beyond the village I should be traversing familiar ground, and could proceed with greater confidence. Besides, the hour was late; there was small chance that I would encounter any stray traveler, or find any pickets posted.
I rode toward the town as rapidly as I dared, watchful of every deepening shadow, until I came to the first straggling houses. These were dark and silent, and not so much as a dog barked as I walked my horse cautiously forward toward the main street. I saw but one dim light streaming out through an uncurtained window of what looked like a law office, and passed close enough to learn that a group of men within were playing cards. I could glimpse their shadows, but was unable to determine if any among them were in uniform. Yet few men were at home in those days, and it was highly probable these belonged to the Major's escort. I passed the place unobserved, and rode on into the night, feeling I had escaped from immediate danger. At what I took to be the tavern corner I discovered the road leading to the left, and turned in that direction, assured that it would lead directly into the heart of Green Briar. At a little stream unbridged, I watered my horse, which drank greedily, and then climbed the opposite bank. The road ran through thick woods, the darkness intense, and as the way was silent and seemed deserted I gave the animal the spur.
I must have loped along thus for ten minutes, all thought of pursuit already dismissed, and my mind occupied with plans for the future, when the woods suddenly ended in a bare ridge, the ribbon of road revealing itself under the soft glow of the stars. I know not why I heard no sound of warning, but at the instant, a half dozen shadows loomed up blocking the path. I barely had time to rein in my horse before we were intermingled, the surprise evidently mutual, although one of the newcomers was swift enough to seize my animal's bit, and hold him plunging in fright. I clung to the stirrups, aware of the flash of a weapon in my face, and an oath uttered in a gruff voice.
"In God's name! where did you come from? Here, Snow, see what this fellow looks like."
The speaker had a wide brimmed hat, drawn low over his face, and a cape concealed his uniform. But Snow wore the cap of the Federal cavalry, and I knew I had fallen into Yankee hands.
CHAPTER V
I JOIN THE FEDERAL CAVALRY
ISHOOK off the grip of the latter's hand from my arm.
"I have no objection to telling you my name and rank," I said coldly. "but lower that gun first; I am in uniform."
The rather contemptuous tone of voice employed had greater effect on the fellow than the evidence of his eyes. His arm fell to his side, although he still retained a grasp on my bridle.
"So I see," but with no cordiality in the words. "But that is hardly convincing. Federal officers are rare birds who ride these roads alone. Who are you, sir, and why are you here?"
"Perhaps I may be privileged to ask first by what authority you halt and question me?"
He laughed, and waved the weapon he still held toward the others of his party.
"Our force alone is sufficient authority I should suppose. However I will set your mind at—I am Captain Fox, in command of a detachment of the Twelfth Pennsylvania Cavalry."
"Oh, yes," I responded more pleasantly, "of General Ramsay's command. You had left Charleston before my arrival. You know Major Harwood, no doubt?"
"We are of his escort," both suspicion and command lost before my cool assurance. "You are in the service, sir?"
"Third United States Cavalry; on recruiting detail. I was to meet Harwood at Hot Springs, but was told he had gone to Green Briar."
"By whom?"
"A scout I met by chance; he gave the name Taylor."
The Captain swore grimly, glancing across my horse into the face of the trooper opposite.
"By all the gods, that's rather odd!" he exclaimed in apparent surprise. "That was the name of the man the Major expected to meet, wasn't it, Snow?"
"It was, sir."
"And he told you the Major had gone west to Green Briar? That isn't true, for this is the Green Briar road, and we have met no one. Were there no soldiers in Hot Springs?"
"I saw a group playing cards, but there were no sentries. The men had no knowledge of where Major Harwood had gone; only that he had left the village."
'Well, this stumps me!" his voice grown suddenly harder. "It doesn't sound straight, for we left him safely in Hot Springs an hour before sundown, and he had no purpose at that time except to wait there for Taylor. Do you carry any papers?"
I drew the official envelope from my pocket, and held it out to him calmly. He opened the flap.
"A little light, Snow—yes, a match will do."
The flame lit up their faces—the officer a thin-faced man with moustache and imperial, his teeth oddly prominent; the trooper older in years, but smooth-shaven, with deep-set eyes and square chin. Their uniforms were dusty and well worn. The others, clustered behind, remained mere shadows. The Captain took in the nature of the document at a glance, and I marked a change in his expression before the match went out.
"Oh, I see—you are Lieutenant Raymond. Got to us earlier than you expected. Find many recruits north?"
"No," I answered, taken completely by surprise, but managing to control my voice. "That was why I thought I might accomplish more in this section. Those counties have been combed over." I hesitated an instant, and yet it was best for me to learn what I could. "I was not aware, Captain, that my projected visit had been announced."
He laughed, and the second match went out, leaving us again in darkness.
"Nor was it, officially; merely a friendly letter from an officer on Heitzelman's staff to our Major, asking for you a friendly reception. Camp gossip brought the news to me. You knew Harwood?"
"No; only General Ramsay advised me to confer with him, because of his intimate knowledge of this section. He belonged, I believe, in Green Briar?"
"Yes, we were at his place yesterday; south of Lewisburg. What sort of a looking man was this fellow Taylor?"
I described him minutely, hoping for some recognition, but the Captain did not appear to recall any such character.
"We have only been in this region a few months," he said, in explanation, "and I don't remember any such chap. He is none of Ramsay's scouts. What do you say, Snow?"
"Only man like that I've heard of, sir, is old Ned Cowan, and it ain't likely he's left the mountins to go into 'Old Jack's' camp."
Fox laughed, as though the idea amused him.
"Hardly. Cowan is too well known to take the risk. Either side would hang the hound on sight. Well, let's ride along into Hot Springs. You'll come with us, Lieutenant?"
There was no excuse left me, no reason that I could urge for riding on alone westward. Indeed, before I could clearly collect my thoughts, I was in the midst of the horsemen, slowly moving east once more over the dark road. Fox held position beside me, talking freely about his varied experiences since enlistment, and I only found it necessary to encourage him by interjecting an occasional brief reply. He was evidently fond of his own voice, and glad to find a new auditor. His reminiscences had little reference to matters of interest to me, and my own thoughts were of the present situation, although I listened to his droning, and was ready to respond. I must find some means for parting company with these friendly cavalrymen, before they discovered the fate of Harwood. That was my first inclination; then it occurred to me that possibly I could attain my end more easily by making use of their protection. Why not? Neither Fox, nor any of his men, had slightest reason to question my identity. They would never connect me with the death of the Major, and, beyond doubt, they would immediately follow any trail the murderer left. If he went east or south the pursuers would never dare venture more than a few miles, for there were Confederates stationed in some force at Covington, but if Taylor, by chance, had turned west in his flight, the pursuit would take me into the very section to which I had been assigned. And if it proved this man Taylor was in reality old Ned Cowan, that was where he would naturally go—to his own people among the mountains of Green Briar. The knowledge that the real Raymond was actually expected to arrive in western Virginia complicated affairs greatly, and added to my peril. But it made my present position easier, and there might be ample time for me to carry out my plans before his appearance on the scene. Anyhow I had small chance to choose at present, and could only drift as fate ordained.
Riding as rapidly as the darkness made possible, we clattered into the deserted street at Hot Springs, and Fox cursed vigorously the negligent guard. The sergeant knew little of where Major Harwood had gone, as he had given no orders, and not even intimated the probable time of his return. When last seen he was riding out the south road accompanied only by his servant. That was late in the afternoon, and the sergeant supposed they were merely exercising the horses. Yes, there were two men who passed through the village about dusk, an old mountaineer, and a young fellow in Confederate uniform. He didn't know where they went, as he was asleep at the time, and Corporal Green, and most of the squad, were fishing in the creek. The blacksmith told him about them, and said they were both on horseback, and had taken the south road. No, he hadn't given the matter any further thought. Fox swore again, and ordered the men into saddle, and we swung out at a sharp trot along the dirt pike. I rode next him, but the Captain was in such rage I kept silent, knowing well the tragic discovery soon to be revealed. The gray dawn began to steal about us, making objects near at hand visible, and revealing the tired faces of the cavalrymen. There was sufficient light to enable us to perceive the gloomy house in the oak grove, and the motionless form lying beside the gate. Fox drew up his horse with a jerk, and leaned forward staring.
"My God, men!" he exclaimed, choking. "That's Harwood's nigger. Turn the body over, Green—ah! the poor devil was knifed. Here, a half dozen of you, unsling carbines, and follow me—there's been dirty work done. Sergeant, don't let your men destroy those hoof-prints in the road. Lively now, lads!"
I advanced with them up the driveway, fearful that if I held back, it might later be commented upon. The front door refused admittance, but we entered from the rear. Everything within was exactly as I had left it, and in the parlor, still dark because of closed blinds, lay the lifeless body of Harwood. Fox fell upon his knees beside the motionless form, ordering the windows thrown open, his hands touching the lifeless flesh.
"Dead for hours," he exclaimed in a tone of horror, turning his gaze upon me. "Struck from behind—see, Raymond. What in God's name can this mean?"
He began searching the pockets.
"Not robbery—for here is money, and a watch. But the papers are gone, every scrap of them." He looked about at the men. "The Major had his papers with him, did he not, Chambers?"
"Yes, sir," and the young, boyish soldier addressed straightened up. "I was with him when he put on citizen's clothes, and he slipped a big buff packet into his pocket."
Fox's bewildered glance met mine.
"Do you know what that packet contained, Captain?" I questioned.
"Only that it was entrusted to his care by General Ramsay, and its destination was the army on the Potomac."
"To be forwarded by this man Taylor?"
"I do not know. Harwood expected to meet Taylor here at Hot Springs, but I think there were others to be here also. The Major kept his own counsel, but something I overheard caused me to believe his engagement with Taylor was of a more private nature. Chambers was his clerk, perhaps he knows."
The lad shook his head, his eyes on the dead man.
"I'm certain those papers were not meant for him, sir," he answered slowly. "They were to be given to a scout named Dailey. It was some other business that brought the Major here all alone—but he never told me."
There was nothing further to be discovered, and Fox realized the necessity of haste. His orders were prompt. Four men were detailed to bury the body, and then rejoin the column as soon as possible. The others were marched back to the gate, and remounted. Taylor had apparently made no effort to conceal his trail, the hoof-prints of his horse showing clearly now daylight had returned. He had ridden south at a sharp trot, and Fox, satisfied as to this fact, ordered his men forward. The gait at which we rode rendered conversation impossible, although my horse easily kept stride beside the Captain. More and more clearly the strangeness of my position was borne in upon my mind—here I was in Federal uniform, in a column of blue-clad cavalry, riding desperately in pursuit of a fugitive. It was all a series of strange accidents, and I could not figure out how I was to extricate myself from the position I had been compelled to assume. I had been accepted without question, and there was no excuse I could urge for escape. And how would I better my condition if I discovered one? If Taylor was a Confederate he would head directly for Covington, and, as soon as this was determined, this little squad of troopers would abandon pursuit. He had several hours start, and it would be foolhardy to attempt to overhaul the fellow. But if the man turned west—and surely there must be a crossroad below—Fox would keep on indefinitely. The Captain was of bulldog breed, if I was any judge of character, and his one thought now was the capture of Harwood's murderer. Such a course would bring us into the very heart of Green Briar, where my connection with this squad of troopers would serve me well.
It was an hour later when we came suddenly to the fork, the south branch leading over a long clay hill, the west along a rocky ridge. Fox sprang to the ground, and followed the faint prints of the horse we were pursuing for a hundred yards on foot. Some cattle had passed southward, but there was a defect in the shoe of the animal Taylor rode clearly revealed in the clay. The Captain came back, a grim smile on his lips.
"The cuss was no Johnny Reb," he said shortly. "That was what I was afraid of, but now I know what to do. We'll save our horses, men, for this is going to be a long ride—that murdering devil is headed for the Green Briar. This is the lower Lewisburg road." He swung up into saddle. "Green, take three men ahead with you, and keep half a mile in advance. Watch out carefully, for there may be graybacks along here. Going with us, Lieutenant?"
"About the best thing I can do," I replied readily, "my orders were for Green Briar and Fayette."
"All right, then, but they had small respect for your life when they sent you in there. From all I hear it is like a menagerie of wild animals broken loose—good fighting anywhere. Only trouble will be there is so much at home there will be no need for the boys to enlist. However that's your affair, not mine." His eyes surveyed his men keenly. "Loosen carbines! Forward march! Trot!"
Silently, save for the jingle of accoutrements, and the thud of horses' feet, we rode westward, sunlight flecking the dusty uniforms. The pike dipped down into a hollow, and, climbing the hill beyond, appeared the figures of the four scouts. Far away was the haze of the mountains.
CHAPTER VI
THE NIGHT ATTACK
THE incidents of that ride do not remain with me in any special clearness of detail. In fact it was comparatively uneventful, the road apparently little used at any time, and now absolutely deserted except for our party. In all probability the fugitive had chosen it for this very reason, aware of its loneliness. Taylor also must have held in contempt any possible pursuit, as he made no attempt at concealing his trail. We followed as rapidly as the condition of our horses would warrant, but we were soon aware that the murderer was steadily increasing the distance between. The man evidently knew the country, and had friends. There were few houses visible, and these were completely deserted on our arrival, yet at some of them the fugitive must have found food, and at one a fresh mount. We marked where the old horse, with the broken shoe identifying it, had been led aside into the bushes, and then the hoof-prints of another animal, of longer stride, appeared in the dirt road. The trail of the discarded horse led along the bank of a rocky creek, and disappeared utterly within a deep ravine. The print of a bare foot seemed to tell the tale of a boy at the bridle rein.
We rode steadily, keeping well together, conscious that in all probability we were watched by hostile eyes, peering out from behind rock and thicket. The road became rougher, more difficult to travel. There were paths, dim, shadowed by brush, leading off occasionally on either side—possibly to some cabin, and little clearing, hidden and obscure. We foraged through deserted shacks, finding poor reward, yet managed to subsist, although with hunger unsatisfied. The men grumbled, and Fox swore, as all alike realized the uselessness of attempting to overhaul the fleeing man. The impotent pursuit was a joke to him, already safe in the foothills, and guarded from surprise. Long before night came the captain comprehended the fact that we were on a fool's errand; that his little squad was being lured deeper and deeper into a hostile country, but no opportunity to turn aside presented itself. To return would only bring us closer to the Confederate lines at Covington, and we found no road leading northward. Fox's field map pictured one, however, close at hand, and in the hope of attaining this before darkness finally set in, we pressed the wearied horses desperately. The night overtook us in midst of a mountain solitude. The scouts had discovered a spring at the bottom of a rocky hollow, and there Fox reluctantly ordered camp to be made, the horses finding scant pasturage beyond. The night was chill, but there was nothing to cook, and no fires were lighted, the men munching at whatever they had in their haversacks, and endeavoring to extract some warmth from their thin blankets. The grumbling and cursing soon ceased, however, and those not on duty slept fitfully. I made the round of the sentries with Fox, slipping and stumbling over the rough way, through the darkness, until we again found refuge beside the spring. The night was black and still. We could hear the restless movements of the horses, the mournful cry of some wild bird. The captain was but a dim shadow barely outlined in the gloom.
"This weird place gets on the nerves," he said, as if half ashamed of the confession. "Do you know, Raymond, I have felt for the last hour as if we were riding into some trap." He glanced nervously behind him. "I don't believe there has ever been a Federal detachment down as far as this before. We're in old Ned Cowan's country."
"Confederate?" I asked, interested at once by the name.
"Heaven knows! To the best of my belief the fellow doesn't give a whoop for either side. He's just a natural born devil, and this war gave him a chance to get the hell out of his system. If half the stories told about him are true he is a fiend for cruelty, ready enough to fight either side if they interfere; still, I guess, he calls himself a Reb."
"And his followers?"
"A motley crew of mountain men mostly, scattered all through here, together with a bunch of deserters and conscripts from both sides who have naturally drifted to him. Nobody knows how big a band he has, but it would take an army to run them out of these mountains. We had orders to do it—but piffle! Ramsay came down as far as Fayette Court House with a regiment of infantry, and a cavalry guard, and sent out a flag of truce asking the old devil to come in and talk with him. He actually did come; rode right up to headquarters, with a dozen of his ragged followers, heard what Ramsay had to say, and then simply told the general to go to hell, and rode off again."
"Were you there? did you see the men?"
"No, but the sergeant did; he was detailed at that time as headquarters' orderly."
"Yes," I said, determined on my course, "I was talking with Hayden during the noon halt. He described Cowan to me, and I believe he is the same man I encountered at Hot Springs, Captain Fox—the fellow Taylor we are in pursuit of."
The captain stared into the black night, silent for several minutes.
"I've been suspecting the same thing for the last three hours," he admitted at last slowly, "and that he hoped we would follow him. The fellow hasn't ridden fast, and has purposely left a plain trail. More than that he was expected along this road, and there were relays of horses waiting. He only changed once, but he was met by another party near that ruined mill. Ever since then I have felt that we were being watched by unseen eyes. Did you observe the curl of smoke to our right just before dark—how it rose and fell in rings?"
"I saw the smoke, yes—a thin spiral, but supposed it to be from the chimney of some mountain shack."
"Well, it was not. That was an outside fire, and the smoke was smothered, and then thrown up by blankets. That is their way of signaling. I tell you, Lieutenant, this murder of Harwood is more than an army matter. It was either the culmination of a feud—done for personal revenge; or else the Major had papers in his possession bearing on the situation here that could only be gained over his dead body. The man who killed him was old Ned Cowan."
"But Harwood must have known him," I protested.
"Of course he did; they were neighbors before the war, and met there by appointment. For all I know the Major may have had some confidential communication from the War Department. God knows, what it was. All I am sure about is that I would give a good deal to be out of this fix right now, and twenty miles to the north of here."
We sat there for half an hour, discussing the matter, and endeavoring to convince ourselves the danger was less than we imagined. There was nothing to be done but wait for daylight. We could not possibly proceed through that darkness, along the unknown mountain road. We would be safer where we were, quietly hidden away in this cleft of the rocks. Finally Fox crept forth again to make another round of the pickets, to assure himself they were alert, and I lay down in a little hollow, and rolled up in my blanket. Above me I could see but one star peering through a rift of cloud, and, except for the heavy breathing of the men, and their restless turning, there was scarcely a sound. Even the wind had ceased to rattle the dead leaves. The very silence seemed a pledge of safety, and, before the Captain returned, I had fallen asleep.
The chill of the night awoke me, cold and shivering. The wind had arisen, and swept down the funnel in which I lay, with an icy breath against which my single blanket afforded no protection. I must get back against the rock, wherever I could find shelter. Gripping the blanket in one hand, I crept quietly up the gully, possibly a distance of fifty feet before encountering the rock wall. I felt my way blindly, and groped about until I discovered a few tufts of grass on which to lie down, but these proved so scant as to yield little comfort, and I tossed about, every bone aching, unable to lose consciousness. There was no sign of dawn in the sky, nor could I see the face of my watch to determine the hour. The man who had been lying next me, however, was gone, and so there must have been a change of guard while I slept. I could distinguish, dimly outlined against the sky, the overhanging rock-wall which enclosed our camp, and the deeper shade of a cleft a yard or two to my left, where the dead trunk of a tree stood like a gaunt, ugly sentinel. Even as I lay staring the figure of a man slipped out from behind its protection, and, dropping on hands and knees, crept forward across the open space. Another and another followed, mere ghost-like shadows, scarcely appearing real. They were within two yards of me, but their appearance, their passing was so swift and silent, as to leave me dazed and mystified. For the instant I doubted my eyesight, imagined I dreamed. Then, before I could raise voice in alarm, a rifle spat viciously, the red flame of its discharge cleaving the night. A fusillade followed, and in the flare I caught grotesque glimpses of men leaping forward, and there was a confused yelling of voices, a din of noise.
I was upon my knees, revolver in hand, but in the melee below could not distinguish friend from foe—alike they were a blur of figures, one instant visible, the next obscured. Yet there could be no doubt as to the final ending of the struggle. Taken by surprise, outnumbered, the little squad of troopers would be crushed, annihilated. Nor was there reason why I should sacrifice myself in their defense—a valueless sacrifice. My choice was instantly made, as there flashed to my mind what my fate would be if I ever fell into Cowan's hands attired in Federal uniform. On hands and knees I crept to the cleft in the rock wall, and began to clamber up over the irregular rocks. It was not likely any guards had been left behind when the mountaineers descended, and I must be beyond sound before the din of fighting ceased. It was a steep climb, dangerous no doubt in the dark, yet I was desperate enough to give this peril scarcely a thought. The shouts and yells, the cries for mercy, the sound of blows, grew fainter and finally ceased altogether. Leaning back, and looking down, I could perceive nothing in the black void. A voice shouted an order, but it sounded far off, and indistinct. I was in a narrow gully, the incline less steep than amid the rocks below, and could perceive the lighter canopy of the sky not far above me. As I crept out into the open space, someone touched match to a pile of dry limbs in the cove below, and the red flames leaped high, revealing the scene. I caught a glimpse of it—staring down as though I clung at the mouth of hell, seeing moving black figures, and the dark, motionless shadows of dead men. The one glimpse was enough, the fearful tragedy of it smiting me like a blow, and I turned and ran, stumbling over the rough ground, my only thought that of escape.
There were stars in the sky, their dim light sufficient to yield some faint guidance. It occurred to me, even in the terror of my flight, that the attacking party doubtless had horses tethered somewhere to the left. Yet they would be under guard, and I dare not seek them. My course led me close beside the edge of the ridge; I could see the reflection of the fire below on the opposite hillside, but I soon left this behind, and plunged thankfully forward into the concealing shadow of a wood. Here the ground fell away to the banks of a shallow stream, and some instinct of woodcraft led me to wade down with its current for a considerable distance, until the icy water drove me to the bank once more. I was wet and cold, shivering with the chill of the air, although my cavalry boots had kept my feet dry. I knew I had covered several miles, and must be beyond pursuit and safe from discovery. The spot wherein I found myself was the dry bed of a creek, overhung by bushes, its rocks strewn with dry fragments of wood washed down by some past freshet. No longer obsessed by fear of being pursued, I gathered an armful and set them ablaze, lying as close as possible to the flame until the grateful warmth brought new courage and hope. I remained there until dawn, the first gray light giving assurance that my flight had been to the north along the foothills. From the ridge top a wide vista lay revealed of rough, seemingly uninhabited country, growing more distinct as the light strengthened. There was no house visible, no sign of any road; all about extended a rude mountain solitude, but to the northwest there was a perceptible break in the chain of hills, as though a pass led down into the concealed valley beyond. With this for guidance I plunged forward, eager to get out of that drear wilderness.
CHAPTER VII
SHELTER FROM THE STORM
IT WAS a hard tramp, the notch in the hills farther away than I had reckoned upon, and the ground between extremely difficult to travel over. At times an impenetrable tangle of brush turned me aside, and I was obliged to skirt numerous ravines which were impassable. Yet I held stubbornly to the course, seeing no other way out from the tangle, and stumbled steadily forward, my body aching from fatigue, and growing weak from hunger. It was considerably after the noon hour before I came upon the first sign of human life—an old logging road. Weed overgrown, and evidently long abandoned, it was nevertheless a most welcome discovery, and I limped on between its ruts, animated by new hope. The weather had turned colder, and there were whirling flakes of snow in the air. The direction I traveled compelled me to face the storm, and the wind whipped my face cruelly. An hour more of struggle brought me suddenly on a dismal shack of logs in the midst of a small clearing. I hesitated at the edge of the wood, peering through the snow. The scene was a desolate one, the clearing overgrown with weeds, the hut barely fit for habitation. Yet the very desperation of my situation compelled me to chance its occupancy, and I pushed a way forward through the weeds, discovering no path, until I attained the door. It was closed, but unfastened, and, revolver in hand, I opened it softly and stepped within. There was but one room, and that bare, except for an empty box or two, and a few discarded garments hanging from pegs against the wall. A gun with broken lock stood in one corner beside an axe, and a rudely constructed fireplace occupied one end. There was no other entrance, and the single window was securely closed. The light streaming in through the door revealed these details, and that the room was unoccupied. Yet someone had been there, and not so very long ago, for there were scraps of food on one of the overturned boxes, and a faint, barely perceptible curl of smoke arose from the black ashes on the hearth.
Whoever the former occupant might be, or where he had gone, was of small moment to me just then. It was enough to be assured that he had departed. The sight of those food fragments renewed my consciousness of hunger, revived my sense of chilly discomfort. I glanced without into the storm and closed the door, changing the interior into twilight gloom. Using the axe I soon had a cheerful fire going, and as the warmth of the flame became perceptible, began eager search for something to eat. I almost despaired of success in this effort, but by chance pushing aside one of the garments on the side wall, discovered a haversack in which remained some hard bread and a bit of home-smoked bacon. Unappetizing as these appeared, I sat down before the fire and ate heartily. I dared not sleep, and indeed felt little inclination to do so, my mind busy with recollections of the night's adventures, and planning my future course of action. I thought of Fox, and his men, wondering who among them all had fallen during the fight, and what might be the fate of the others. It was Cowan, no doubt, and his mountaineers, who had attacked, and there would be little mercy shown. This hut likely was the abode of one of the gang, and I gazed about in renewed disgust. It would be well for me to be away before the owner returned, yet I lingered, seduced by the warmth of the fire, and dreading the storm without. The fellow would not come back probably until the snow ceased. Nor did I in the least know where I was to go—except that I must push along to the north, out of Cowan's country. Once in the neighborhood of Lewisburg, I would be on more familiar ground, and could proceed with the work assigned me. If there were Federal troops there I would boldly report the fate of Fox's detachment, proclaim my own purpose as a recruiting officer, and request protection. My papers, my intimacy with Captain Fox, and the knowledge throughout the district that a Lieutenant Raymond had been detailed to this service, would disarm all suspicion. And in my judgment Lewisburg was in that valley ahead—might indeed be visible at the other end of the gap.
I got to my feet, somewhat reluctantly, and opened the door. The storm had ceased, but the ground was white, and the wind still whipped the snow viciously. There was no excuse, however, for not going forward, and closing the door securely behind me I ploughed through the tangle of weeds back to the road. A hundred yards below I came to a pike, along which a wagon had passed since the fall of snow. The vehicle had been drawn by mules, and their narrow hoof marks pointed to the valley. I followed cautiously, making no effort to overtake the outfit, and thus, just before sundown, emerged from the narrow gap and looked down into the broad valley of the Green Briar. It was a scene to linger in the memory, and at my first glance I knew where I was, recognizing the familiar objects outspread before me. The road led downward, turning and twisting as it sought the easier grades, and, no longer obscured by snow, the soil showed red and yellow. The wagon was already nearly to the bottom of the hill, distinguished by its spread of dirty canvas top. Other than this I could perceive no moving object, except what appeared to be either a body of horsemen, or bunch of cattle, far away to the left. Lewisburg lay beyond a spur of the hills, invisible from my position, although distant spirals of smoke indicated its presence. A few log huts appeared along the curving road, the one nearest me in ruins, while a gaunt chimney beside a broad stream unbridged was all that remained of a former mill. Beyond this, in midst of a grove of noble trees, a large house, painted white, was the only conspicuous feature in the landscape. I recognized it at once as the residence of Major Harwood.
My gaze rested upon it, as memory of the man, and his fate, surged freshly back into mind. The place had been spared destruction; it remained unchanged—but from that distance there was nothing to indicate that the house was still occupied. It had the appearance of desertion—no smoke showing above the broad chimney, no figures moving either about the main house, or the negro cabins at the rear. This condition was no particular surprise, for Harwood's daughter, scarcely more than a girl to my remembrance, would not likely remain there isolated and alone during such troublesome times, and the servants had doubtless long since disappeared in search of freedom. The young woman would doubtless be with friends, either in Lewisburg or Charleston; and that the mansion, thus deserted, still remained undestroyed was, after all, not so strange, for the Major's standing throughout that section would protect his property. He would retain friends on each side of the warring factions who would prevent wanton destruction. I moved on down the steep descent, losing sight of the house as the road twisted about the hill, although memory of it did not desert my mind. Some odd inclination seemed to impel me to turn aside and study the situation there more closely. Possibly some key to the mystery of Harwood's murder—some connection between him and old Ned Cowan—might be revealed in a search of the deserted home. Fox had said that his party halted at the house on their march east toward Hot Springs. Some scrap of paper might have been left behind in the hurry of departure, which would yield me a clue. If not this, then there might be other papers stored there relating to military affairs in this section of value to the Confederacy. Harwood was the undoubted leader of the Union sympathizers throughout the entire region; he would have lists of names, and memoranda of meetings, containing information which would help me greatly in my quest. An exploration could not be a matter of any great danger, and might yield me the very knowledge I sought.
I had almost determined on this course when I came to the cross-road, which I knew ran directly in front of the house. It was already growing dark, clouds hanging low over the valley, and, as I paused irresolute, a cold drizzle set in, the north wind sweeping the dampness into my face. Determined by this I turned aside into the new road, and pressed forward, only anxious now to find shelter. The road twisted about along the bank of a small stream shadowed by trees on either side. I passed the ruins of the mill, but beyond the night closed about me so dark that objects became shapeless, and I even found difficulty in following the path, although it was seemingly a well traveled road. Only detached sections of rail fence remained standing, and I should have stumbled blindly past the very place I sought but for the high stone pillars which marked the place where the gate had once been. These guided me to the driveway, and I groped a passage through the grove of trees to the front steps.
The great house loomed before me black and silent. If I had ever questioned its desertion its appearance lulled every such suspicion. Nor had it escaped unscathed from the despoilation of war. At a distance, gazing from the side of the mountain, I could perceive no change. But now, close at hand, even the intense darkness could not hide the scars left by vandals. The front steps were broken, splintered as if by an axe, and the supporting pillars of the wide veranda had been hacked and gashed. The door above was tightly closed, yet both the windows to the right were smashed in, sash and all, leaving a wide opening. I crept forward, and endeavored to peer through, but the darkness within was opaque. The only sound was the beating of rain on the roof overhead. Occasionally the swirl of the wind drove the cold drops against me where I crouched listening; I was wet through, chilled to the bone, my uniform clinging to me like soaked paper. At least the inside promised shelter from the storm, a chance for a fire, and possibly fragments of food. And I had nothing to fear but darkness.
My revolver was under the flap of my cavalry jacket, dry and ready for use. I brought it forward, within easy grip, and stepped over the sill. My feet touched carpet, littered with broken glass, and I felt about cautiously, locating an overturned chair, and a cushioned settee, minus one leg. My recollection of the interior of the house was vague and indistinct—the remembrance only of one brief visit made there years before, a boy of ten with my father. I had never been in this room, which must be the parlor, but I knew a wide hallway led straight through from front door to back, bisected only by a broad stairway leading to the upper story. The library would be opposite directly across the hall, and the dining room behind that. I had been in both these apartments, and they had seemed to me then spacious and wonderful; quite the most remarkable rooms I had ever seen. I groped along the inside wall, seeking the door, making no particular effort to be noiseless, yet rendered cautious by fear of stumbling over misplaced furniture. The apartment was evidently in much disorder, glass crackling under my feet, and a breadth of thick carpet torn up, so that I tripped over it, and nearly fell. Yet I found the door at last, standing wide open, and emerged into the hall. The way was clearer here, and there came into my mind the recollection of a bracket lamp, on the wall at the foot of the stairs. Perhaps it was there still, and might contain oil. If this could be located, a light would be of great assistance, and could not add very much to my peril of discovery. No one would be abroad in this desolate country on such a night of storm, and the house was utterly abandoned. Besides, the heavy blinds at most of the windows were closed tightly. My remembrance of the position of the lamp was extremely vague, yet my fingers found it at last, and lifted it from the bracket. The globe contained oil, and, in another moment, the light revealed my immediate surroundings.
Except for a broken stair rail the hall remained in good order, a storm-coat hanging beside the front door, and a serving table and low rocker occupying the recess behind the stairway. I could see nearly to the further end, where a bench stood against the wall with some garment flung over it, and up the stairs to the blackness of the second story. The total desertion of the place was evident; the destruction which had been wrought was plainly the work of cowardly vandals, who had broken in after the Harwoods left. Convinced of this truth I proceeded fearlessly to explore, seeking merely the warmth of a fire and food. The library, a large room, the walls lined with bookcases, afforded no encouragement, but I stopped in amazement at the door of the dining room—the light of my lamp revealing a table at which someone had lately eaten, apparently alone. There was a single plate, a cup and saucer, a half loaf of bread, with a slice cut, part of a ham bone, with considerable meat remaining untouched, and a small china teapot. For an instant the unexpected sight of these articles fascinated me, and then my eyes caught a dull glow in the fireplace at the opposite end of the room—the red gleam of a live ember.
I could not actually credit the evidence of my own eyes, firmly believing, for an instant, the glow was but the reflection of the light held in my hands. Yet a step forward convinced me—the ashes of the fire-place radiated warmth; someone then had been in that very room within an hour, had warmed himself there, and partaken of food. The shock of this discovery was so sudden as to give me a strange, haunted feeling. The house had seemed so completely deserted, so desolate, wrapped in silence and darkness, that the very conception that someone else was hiding there came upon me like a blow. Who could the person be? A faithful slave remaining to guard the property for his master? Some fugitive who, like myself, had sought shelter from the storm? Or Old Ned Cowan seeking to complete his mysterious purpose? Could this be the aftermath of the murder? A search after papers not found upon the body of the dead man? Somehow my mind settled to this theory, leaped to this conclusion—the prowler was Cowan, or else some emissary he had sent. Well, I would find out. Thus far the advantage was mine, for I knew of another presence, while the fellow, whoever he might prove to be, in all probability possessed no knowledge of my entrance. Perhaps he had already completed his search and departed; if not, then he must be somewhere on the second floor, for if below he would have certainly perceived my light or been alarmed by the sound of my movements.
My heart beat fast, but from excitement, not fear. With cocked revolver in one hand, the lamp in the other, I silently opened door after door, peering into vacant apartments, half thinking every shadow to be a skulking figure. The search revealed nothing; not even further evidence of any presence in the house. The kitchen fire was cold, the cooking utensils clean, and in their proper places. The back door was bolted from within, the windows securely closed. I listened for any sound, but the house was as silent as a tomb; I could hear the patter of rain, the scraping of a limb against the outer wall, but not the faintest movement within. Satisfied already that the mysterious invader had departed, yet sternly determined now to explore the whole house, and have done with the business, I mounted the back stairway, a strip of rag carpet rendering my steps silent, and, with head above the landing, flashed my light cautiously along the upper hall. There were doors on either side, the most of them open, but the third to the left was closed. There was no transom over it, but the door was far enough away from the radius of my lamp so as to reveal a faint glow of light at the floor line. I sat the lamp down on the landing, and crept noiselessly forward to assure myself; it was true, a light was burning within the closed room.
CHAPTER VIII
THE MISTRESS OF THE HOUSE
THERE was no keyhole through which I could peer, and the opening above the floor was the merest crack. I stood with ear pressed against the panel, fingers gripping the butt of my revolver. Not a movement within could be distinguished. What might be the meaning of all this? What would I encounter when I dashed that door open, and faced the occupant of the room? Who could the fellow possibly be? For what purpose should he shut himself up here alone? Two answers to this last query occurred to me—he might be asleep; or, if by any chance this had been the Major's room, he might be busy rifling his desk. But there was no rustle of papers, no movement of any kind. I stood there for what seemed to me a long while, listening vainly for any sound which would indicate life within, the conviction constantly growing on me that the, man slept. An ordinary latch held the door closed, and I pressed this, opening the barrier slightly. The movement made not the slightest noise, and gave me a glimpse within. A narrow bed, unoccupied, undisturbed, its coverlet white and unwrinkled, stood against the wall. At the foot a small stand held a few books, and above this hung the picture of a gray-haired woman. This was all the view the narrow opening revealed, but served to render me even more cautious—the occupant was not lying down.
Yet I could not stop then; could not safely retreat. Even if someone sat there, hidden from view, patiently waiting to gain glimpse of me to kill, I must go on and discover the truth. My revolver was at the crack, ready, and my left hand slowly opened the door wider. Now I could see the opposite wall, and the space between, and I stood there motionless, breathless, yet feeling my very flesh quiver at the unexpected revealment. In front of a small grate fire, her back toward me, snuggled comfortably down in the depths of an easy chair, sat a woman, reading. I could see little of her because of the high back of the chair rising between us—only a mass of dark brown hair, a smooth, rounded cheek, and the small white hand resting on the chair arm. I knew vaguely her waist was white, her skirt gray, and I saw the glimmer of a pearl-handled pistol lying on a closed chest at her side. Still she was only a woman, a mere girl apparently, whom I had no cause to fear. The sudden reaction caused me to
The book fell to the floor, her hand gripping the pistol
smile with relief, and to return my revolver silently to the belt. Her eyes remained on the page of the book. I think I would have withdrawn without a word, but, at that instant, a draft from the open door flickered her light, and she glanced about seeking the cause. I caught the startled expression in her eyes as she first perceived my shadow; the book fell to the floor, her hand gripping the pistol, even as she arose hastily to her feet. The light was on her face, and I knew her to be Noreen Harwood.
"Who are you? Why are you here?" she asked tersely, a tremor in the voice, but no shrinking in those eyes that looked straight at me.
I moved forward from out of the shadow into the radius of light. It was only a step, but the girl recoiled slightly, the pearl-handled pistol rising instantly to a level with my eyes.
"Stand where you are!" she ordered. "What are you doing, creeping about this house in the dark?"
"Not in the dark exactly," I answered, seeking to relieve the strain, and holding my hat in one hand, as I bowed gravely, "for my lamp is on the stairs."
I marked the quick change of expression in her eyes as they swept over me. There was no evidence of recognition; scarcely more than a faint acknowledgment that my appearance was not entirely unfavorable. Yet surely that alone was all I could hope for. Except for that one chance encounter on the road we had never met since we were children, and she would not likely associate the son of Judge Wyatt with the man now confronting her, attired in the wet and muddy uniform of a Federal Lieutenant. Indeed it was better she should not; and a feeling of relief swept over me as I realized her failure to connect me with the past. No memory of my features found expression in her face, as her eyes fell from mine to the clothes I wore.
"You are Union? an officer of—of cavalry? I—I can scarcely comprehend why you should be here." Her attitude no longer threatening, the gleaming pistol lowered. "There are Federal troops at Lewisburg, but—but I do not recall your face."
"My being here is wholly an accident," I explained quietly. "I supposed the house deserted, and sought entrance to get away from the storm. There was a broken window—"
"Yes," she interrupted, her eyes again on mine questioningly. "I found that when I came; someone had broken in."
"Robbery, no doubt."
"I am not sure as to that. I have found nothing of any value missing. Indeed we left nothing here to attract vandals." She hesitated, as though doubtful of the propriety of further explanation to a stranger. "I—I belong here," she added simply. "This is my home."
"Yes; I supposed as much; you are Miss Noreen Harwood?"
Her blue eyes widened, her hand grasping more tightly the back of the chair.
"Yes," she admitted. "You knew my father?"
"Slightly; enough to be aware of the existence of his daughter, and that this was his plantation."
"Then you must be connected with the garrison at Charleston?"
"No, Miss Harwood; I belong to the Army of the Potomac, and am here only on recruiting service. A word of explanation will make the situation clear, and I trust may serve to win your confidence. I do not have the appearance of a villain, do I?"
"No, or I should not remain parleying with you," she responded gravely. "The war has taught even the women of this section the lesson of self-protection. I am not at all afraid, or I should not be here alone."
"It surprises me, however, that Major Harwood should consent to your remaining—"
"He has not consented," she interrupted. "I am supposed to be safely lodged with friends in Lewisburg, but rode out here this afternoon to see the condition of our property. Word came to me that the house had been entered. The servants have all gone, and we were obliged to leave it unoccupied. I was delayed, seeking to discover what damage the vandals had done, and then suddenly the storm broke, and I thought it better to remain until morning."
She laughed, as though amused at her own frankness of speech.
"There, I have told you all my story, without even waiting to hear yours. 'Tis a woman's way, if her impulse be sufficiently strong."
"You mean faith in the other party?"
"Of course; one cannot be conventional in wartimes, and there is no one here to properly introduce us, even if that formality was desired. So I must accept you on trust."
"My uniform alone should be sufficient guarantee."
She laughed; her eyes sparkling.
"Well hardly. I imagine you fail to comprehend its really disreputable condition. No doubt, sir, it was at one time a thing of beauty, for I cannot justly criticise the rather fashionable cut, or the quality of cloth, but it has evidently passed through both stress and weather. No," shaking her head solemnly, yet with frank good humor in her eyes, "the uniform is no recommendation whatever, and but—well, you—you look like an officer and a gentleman."
"For which compliment I sincerely thank you. That is far better than a dependence on clothes alone, yet never before did I feel that my face was my fortune. However, Miss Harwood, my story can be quickly told. I am a lieutenant, Third United States Cavalry—see, the numeral is on my hat—attached to Heitzelman's command, now at Fairfax Court House. I have recently been detailed to the recruiting service, and ordered to this section. If necessary to convince you of my identity you may even examine the official papers in this packet."
She shook her head, her glance straying from the official buff envelope back to my face. The look in her eyes was expressive of some slight bewilderment.
"No; that is not necessary. I believe your word."
I found it strangely difficult, fronting her calm look of insistence, to go on. But there was no way of escape. Beyond doubt the sympathy of this girl was with the cause of the North, and if I was to confess myself Tom Wyatt, and a Confederate spy, all hope of the success of my mission would be immediately ended. Besides I lacked the will to forfeit her esteem—to permit her confidence in me to become changed into suspicion.
"Then I will go on," I said more slowly, endeavoring better to arrange my story. "I picked up a guide at Fayette, but the officer in command there could spare no escort. The man who went with me must have been a traitor, for he guided me south into the Green Briar Mountains. Last night at dusk we rode into a camp of guerrillas."
"Who commanded them? Did you learn?"
"A gray-headed, seamed-faced mountaineer, they called Cowan."
She emitted a quick breath, between closely pressed lips.
"You know the man?" I asked.
"Yes; old Ned Cowan; he lived over yonder, east of here in the foot-hills. He and—and my father had some trouble before the war. He—he is vindictive and dangerous." She stopped, her glance sweeping about the room. "I—I have some reason to suspect," she added, as if half doubting whether she ought to speak the word, "that either he, or one of his men, broke in here."
"In search of something?"
"A paper; yes—a deed. Of course I may be mistaken; only it is not to be found. The desk in the library was rifled, and its contents scattered over the floor when I came. I put them back in place, but found nothing of value among those that remained. My father must have removed those of importance.
"Possibly he carried them with him?"
She leaned her head on her hand, her eyes thoughtful.
"I think he once told me they were left in charge of a banker at Charleston—an old friend. It would be too dangerous to carry them about with him in the field. You see I do not know very much about his affairs," she explained. "I was away at school when the war broke out, and we have only met briefly since. My father did not talk freely of his personal matters even to me. I learned of his feud with Cowan by accident."
"It was a feud then?"
"On one side at least. My father was shot at, and several of our outhouses burned. The trouble arose over the title to property. Cowan," she explained, "was a squatter on land which had belonged to our family ever since my grandfather first settled here. We had title from Virginia, but the tract granted had never been properly surveyed. My father had it done, and discovered that Ned Cowan and two of his sons occupied a part of our land with no legal right."
Her eyes uplifted to my face, and then fell again, one hand opening and closing on the back of the chair. She laughed pleasantly.
"I hardly know why I am telling you all this family history," she continued almost in apology. "It is as if I talked to an old friend who was naturally interested in our affairs."
"I am interested, although I can scarcely claim the distinction of old friend."
"Really. I supposed your attitude was that of mere politeness. But I may as well go on now, although I am not at all inclined to confide so suddenly in a stranger. People, I believe, usually find me rather secretive."
"Perhaps the manner of our meeting accounts for the change," I ventured. "But truly I am more deeply interested than you imagine. It may prove of mutual advantage for me to know the facts. Did Major Harwood try to force them from his land?"
"Oh, no," hastily, "my father had no such thought. He tried to help them to purchase the property at a very small price, and on long time. His intention was to aid them, but he found himself unable to convince either father or sons of his real purpose. They either could not, or would not, understand. Do you realize the reckless, lawless nature of these mountain men?"
"Yes, to some extent; they trust no one."
"That was the whole trouble. Seemingly they possessed but one idea—that if my father was killed they could remain where they were indefinitely. Their single instinct was to fight it out with rifles. They refused to either purchase or leave.
There was silence, as though she had finished, and I was endeavoring to connect this revelation of affairs, in my own mind, with the known occurrences of the past few days. She had seated herself on the wide arm of the chair, still facing me, and I could hear the rain beating hard against the side of the house. Suddenly she looked up into my face.
"How odd that I should talk to you so freely," she exclaimed. "Why I do not even know your name."
"It was written in the papers."
"But I did not look—what is it, please?"
"Charles H. Raymond."
I could not be certain that the expression of her eyes changed, for they suddenly looked away from me, and she stood again upon her feet.
"Raymond, you say!" the slightest hardening of tone apparent, "on recruiting service from the Army of the Potomac?" She drew a quick breath. "I—I think I have heard the name before. Would you mind if I did ask to see your orders?"
"Not in the least," I answered, not wholly surprised that she should have heard of the other, and confident the papers I bore would be properly executed. "I prefer that you have no doubt as to my identity."
She took them, and I noted a slight trembling of her hands as she held the paper open in her fingers, her eyes glancing swiftly down the written lines. She had doubtless heard of this Raymond, some rumor of his coming—perhaps Fox had mentioned it as he rode through Lewisburg on the way east. It was merely curiosity that caused a desire to peruse the papers, a mere wish to thoroughly satisfy herself. Her eyes were clear of suspicion as they glanced at me over the paper
"I have become quite a soldier of late," she said, and handed the package back to me. "And I cannot doubt your credentials. I am very glad to meet you, Lieutenant Raymond," and she held out her hand cordially. "As I have admitted already, I am Noreen Harwood."
"Whom I shall only be delighted to serve in any manner possible," I replied gallantly, relieved that she was so easily convinced.
"Oh, I think the service is more likely to be mine. You confessed you broke in here seeking after food and a fire. Down below we may find both, and it will be my pleasure thus to serve a Federal officer. You have a lamp without?"
"On the stairs?"
She led the way like a mistress in her own home, and I followed. There was a force of character about the girl not to be ignored. She chose to treat me as a guest, uninvited, but none the less welcome, a position I was not reluctant to accept. I held the lamp as we went down the stairs together, the rays of light pressing aside the curtain of darkness.
CHAPTER IX
ARRIVAL OF PARSON NICHOLS
SHE put aside laughingly my suggestion of assistance. Indeed her appearance of good humor caused me to feel that the girl was really glad of my presence in the house, this relieving her of loneliness.
"Not a word of protest," she said gaily, waving me to the chair beside the table. "You must remember I am mistress here, and the entertainment of guests is my privilege."
"Hardly a guest, when I came steathily crawling in through a broken window."
"The only entrance possible. That is all forgotten, now that your eminent respectability has been so thoroughly established. Really, Lieutenant, I cannot but feel honored by so distinguished a visitor. General Ramsay said you were one of the most popular officers in the army."
"Did he, indeed? It was from Ramsay then you learned of my coming."
"Captain Fox told me what General Ramsay said; there is quite a grapevine telegraph in this country—news travels rapidly. I was even informed that you were the champion revolver shot of your division. To such distinction I can only bow in reverence."
She swept me a low curtsey, her laughing eyes smiling in the lamp light. Before I answered, the fire in the grate burst into blaze, and her hands were busily rearranging the table.
"With no servants left, and the house unoccupied for months," she explained, "I shall have to give you soldier fare, and, perhaps, not very much of that. Someone has made free of our larder since we left, from all appearances the same gentleman who broke in through the window, no doubt—and I discovered little remaining even for myself. But such as it is I give it to you. Pardon my not joining in the feast, as I have only just eaten."
She drew up a chair opposite to where I sat, supporting her chin in her hands. The light beween us illumined her face, outlining it clearly against the gloom of the wall behind. It was a young face, almost girlish in a way, although there was a grave, strong look to the eyes, and womanly firmness about lips and chin. I had seen so little of her in the days gone by as scarcely to retain in memory a detail of her face; she had been to me but a swiftly flashing vision, the merest recollection of bright eyes, and loosened hair flying in the wind. And here I found her a woman a woman—with all a girl's slenderness of form, and unconventionality of manner, yet capable and thoughtful, her mind clear, and loyal to her ideals—a woman of charm, of rare beauty even; sweet and wholesome in look, her cheeks aglow with health, her eyes deep wells of mystery and promise. I felt something choke in my throat as I glanced at her—a regret that I had lied, that I had deceived. Yet I saw no way in which I could escape my unfortunate predicament. I had taken the false step, and my duty to my service, my loyalty to Jackson, to Lee, to my comrades of the South, forbade any disclosure of my mission. The sympathy of the girl was unquestionably with the Northern Army; there could be no doubt as to that; her father wore Federal uniform, and had given up all for the cause. Her father! why I dare not even tell her of his death, of his dastardly murder. My lips were now completely sealed to the truth, because any attempt to explain would swiftly arouse her suspicion. Indeed it was strange she had not recognized me, although I realized to some extent, the change in my personal appearance since our last encounter—the uniform, the short, soldierly cut of my hair, the marks which exposure and peril had left on my features. Yet probably the real truth was that she had never before observed me with any care or interest—considering me a mere boy to be laughed at and forgotten. Nothing about me at present served to even remind her of what I had once been. I was only a stranger entering into her life for the first time. This expression was in the eyes surveying me as I ate—quiet, earnest eyes, utterly devoid of suspicion. I was so busy with these thoughts that she broke the silence.
"You are a very young man," she said simply.
"Not seriously so," I answered, rather inclined to resent the charge. "I am twenty-four."
"Really! Why that is not so bad. How old am I?"
I could have told her to the day, but chose to venture a guess.
"Seventeen."
"A year and a half too young. You are no better guesser than I am. You look like a boy I used to know—only his eyes were darker, and he had long hair."
"Indeed!" I caught my breath quickly, yet held my eyes firm. "Someone living about here?"
"Yes; his name was Wyatt. I never knew him very well, only you recalled him to memory in some way. He and his mother went South when the war first broke out. Where was your home?"
"In Burlington, Vermont."
"You are a regular soldier?"
"I was a junior at West Point last year; we were graduated ahead of our class."
Her eyes fell, the lashes outlined on her cheeks, her hands clasped on the table.
"Isn't that odd!" she said quietly. "Do you know Mme. Hactell's school for young ladies at Compton on the Hudson? That is where papa sent me, and I was at the senior hop at West Point a year ago last June. A half dozen of us girls went up; Fred Carlton, of Charleston, was in that class, and he invited me. You knew him, of course?"
My lips were dry, but I nodded, half fearful I might be slipping into some trap, although her words and manner were surely innocent enough.
"We were acquaintances, not friends," I replied, hoping the retort might cause her to change the subject.
"Most of the boys seemed to like him. He was very pleasant to me, and I had a splendid time. I met one cadet named Raymond; he had dark hair and eyes."
"Oh, yes," I managed to answer, now desperately alert. "There was another in the class—James R., I believe."
"I did not learn his first name, but when I heard that a Lieutenant Raymond was coming here, I hoped it might be he. That was why I was so deeply interested. It is not such a common name, you know."
I made some answer, and she sat there silently, her face turned now toward the fire in the grate. The profile held me in fascination, as I wondered what these seemingly innocent questions could signify. Were they innocently asked? or did the girl secretly suspect my identity, and my purpose? If she had recognized me as Tom Wyatt, and was pretending not, merely to learn my object, then surely she had already proven herself a remarkable actress. No expression of eye, or voice, led me to believe this. The questions were, indeed, natural enough—the only strange feature the coincident of her previous brief acquaintance with the man whom I had recklessly chosen to impersonate. Anyhow, let the truth be what it may, there was no other course left for me, but to keep on with the deception. I was in the heart of the enemy's country, in disguise, my life forfeit in case of discovery, and the time had not come when I could entrust her with so dangerous a secret.
The wind rattled the blinds, and the rain beat heavily against the side of the house. The thought of venturing out into the storm, not knowing where I could seek shelter, was not an alluring one. Nor had I any excuse to urge for immediate departure; indeed as a gentleman and soldier my duty called me to remain for her protection. She could not be left alone in this desolate house. These thoughts flitted through my mind, as my eyes studied her face, but the final decision was made for me. I had heard no sound other than that of the storm without, and the crackling of flames within. We seemed alone, isolated, utterly beyond the zone of danger. That others might be abroad on such a night never occurred to me. It was rather my steady gaze that roused the lady from whatever dream the flames of the grate had given her. She turned her head to meet my eyes—then sat suddenly erect, the expression of her face instantly changing, as she stared beyond me at the open door. I wheeled about to look, startled at the movement. A man stood in the doorway, water streaming from his clothes onto the floor. I was on my feet instantly, a hand gripping my revolver, but before I could whip it from the leather sheave, the girl had taken the single step forward, and grasped my sleeve.
"Do not fire!" she exclaimed. "He is not a fighting man."
The fellow lifted one arm, and stepped forward full into the light. He was a man of years, unarmed, a tall, ungainly figure, a scraggly beard at his chin, and a face like parchment. His eyes were two deep wells, solemn and unwinking.
"Peace to you both!" he said gravely. "I ask naught save fire and shelter."
"To these you are welcome," the girl answered, still clinging to my arm. "You travel alone?"
"Even as my master in rags and poverty, having no place wherein to lay my head. The foxes have holes, the birds of the air have nests—you know me, young woman?"
"Yes; you are Parson Nichols."
"An unworthy soldier of the Cross. I address the daughter of Major Harwood and this young man?"
"Lieutenant Raymond, of the Federal Army," she explained simply. "He sought refuge here from the storm."
The man's eyes searched my face, but without cordiality, without expression of any kind. Deliberately he removed his long, water soaked cloak, and flung it over the back of a chair, placing his hat on top. His undergarments were dry enough, butternut jeans, and he wore high boots, splashed with mud. His head, the hair upon it thin and gray, rose into a peculiar pear-shaped peak, but his temples were broad and prominent. Saying nothing he crossed to the fireplace, and held out his hands to the warmth of the blaze. The girl's eyes met mine almost questioningly.
"You know him?" I whispered.
"Who he is—yes; a Baptist mountain preacher. But why is he here? what purpose brings him?"
"An accident, no doubt; overtaken by the storm."
She shook her head, unconvinced. Then she stepped forward.
"We were just completing our meal," she said softly. "There is not much, but we will gladly share what we have."
"The flesh needeth nothing," he answered, not even looking around, "and the spirit liveth on the bread of life. I seek only converse with you. The young man is an officer?"
"Yes—on recruiting service."
"You know him well? you trust him?"
"I—I have not known him long," she replied hesitatingly, and glancing back at me. "Yet I have confidence in him." The man did not answer, or move, and, after a moment of silence, she asked:
"Have you ridden far?"
"From Lewisburg."
"Lewisburg!" in surprise. "Then you knew I was here? you came seeking me?"
He turned on his stool, his eyes searching her face gravely.
"On a mission of my ministry," he replied solemnly, "although whether it prove of joy, or sorrow, I am unable to say. I am but an instrument."
The man's reluctance to speak freely was apparent, and I stepped forward.
"If you prefer conversing with Miss Harwood alone," I said quietly, "I will retire."
"The words I would speak are indeed of a confidential nature—"
"No, no!" she broke in impulsively, her eyes of appeal turned toward me. "Do not leave us, Lieutenant. This man has nothing to say I am afraid to have you hear. He has not come here as a friend; there is some evil purpose in all this, which I cannot fathom." She faced him now, her slender body poised, her eyes on his. "Tell me what it is this mysterious mission? Ay! and who sent you to find me? I will not believe it was my father."
The minister rose to his feet, a tall, ungainly figure, his solemn face as expressionless as before, but a smouldering resentment was in his deep-set eyes. He possessed the look of a fanatic, one who would hesitate at nothing to gain his end. To me he was even repulsive in his narrow bigotry.
"No, it was not your father," he said almost coarsely, "but it is a part of my mission to bring to you, young woman, the news of your father's death."
"Death? My father dead?" she stepped back from him, her hands pressed against her eyes. Obeying the first instinct of protection, I stepped to support her as she seemed about to fall. "That cannot be! You lie! I know you lie! You were never his friend. You come here to tell me that to frighten me; to compel me to do something wrong."
The man exhibited no trace of emotion, no evidence of regret, his voice the same hard, metallic sound.
"I expected this outburst," he continued unmoved. "Indeed, it is no more than natural. I am the Lord's servant, and must expect abuse and reviling from the unconverted; yet will I not be swerved from the line of duty. It is true that the Major and I differed in many things—he was of the world worldly, while the light which guideth my path is spiritual. But I harbor no resentment, and in this hour freely forgive all. 'He that taketh the sword, shall perish by the sword,' and my words are true."
"But I saw him four days ago."
"On his way east to Hot Springs, with an escort of soldiers. It was there he was killed, together with his servant. A messenger brought the news."
"A soldier? One of Captain Fox's men?"
A sardonic smile flickered an instant on the preacher's thin lips.
"No, but equally reliable; one of Ned Cowan's mountaineers. Captain Fox is a prisoner, wounded, and his men mostly dead."
A moment she rested unknowingly against my arm, her face covered with her hands. There was that in the man's words and manner which convinced her that he spoke the truth. Nor could I strengthen her by any denial, comfort her by any expression of hope. There was not a sob, not a sound to indicate suffering, but the face she finally lifted so that the light again fell upon it was white and drawn. The girl had changed to a woman. She stood erect, alone, one hand grasping the back of a chair.
"You say my father is dead—killed," she said, in steady, clear voice, "and that Captain Fox is wounded, and a prisoner. You tell me this on the report of one of Ned Cowan's men. It may be true, or it may be a lie, concocted to frighten me. But be that one way or the other, you never came here tonight, through this storm, to bring me such a message alone. Who sent you, Parson Nichols? What deviltry is on foot?"
"My dear young lady," he began smoothly, spreading his hands deprecatingly. "Be charitable, and just. I realize that in the first shock of thus suddenly learning of your father's demise, you naturally speak harshly. With me the past is forgotten, blotted out, covered with the mantle of Christian charity. I felt it my duty to break to you this sad news in all possible tenderness."
"And you had no other object?"
"Certainly not; what other could I possibly have had?"
The man lied, and I knew it; the suave, soft tones of his voice irritated me. That he was a sneaking, canting hypocrite I realized from the first glance, and my fingers itched to grip him by the throat, and wring the real truth out of him. The girl stood motionless, silent, her breath coming in sobs. Then she turned her head slightly, and her eyes met mine. The piteous appeal in their depths was all I needed. With a grim feeling of delight, I took a step forward, and the muzzle of my revolver touched his breast.
"Now, Mister Preacherman," I said shortly, "we'll have done with this play-acting. Not a move! I understand firearms. It is a soldier, not a girl, you are dealing with now."
CHAPTER X
THE JAWS OF THE TRAP
IF EYES alone possessed the power to kill, his would have done the deed, but the face with which I confronted him was sufficiently grim to make him realize the danger of a movement. He gave back a step, but my revolver pressed his side.
"Listen to me first," I continued, "and be careful how you answer. I may know more of this affair than you imagine, and I am not tolerant of lies. You came here tonight expecting to find Miss Harwood alone in this house. You were told she was here, and instructed to come. There was an object in your visit—a special purpose, in which others were also interested. You did not expect to have to deal with anyone but a young, unprotected girl. You were so certain of this that you are not even armed. You came in advance of others, and under orders, but, finding me here, you dared not openly avow your real object. That is the truth, is it not?"
He made no reply, his lips tightly closed, his deep-set eyes scarcely visible.
"Don't try obstinancy with me, Nichols," I said sternly, "for you are either going to talk, or die. I'll give you one chance, and one only. I despise your kind, and will kill you with pleasure. Now answer me—who told you of Major Harwood's death?"
"I have said already; the message was brought to Lewisburg by one of Ned Cowan's men."
"Yes, so you did; but you never received it at Lewisburg. Oh, yes, I know something myself. The fact is you never came here tonight from Lewisburg, now did you? Do you want me to tell you where you came from? Well, it was the mountains the other side of the Green Briar—from old Ned Cowan's camp. There is where you learned of Harwood's death, and of the attack on Fox. Now are you ready to talk to me? Oh! you are! Very well, who sent you—Cowan?"
I ran my gun muzzle hard into his ribs, and he nodded sullenly, his lips drawn back in a snarl. All the soft palaver had vanished, and he had become a cowed brute.
"I thought so; you belong yourself to the Cowan gang?"
"Not—not in their deeds of blood and violence," he protested. "The calls of my church compel me to minister to my scattered flock—"
"Never mind that kind of palaver, Nichols. The fact that you were with that old devil, and that he sent you here, is all I wanted to learn. Now what did he send you for?"
I waited, my eyes on his. I could not see the girl, and dare not avert my gaze for so much as an instant. The man wet his lips, as if they were parched, and I could perceive the nervous movement of his throat.
"Well, you are slower in answering me than is altogether safe. I'll warn you this once. Ned Cowan knew, by some means, that Miss Harwood was alone in this house tonight. He ordered you to come here for some special purpose of his own—what was it? Is he coming later?"
"I—I don't know."
"Don't know what?—this is my last call!"
"I don't know whether he is coming, or not," he blurted out reluctantly. "He was hurt in the fight."
"And if he cannot come himself he means to send others. What for? To loot the house? Come, it must be something different from that, or he would not be so anxious to surprise the lady here alone. You know, Nichols! and you are going to answer! What does he want of the girl?"
My hammer clicked, and the man cringing back, read the stern meaning of my face. A terrible suspicion surged over me, and I was ready to kill. He knew his life hung by a hair.
"To—to marry her," the words barely audible.
"Marry her!" I echoed. "What in heaven's name do you mean, man—old Ned Cowan marry her?"
"No," he stammered, as though fearful he could not explain fast enough. "Not old Ned—his son, Anse."
I heard the startled exclamation of the girl behind me.
"Anse Cowan!" she cried, her voice full of undisguised horror. "Marry me to that low brute. Did he ever imagine I would consent, ever even look at him?"
I touched her with my hand in restraint, the revolver still at the preacher's heart. The whole foul plot lay exposed in my mind.
"There was no intention of asking your consent, Miss Harwood," I said, satisfied that she should know all, and face the truth. "There is a reason for this desperate act which I do not wholly fathom, but it has to do with the property here, and the feud between Cowan and your father. If Major Harwood be dead, as this man reports, you are the sole heir, and old Ned has conceived the idea of marrying you by force to his son. He has learned you are here alone, and unprotected, and in this creature of his—this canting preacher—he has found a fit tool ready at hand to do his dirty work. Is that it, Nichols?"
He muttered something inaudible.
"They sent you on ahead to make sure Miss Harwood was here, and to remain until they arrived. How many are going to be in this happy wedding party?"
The man shook his head sullenly, and I gripped him by the throat.
"Answer, you black-hearted cur; you have confessed too much to hide anything now. How many are coming with Anse Cowan?"
"Maybe a half dozen of the boys. I don't know; they were talking about it when I left, and thought it was going to be a great lark."
"Well, it is; you are finding that out already. When were they to be here?" I shook him to loosen his lagging tongue.
"They were to ride out an hour after I did."
I threw the wretch back into the chair before the fire, but held him still cowering before the point of my revolver. The dog had told us all he knew, and there was a snarl to his thin lips, drawn back and exposing his yellow teeth, showing that his only thought now was revenge. Any moment that gang of ruffians might appear, and I was helpless there alone to contend against them. Indeed there was no way in which we could hope to protect ourselves, unless it was by flight through the storm. There might yet be time for that effort, although it was impossible to decide which might prove the safer road to choose. I had arrived on foot, yet surely Miss Harwood must have a riding horse stabled somewhere close at hand. These considerations flashed through my mind, as I stared into Nichol's face. The house was silent; the only sound the noise of wind and rain, the anxious breathing of the girl pressing against my shoulder. I dared not move, dared not avert my gaze from the preacher; there was hatred and treachery in the depths of his eyes.
"Is there a lock on the parlor door leading into the hall?" I asked.
"A bolt—yes."
"Please close and bolt it, and then come back here."
I heard her turn and cross the room; caught the sound as she shot the bolt, and her light step again on the floor.
"Now, something to tie this man with. We must be quick—the table-cloth will do! sweep that clutter of dishes onto the floor. Good! now cut me the cord from that picture."
I had no thought of glancing about; I can scarcely conceive even now that I did, yet my eyes must have wandered an instant, for Nichols had the wrist of my pistol hand in his grip, and jerked me half off my feet. Even as I staggered, I struck out with my left, landing fairly on his face, and he went back over the chair, crushing it beneath him. But as he fell he dragged the revolver from my fingers, and sent it spinning across the floor. The next instant we clinched, our bodies pressed half way into the fireplace. There was a moment of fierce, breathless struggle, during which we rolled out against the table, our limbs interlocked, our hands gripping for advantage. The girl never screamed or emitted a sound. Some dim consciousness told me she was held prisoner between the table and wall, the revolver on the floor beyond her reach. I had no time to think, to do aught but fight desperately. He had my throat in a grip like iron, and my fingers were twined in his hair. But my left arm was free, and I drove my fist again and again into his face in short jabs that brought blood. The fellow possessed no skill, but the wiry strength of a tiger. I found his eyes with my fist, and dazed, his hands released their grip, and I broke loose, my throat livid from his finger marks. The flap of a gray skirt touched my face, and a blow fell—the man went limp under me, his head upheld by the angle of the wall. I struggled to my knees, still staring at him, uncertain as to what had actually occurred, struggling for breath. The girl stood over me, white-faced, her eyes wide open with horror, the remnant of the teapot in her hand. Suddenly her hands covered her eyes, the fragment of crockery falling noisily to the floor.
"I—I struck him," she sobbed, unnerved. "I—I have killed him!"
"No such good luck," I answered, recovering myself, and grasping her hands, so that I could look into her eyes. "The man is not dead—only stunned by the blow. He will be conscious in a minute. Do not become frightened; you did right, and we have no time to lose. You have a horse somewhere?"
"Yes, in the stable."
"Get whatever you need for a ride through the storm. Be quick, for those villains may be here at any moment. I'll tie Nichols, and wait for you at the foot of the rear stairs."
She hesitated, her hands still held in mine unconsciously.
"You—you mean I am to ride for Lewisburg—and—and you?"
"Oh, I must do the best I can on foot. We'll keep together as long as possible; only you must not fall into the hands of these men—not if this fellow is a specimen of their class."
"Him!" she looked at him with disgust, curling her lips. "I am not afraid of him, but—but Anse Cowan," she shuddered, staring out into the dark hall. "I—I would rather be dead than have that foul beast touch me."
"Then go, as I say, and hurry. Get a wrap, and your revolver."
She slipped out of the room, and up the stairs, her light steps making no sound on the soft carpet. I bent over Nichols, and as I touched him he stirred, and opened his eyes, staring up into my face. The heavy pot had cut a deep gash in the side of his head, which bled freely, and one of his eyes was puffed nearly closed where I had pummelled him. There was no fight left in the fellow, and he cringed back at sight of me, flinging up his arm in defense, all manhood beaten out of him.
"Don't hit me!" he whined. "I'm no friend of Anse Cowan."
"So you've had enough! Then take orders from me."
I gathered in the picture cord the girl had dropped on the floor, deciding swiftly what it was best to do. If I left the fellow lying bound there those new arrivals would discover him as soon as they got into the house. His story would make clear our escape, and how we had gone. Every moment of delay was of the utmost value, and if I could successfully hide this preacher where he could not be so easily discovered, the search for him would retard pursuit—his friends would be puzzled by his disappearance, and waste time seeking for him.
"Turn over, Nichols! Oh, yes you can—all that troubles you is a sore head. Come, move quick; that's it. Now put your hands behind your back—both of them. I mean to have you safe this time."
His wrists were big and knotted, and I drew the cord tight enough to make the fellow wince, despite his groans and pretense at severe suffering. There was no reason why I should spare him, nor could I feel any inclination to do so. I jerked him to his feet, using no gentle methods of persuasion, and turned his face to the door, picking up the lamp to give light for the journey.
"Go up the stairs," I commanded sternly, "and keep close to the wall. Oh, you can walk all right, my friend, and I advise you to do as I say—you see this gun?"
The scowl on his face was malignant, and his eyes glowed like coals, but he moved on ahead of me across the hall, and up the carpeted steps. The lamp held high above my head in one hand, sent a stream of light through the black shadows, and revealed his every movement. Once he paused and glanced back over his shoulder, muttering some threat for which I cared nothing, but the gleam of my revolver caught his eyes, as I lifted it to a level, and he went on, growling to himself. At the head of the stairs the girl suddenly appeared, her face showing white in the glow of the lamp. A brown cape, fastened closely at the throat, enveloped her figure, and a cap was drawn down over her hair.
"What is it?" she questioned swiftly. "Have the others come?"
"Not yet, but our friend here revived, and I thought it best to put him where he would be safe. Is there any room up here windowless, and with a door that can be locked? "
She glanced about, uncertain.
"Why—oh, yes! there is a large closet off my room where he might be locked in. He—he was not badly hurt?"
"Nothing more serious than a headache. Turn to the right, Nichols; into that room, where the light is burning. Oh, yes, you will! Kindly open the closet door, Miss Harwood. Ah! a prison cell made to order. Comfort enough here Mr. Preacher, and ample room even for your length of limb. It will be a fine place in which to meditate. Step in, man! Don't stand growling there, for it will do no good—we have ourselves to think about. Get in, I say!"
He was so slow, that I thrust him roughly through the opening, and closed and locked the door. The girl had placed the lamp on a table, and, as I turned, her eyes met mine
"Suppose they—they fail to come?" she questioned. "He could not get out; he might die in there."
"Little danger of their not coming. Anyhow I prefer risking that fellow's life rather than yours. Is he really a preacher?"
"Yes; he has a church at the Crossroads. I heard him preach once at a camp meeting. He was here before when Tom's wife died, and conducted the funeral."
"Tom? one of the servants?"
"Yes, my father's body servant. He accompanied him to the army." The tears rushed to her eyes, dimming them, and her hand touched my sleeve. "Oh, Lieutenant, do you really suppose he has been killed?"
"We can only hope," I answered, catching my breath quickly. "Nichols may have told that for a purpose—a desire to make you feel helpless and alone. But we cannot stand here and talk. You know the way and can guide us in the dark, can you not? It will be safer not to leave the lamp burning."
I blew the light out without waiting for an answer, and took her hand in mine.
"Now you must lead," I said softly. "We will go down the back stairs."
We slipped out into the hall together, her clasp on my fingers warm and confident, and I closed the door of the room behind us. Nichols had shouted some threat as the lock clicked, but was now silent. The soft carpet under foot enabled us to move noiselessly, and there was no sound in the deserted house. A flash of lightning enabled me to glimpse the window at the end of the hall, and my companion's face. She looked pale under the peak of her boy's cap, her eyes large and opened wide, a strand of loosened hair shadowing one cheek. Then it was pitchy darkness again, and all about us the silence of a tomb. My hand encountered the baluster rail, and she had taken a single step downward, when we heard a voice below, and the crash of what was probably the stock of a rifle on the outer door. A second blow fell, followed by the sound of splintering wood. The voice came sharper, clearer; I could distinguish the words.
"Now, once more, Kelly! There's nothing to be afraid of, man. Break it a foot lower down, so I can reach the key. Where is Anse? do you know, Jake?"
"He an' Bill are 'round front," some fellow answered hoarsely. "Thar's a busted winder thar. Yer saw ther light up stairs didn't yer?"
"Sure—the gurl's yere all right, but it don't look as if the preacher wus. I reckon he got afeerd, an' wus waitin fer us ter show up furst. Here, you, Kelly, giv' me aholt on thet club."
She shrank back against me, with a little startled cry, and I held her close. There was no noise as yet toward the front of the house, but two of the villains were there—one of them Anse Cowan. Beyond doubt they had entered the parlor through the broken window, and were groping about in the darkness, seeking for some passage leading into the hall. We were in the trap, caught between the closing jaws.
CHAPTER XI
WHAT WE OVERHEARD
ICOULD feel the trembling of her body, and for an instant my brain seemed to reel with dizziness. The danger confronting us was not so much mine as hers; my uniform might possibly save me, or, at least, prevent my suffering from anything more unpleasant than capture, but there was no such hope for the girl. These men were not soldiers but desperadoes, the scum of the hills, and they had come actuated by one object only—the possession of Major Harwood's daughter. What the real purpose of the Cowans might be I could not even conjecture, but this night raid was, beyond all doubt, a part of that same foul plot which had involved the cowardly murder of the father. That had been the work of the elder Cowan, and now had come the turn of the son. Here was the culmination of the feud between the two families, the blood-anger which had smouldered for years, finally to find fit expression in this outrage under the guise of war. With the Major dead, and his only child married to Anse Cowan—whether by force, or otherwise—the account would be closed. Once legally this villain's wife all her inheritance would be in his control. That must be the object, the vile, cowardly purpose, which had brought him, and his murderous crew to this lonely house through the storm. He expected to surprise the girl alone, and unprotected; in the canting preacher Nichols he had a tool fitted to do his bidding, yet even under such conditions he dare not venture on the deed unaccompanied. He had to bring a gang of cut-throats along with him—a dozen men to overcome the resistance of a frail girl. That very fact stamped him for what he was—a sneaking cur, afraid of his contemplated crime. True; yet this did not necessarily mean that he would prove any the less dangerous. His very sense of cowardice might render him the more desperate, while the number of his supporters, and their jeers at any failure on his part, would drive him to greater atrocity. All this flashed over me in the single moment we stood there, hesitating, confused, all our plans for escape instantly shattered. I had no thought but to fight—to fight desperately, protecting this girl's honor with my life. I knew of no escape, no means by which we might find a way out of the toils in which we were caught—we must meet them here at the stair head, in the dark, and defend ourselves to the last extremity. Death, even, was far preferable to falling alive into their hands. I felt instinctively that it would be her choice. She had uttered no sound, no cry after that first startled exclamation. Suddenly her hands grasped mine in which I gripped the revolver.
"Do not shoot—not yet!" she whispered, the sound of her words barely audible. "Wait; there is one chance still that we may deceive them."
"A way leading out? You mean a secret passage?"
"No, but a spot where we might hide, and be overlooked. I am sure none of these men know this house; Anse Cowan has never been inside of it, and most of the ruffians with him are from beyond the mountains. If they do not find us here when they search, they will believe we have escaped."
"They will discover the preacher," I protested, yet with a faint throb of hope. "He will be heard from presently, and they will learn the truth from him."
"All he knows—yes; but that is not much. He cannot be sure that we have not had time in which to get safely away. The two of us cannot defend both these stairs," she urged, "and our only hope is in hiding. Come now, while we have time—there they are, battering at the parlor door. They will be in the hall next, and it will be too late."
She drew me back, and I yielded to the grasp of her hand. The darkness was intense, but she moved swiftly and surely, as though knowing intimately every inch of the way; her fingers touching mine were warm and firm, no longer trembling. Action had brought back her courage, and I felt my own heart beat stronger in response. Anything was better than hopeless waiting—any chance, any desperate effort. The door in front crashed, and an oath rumbled upward; to the rear a light flashed, its reflection reddening the stair. Aided by its distant flicker we raced back down the upper hall to where it narrowed. A ladder stood there leading upward to a small scuttle above. Instantly my mind grasped her plan—the attic! If we could attain the attic unseen, drawing the ladder up after us and lowering the cover over the hole, our presence in the house might remain unsuspected. It was a low, flat roof; the space above must be small, and, unless the fellows knew of this ladder and opening, the place would probably never be observed in the course of their hasty search of the rooms. Even at the worst our opportunity for defense would be better up above than in that open hallway.
"I see what you mean," I said swiftly. "Go up first, Miss Noreen—hurry. Is the ladder fastened to the floor?"
"By a single small nail in each support; only enough to hold it firm. It was kept here in case of fire."
"Yes, I see; I can kick it loose easily. Don't delay; those fellows will be up the stairs in a moment more, and they are bringing a light with them. Here, let me help you."
She crept through the narrow scuttlehole, her supple, slender body rinding easy passage. With two blows of my boot I loosened the supports, freeing them from the floors, and mounted recklessly. Already men were on the stairs, the gleam of an approaching light reflecting along the side-walls. There was light flooring above, and sufficient space in which to move freely, although I could see nothing, not even the breathless girl at my side. Together we grasped the upper rungs, and drew up the ladder, sliding it in behind us on the floor. The scuttle cover was on hinges, and I clamped it down securely into place. Fortunately it slipped over the edge of the hole noiselessly, but the thin center board had warped slightly, leaving a little space, through which stole a tiny gleam of light, growing brighter as the searchers below advanced along the hall. It was no more than a narrow bar outlined on the roof overhead, and yielding us an indistinct glimpse of each other's faces, as we lay there pressed closely together in silent suspense. I stretched forward, endeavoring to peer down through the narrow crack, but was baffled by its smallness. Only the steadiness of the light, the voices, and the varied noises below, gave us information of what occurred. Yet these served to reveal clearly enough the progress of the searching party, and the conclusions to which they arrived. They possessed more than one lamp, because a light continued to burn steadily in the hall while the fellows were busily exploring the rooms on either side. We could distinguish the opening and closing of doors, and the sound of voices calling to others on the floor below. Once some fellow, apparently just beneath us, ripped out an oath.
"Well, by God, Jack, do you suppose Nichols has dared play such a durned trick on me and squealed to the girl?"
"Hanged if I know," was the sullen reply. "But it don't look like thar was a soul in the house."
"Yer right it don't, but I can't believe he ever had the nerve to do such a damn trick. I'll foller the cuss tew hell an' back if he has."
I felt her hand touch mine softly, and bent my head until her lips were at my ear.
"That was Anse Cowan," she whispered. "I recognize that voice. What do you suppose they will do now?"
The one fear in my heart was that in the fierce anger of disappointment they might fire the house, but I could not frighten her by giving utterance to the suspicion. My fingers tightened their grip; the men below had moved on, their voices grumbling along the hall.
"They will discover the preacher presently," I said, endeavoring to make my words as reassuring as possible. "I only wonder they have overlooked him so long; I supposed he would make an outcry."
"Perhaps he is afraid," she commented. "I have heard that Anse Cowan has a horrible temper, and when things go wrong acts like a crazed man—Nichols may dread facing his anger, and hope to escape discovery by remaining still."
"That may be true; the fellow is chicken-hearted enough from what I saw of him, but no less a villain. They will find him, however, for, from the sounds, they are prying into every nook and cranny. I heard them breaking down one door which must have been locked—there! they are battering in another now! They are old hands at this game, and this is not the first house they have looted. When they do find the preacher he will tell everything he knows, as fast as he can talk."
She drew in her breath sharply, and sat up. The movement was noiseless, but in the instant of intense silence which followed, we heard below us the sudden sound of struggle, a muffled voice calling for mercy, the shuffling of feet, and the noise of a body being hauled forward across the floor. Then someone ran along the hall, passing just beneath us.
"What have you found, Kelly?" It was Anse's voice roaring out the question. "Ah! the old fox dug out of his hole, hey! Now see here, you canting old Baptist hypocrite. What kind of a trick is it you are playing on me? Stand him up there boys, against that rail. Stop your howling, or I'll smash you one in the face. Where did you find the fool, Jack?"
"Locked in a closet yonder; looks like it might be the girl's room."
"Locked in?"
"He sure was, an' no key. We hed to bust in the door ter git at him."
"He had locked himself thar?"
"I reckon not; leastwise thar want no key thar, an' none in his pocket. The darn fool is too skeered ter talk yet."
"Well, I'll make him, er else thar'll be a dead preacher in 'bout a minute. I reckon as how I'll do as much skeering as anyone. Now, Nichols, ye see thet ! Whut the devil wus yer doing in thet closet?"
"They—they done put me thar, Anse."
"They! What do yer mean? Wus thar anyone yere along with ther girl?"
Nichols' voice sounded as though he was being choked, his reply being gasped out.
"Don't do thet, Anse—my God! I ain't done nothing fer yer ter be mad at—I—I just couldn't help bein' whar I wus—let me 'lone a minute, an' I'll tell yer all 'bout it."
"Go on, then—who wus yere beside the girl when yer cum?"
"A Yankee leftenant, a cavalryman I reckon from ther yaller stripes on his legs."
"A Yank! Did yer hear the fellar's name?"
"Damn if I'm sure; he's a right good sized man, an' not bad lookin'. Pears to me, now I think of it, she called him Raymond."
There was a gasping sound as though Anse's hand had closed again heavily on the fellow's throat.
"Raymond! I reckon yer lyin' ter me, Parson. Yer heard tell o' thet feller over in camp, an' ther name stuck. 'Twont be healthy fer yer ter play no game yere."
"I ain't, Anse. Quit a chokin' me. I never heard tell o' no Yank named Raymond afore. Be thar one 'round yere?"
"Wall, thar was, but I don't reckon thar is now," doubtfully. "Last I heerd tell o' him he wus over in Fayette a ridin' like hell fer Charleston. Monte's band picked him up, an' he didn't find this kentry none too healthy fer his line o' business, which was recruitin'—whut's that, Kelly?"
"Better let ther preacher tell his story, Anse. We're losin' a lot o' time; I reckon thar must a bin some kind o' male critter yere; 'taint likely ther girl locked him up alone, an' it don't make no odds whut the Yank's name wus, nohow."
"Go on, Nichols; whut happened? Tell us the whole ef it, but make it short."
The preacher drew in a long breath, evidently relieved to have the pressure of Anse's murderous fingers removed from his throat. He sputtered a bit as he began to speak, and there were muffled words we could not distinguish. Occasionally someone of his auditors interrupted with an oath, or exclamation. He spoke faster as he proceeded, as though feeling less fear, and eager to have the task over. Only once or twice did Cowan interject a brief question.
"I came yere as you told me to, but I must hev' rode faster then was expected, fer no one wus yere when I got ter the house. It was stormin' all ther way, an' I wus plum wet through, an' plastered ith mud. The hoss was fit ter drap, fer I thought maybe I'd be late, an' we'd cum a kitin'. Thar warn't nary light in ther shebang exceptin' upstairs on the west side, an' I reckoned as how thet mout likely be ther gal's room. I went clar 'round ter make sure, but thar warn't no other glimmer enywhere. Didn't strike me I had nuthin' ter be afeerd of, with nobody but the young gal et home. I reckoned as how she'd know me, and wouldn't likely make no fuss, afore I could explain how I cum thar, an' I sure wanted ter git inside outer thet cold rain. I didn't know how long it might be 'fore you fellers come. Wall, when I crept up on the front piazza, the furst thing I see was a winder smashed in, an' I got through thar, an' across the room to ther door leadin' inter the hall, afore I saw eny signs of enybody. Then I glimpsed a light in the room opposite, an' seed the gal sittin' in front o' ther fireplace. I didn't know thar wus a soul else in the house, an' thet fire looked so good, I just up an' stepped inter the room afore I thought. Then I see this yere Yank a sittin' at the table eatin'."
"He was in uniform?"
"Sure; wet and muddy as if he hedn't bin inside long either, an' he didn't leave me no time fer ter back out. He hed me covered almost 'fore I see him; but the gal jumped up an' told him who I wus, an' he put back the pistol, an' sat thar while she questioned me right smart."
"Well, what did you tell her?"
"Only 'bout her father being dead at furst. Thet I heerd about it at Lewisburg, an' hed felt it my duty ter bring her the news. I reckon if she hed bin thar alone we'd a got 'long fine tergether, but thet Yankee leftenant wus too smart ter be fooled so easy. I reckon he knew mor'n he let on, fer ther furst thing I knew he wus questionin' me like a blame lawyer, an' a shovin' his gun in my face fer ter make me answer."
"You damn coward! What did you tell?"
"Honest, Anse, I don't jest know; but I reckon I did spit it most out, fer he'd a killed me if I hadn't."
"Do you mean to say you told them I was comin' yere ternight, an' goin' fer ter make the girl marry me—you whinin' cur?"
"How could I help it, Anse? I reckon if thet feller hed a pistol et your head you'd a did some talkin'. Maybe he's a recruitin' officer, but he ain't no sorter man ter fool with onct he gits mad."
"Well, I'd sure like fer ter know who he is. He can't be ther feller what got away from Monte, fer he lit out fer Charleston. How did this yere feller git yere—on horseback?"
"I didn't git sight o' no hoss; thar wus only one four-legged critter in ther barn, an' I reckon as how the girl must hev' rode thet."
"Say, Anse," broke in the voice of Kelly, "I'll bet this Yank is the one thet wus with Fox, an' got away. He'd hed time 'nough fer ter git this fer on fut."
"But what does he call hisself Raymond fer?"
"Damn if I know—maybe he jest heerd tell of the other feller, an' thought as how he'd git 'long easier under thet name."
"Well, I reckon it won't make much difference whut the cuss' name is if ever I git my hands on him," growled Anse savagely. "Go on, Nichols; how did yer git locked up?"
"I thought as how thar wus a chance ter break away, an' ther Yank an' me we fit like a couple o' wild cats. I reckon maybe I'd a licked ther cuss, if the gal hadn't a stole up behin' an' hit me with some crockery. The next thing I know'd they'd dragged me up stairs yere, shoved me inter that thar closet, an' locked ther door."
"What became of them?"
"Skipped out, I reckon. I never seen nuthing more ov 'em."
Anse must have completely lost his temper, for there was the sound of a blow, and the noise of a falling body, feet shuffling as the others drew back. Then a moment of silence.
"Pick the ol' fool up," said a voice. "Throw him back into the room thar. Maybe he'll hev sum sense when he wakes up. Kelly, take Jim with yer, an' see if thet hoss is in ther stable yet. If them two left on fut, they ain't gone fur in this storm. Enyhow thar's one thing sure—they ain't a hidin' up yere. Cum on, boys, let's take a 'nother look 'round down below."
We heard their feet on the stairs, and the light, which had streamed up through the crack in the scuttle, faded away, leaving us in utter darkness.
CHAPTER XII
THE RECOGNITION
ALTHOUGH fully satisfied that all the ruffians had left the upper floor, with the exception of the unconscious Nichols, for a few moments neither of us ventured to speak or move. What would the fellows do when they discovered the lady's horse still in the stable? Would they decide we had hastily fled on foot, and scatter widely in search of some trace? There was little hope of their finding any trail to follow in the storm raging without, but they might very reasonably expect to overhaul fugitives on foot by a thorough scouring of nearby roads and fields. Lewisburg alone promised shelter and protection, and there was only one road leading to Lewisburg. Beyond doubt Cowan would send men spurring in that direction, and others probably to scour the adjacent fields as thoroughly as possible in the darkness. But in the meanwhile what should we do? was there any possibility of escape by descending? or would it be safer to remain where we were until the return of daylight? I could reach up, and feel the rafters of the roof overhead, and, now in the silence, hear the steady downpour of the rain. Our position was far from being a pleasant one, and I could not drive from my mind a haunting fear lest those villains fire the house when finally convinced of our escape. There was, to my mind, no reason why Anse Cowan should refrain from such an act of vandalism. No doubt either he or old Ned had had a hand in the earlier visit to the place, and if there was then anything in the house they desired to obtain possession of it had been attained. Of course he might be induced to spare the property from fire in the expectation that it would some time belong to him; this vague hope, no doubt, underlay the whole affair—the search for papers, the murder of the Major, the present effort to forcibly marry the daughter. All these things formed part of a well-concocted plan, through which the Cowans expected to acquire possession of Harwood's property. The war, and the consequent demoralization of the neighborhood, had given them an opportunity for revenge they were not slow to seize. Hate, the desire for vengeance, the brutal passions engendered by a feud, found ample opportunity now for full expression. Lawlessness ruled supreme in all that section between the Green Briar and the Alleghanies. Of course it would not always be so—the end of the war would bring a return to normal conditions, but with Harwood dead, his private papers in their possession, his only daughter legally married to Anse, the Cowans would be entrenched beyond any legal attack. What they took with the strong hand, they could hold.
This was the state of affairs as I began to understand them now, piecing this and that together, lying there in the darkness, listening for some sound of guidance from below. I could hear the soft breathing of the girl at my side, but she did not speak or move. She had overheard all that was said; she must also realize fully the object of these men, and the desperation of our position. Would she continue to trust me? to believe in my purpose? or had the words of betrayal spoken by Anse Cowan and Kelly left a sting of suspicion behind? If they had, would I dare to confess the truth, fully reveal my identity, and thus leave the fate of my secret mission in her hands? Her sympathies must naturally be with the Union forces; she would see the issues from the viewpoint of her father. That would have nothing to do with these banditti, but later might greatly interfere with the work to which I had been assigned. I had two duties to perform—to the army, and to this helpless girl; which was paramount if by any chance they clashed? I could not answer, but I did comprehend which came first—I must save Noreen Harwood from the merciless clutch of Anse Cowan. I must remain with her loyally, until she was safe in the protection of friends. Possibly I could accomplish this, and still retain my secret. She might not have heard, might not have clearly understood what the men said. Their denial that I could be recruiting officer Raymond might not awaken her suspicion at all. She might have been too intent on her own danger to give that a second thought, or have it make the slightest impression on her mind. At least that was the theory on which I must proceed—that she trusted me fully, and would do exactly as I advised.
"Is there any other way out of here, Miss Noreen?" I asked, scarcely above a whisper, "any opening leading to the roof?"
"I have never seen one, though often up here when I was a child."
"Then our only means of escape is by the ladder, and we dare not venture that until assured those fellows have really left. Do you hear any sound below?"
We both listened in breathless silence, but no noise reached us with any distinctness. I thought I caught the echo of a voice, but it sounded from outside the house—possibly someone yelling a report from the stable.
"Shall I risk exploring?" I asked doubtfully. "There is surely no one on this floor except Nichols, and I judge he has been knocked out for some time. We can hardly wait here for him to recover, and give us free passage. What action do you think we ought to take?"
"I certainly have no desire to remain here longer than is necessary," she answered calmly, "but I do not believe those men have all left the house. Some may be outside in the storm searching for trace of us, but there are others surely on guard below. Did you hear that? a knife fell on the floor; someone is eating in the dining room."
"I am going to lift the scuttle; possibly some light may filter up the stairs."
I was obliged to loosen it by the insertion of my knife blade, yet the clamp yielded with but little noise, and I peered eagerly down the opening. There was a lamp burning in the lower hall, the reflection sufficiently bright to reveal the general situation. No men were visible, nor did I hear any voices in conversation. One thing was certain—the upper hall was completely deserted, for I could see along its entire length. I lifted my head, and glanced back to where the girl remained silent, and motionless. My eyes, long accustomed to the darkness, could distinguish her outlines, even the dim contour of her face. She sat upright on the rough flooring, apparently regarding me intently.
"Do you find the way left clear?"
"So far as the upper hall is concerned—yes. There is a light burning below, although I can perceive no movement. They may be in the dining room, but I do not believe they will search up here again."
"You propose then lowering the ladder?"
The tone in which she asked these questions vexed me, her voice somehow sounded lifeless and cold.
"We shall certainly be more comfortably concealed in one of those rooms below," I answered, endeavoring to speak naturally, "and better able to accept any opportunity for escape which may offer."
"Yes?" The slight rising inflection stung me. What did her actions mean? Why should she so suddenly assume that tone with me? The sooner I knew the better.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Harwood," I said quietly, "but I fail to understand why you should speak to me in this manner. You have shown confidence, trust, in my former efforts to serve you, and I am just as eager now to be of service."
"You mean you wish me to have complete confidence in you?"
"Certainly. I can do nothing otherwise."
There was an instant of silence, in which her breathing was plainly audible. Beneath the shadow of an uplifted hand I felt that her eyes were upon my face.
"Very well, then," she said finally, her voice more expressive of interest. "It is surely no more than natural that I should desire to know whom I have the honor of talking with."
"But do you not know?"
"No," firmly and decisively. "I accepted you on behalf of the uniform you wore, although I could not clearly comprehend why you felt it necessary to assume the name of a brother officer, and endeavor to deceive me as to your real identity. I thought there might be a worthy reason, and so I pretended a confidence in you which I could not altogether feel. I knew you were not Charlie Raymond; there is no resemblance between you, and your explanation was lame—for there was no other cadet of that name at West Point. You heard what those men said—yet you go on pretending to me; thinking, perhaps, that I failed to understand the meaning of their words. You are the officer they referred to, are you not?"
"Yes; I escaped when Fox's command was attacked."
"You were an officer in Captain Fox's troop?"
"No; I joined him by accident at Hot Springs."
"Under what name?"
The utter uselessness of attempting to lie was apparent. Her questions were too direct, too straight-forward, for any further evasion. The slightest quibbling now would cost me her friendship forever. If I hesitated, it was scarcely noticeable.
"Under the name," I replied quietly, "of Charles H. Raymond, Lieutenant Third U. S. Cavalry, on recruiting service."
"Oh!" the exclamation burst forth in surprise at my frank avowal. "Then you did not make that up merely to deceive me? You had been passing under that name with others. You had taken it for a distinct purpose—a—a military purpose?"
"I took it," I said slowly, and deliberately, my eyes looking steadily at her, "because I knew such a Federal officer had been detailed to service in this neighborhood."
She drew in her breath quickly, making a little gesture with one hand.
"Then—then you are a Confederate?"
"Yes."
"A spy! You are falsely wearing that uniform! Are you—are you a soldier?"
"A sergeant of artillery, Miss Harwood," I replied, calm and determined now that I had once made the plunge. "I have done nothing I need be ashamed to confess. If I have taken my life in my hands to serve the cause of the South, it was in obedience to the orders of my superiors."
"Whose orders?"
"General Jackson directly; although Robert E. Lee was present, and gave final instructions."
"To come here secretly, in disguise? for what object?"
"To learn what I could of General Ramsay's forces in this district, and the disposition of the mountain men, and their leaders. There is, in war, nothing dishonorable in such a service. I am doing my duty as a soldier."
Her hands concealed her face, and I could judge nothing as to its expression; whether, or not, my words had any weight with her. She sat motionless, bent slightly forward. At last she said slowly:
"I—I know enough of of army life to be aware that men are not ordered to such hazardous work—they are asked to volunteer. Only a brave man would assume such a risk; only a man who believed in himself, and his cause. I—I like you better because you have told me. I believe you are honest with me now. I did not know what to do, or what to say before. I knew you were not Raymond, and that you were acting a lie—but could not guess your purpose. What made it harder to understand," her voice hesitating slightly, "arose because there was something about you so oddly familiar; I—I felt that I ought to recognize your face; that somewhere we had met before—have we?"
"Yes, Miss Noreen; I am Tom Wyatt."
"Why! Why, of course!" the swift expression was one of intense relief. "How stupid of me! Oh, I am so glad that I know." To my surprise she held out both hands impulsively. "Your being a spy doesn't make any difference now that I know who you really are. It is no wonder I did not recognize you—why you were only a boy—"
"Not when you rode by my mother and me on the pike."
"A year ago? I remember; yet I hardly caught a glimpse of you through the dust. You were just a boy when you were here last. Why you had long curls."
"And thought Noreen Harwood the most beautiful little girl I had even seen."
"Oh, indeed; well, you were never nice enough to say so. All I distinctly recall is that you broke my doll, and I declared I would never speak to you again."
"I hope at this time to make amends," I hastened to say, glad that even such dim memory served to break the ice between us. "Do not let my former rudeness count against me now, Miss Noreen. I appeal for forgiveness most humbly, and would even bring you a new doll."
"My wants are greater now."
"And my desire to please stronger."
She drew in her breath sharply, as though suddenly awakening to the foolishness of such idle exchange of words.
"Why, how ridiculous for us to sit here talking of our boy and girl days. For the moment I had utterly forgotten the peril of our surroundings. Why you—you are in even greater danger than I."
"Oh, no; from all I have seen and heard the Cowans must be in sympathy with the South, or they never would have made the attack on Fox's party, or held Lieutenant Raymond prisoner. I had considered going direct to Anse, revealing my identity, and demanding protection."
Her hands grasped my sleeve.
"No, not that! You do not understand, Tom Wyatt. These men care nothing for the issues of the war. They merely use them to cover up their own lawless deeds, and to assist in working out schemes of revenge. They are neither Federal, nor Confederate; they are robbers, murderers, and thieves. Is Anse Cowan here tonight for any purpose but his own? You realize what that purpose is."
"I have heard enough to make me certain," I answered. "He would force you into marriage to thus gain control of this property. The killing of Major Harwood was part of the plan."
"You know then of my father's death? You know that report to be true? Why, you said you were with Captain Fox at Hot Springs! Is it so?"
"Yes, Miss Noreen, it is true. I saw your father's body, and that of his servant Tom. I came across the mountains with the man who killed them both. I supposed him to be a scout. He called himself Jem Taylor, and when they first met your father addressed him by that name. They met by appointment at a house a mile south of Hot Springs. Your father said nothing to you of such a man?"
"No; I saw him but for a moment as he passed through Lewisburg on his way east. He was to meet a scout beyond the mountains, but no name was mentioned. What did the man Taylor look like?"
"I described him to Captain Fox, and one of his men, a sergeant, instantly pronounced the fellow to be old Ned Cowan."
"Ned Cowan! Why, that could not be! My father would never have an appointment alone with him. They have been deadly enemies for years."
"That may be true, Miss Noreen. I can only tell you what little I know. Your father might have been deceived; drawn into a trap. He was there apparently by appointment to confer with a man known to him as Taylor. Who Taylor really was I can not say—but he was an enemy, not a friend, of Major Harwood. I do not insist that the fellow was Ned Cowan, but I am sure he belonged to the gang. We trailed him nearly to New River, and had gone into camp amid the mountains when the Cowans attacked us. In my judgment the killing of your father, and the raid on this house tonight, form part of the same plan."
I do not think she was crying, although her face was buried in her hands. I turned my eyes away, down through the scuttle hole, but nothing moved along the hall below. The house seemed absolutely deserted, but the lamp continued to burn, and yet, even as I felt the strangeness of such intense silence, a door slammed somewhere in the distance, and a gruff voice spoke.
CHAPTER XIII
WAITING THE NEXT MOVE
ANSE—Kelly, are either of you there?"
There was the sound of chairs being pushed hastily back from a table, and rapid steps on the floor.
"Yes; what's wrong? Have you found something?"
"Sure; Bill an' I saw them; they were a tryin' ter git the hoss; but afore either of us could fire, they sorter slipped 'long back o' ther fence, an' got away. It's darker'n hell out thar, an' Bill sed fer me ter cum in yere an' tell yer that if you 'en Kelly wud cut across the road, an' sorter head the cusses off we'd bag the two easy."
"Whar's the rest of ther boys?"
"Ridin' the Lewisburg pike accordin' ter orders, I reckon. Leastwise we ain't seen 'em since yer tol' us ter watch ther stable. Bill an' I can't round them up alone."
"All right, Dave. Where are they now?"
"In ther orchard, a creepin' 'long the fence. Bill's followin' 'em up, an' all you got ter do is run 'long the road an' git ter the corner ahead o' 'em. They can't go no other way."
I caught a glimpse of the two as they crossed the lower hall hurriedly. The lamp flickered in the draft of the opened door, and one fellow swore roughly, as he stumbled over some obstacle. Then the door closed, and the flame steadied. In the silence we could hear again the beating of rain on the roof over head.
"Who do you suppose they could have seen?" she asked.
"Shadows likely enough. Let them hunt. We know now the house is deserted, and can find more comfortable quarters—perhaps even slip away before anyone returns. You will go with me?"
"Of course; I am not afraid of Tom Wyatt."
"You were once, young lady—down by the old mill."
She laughed, as if the suddenly revived memory had driven the seriousness of the present situation from mind.
"When I thought you an Indian? Oh, I have entirely recovered from that fear. I am even going to confess I liked you then."
"Good! and now?"
"That is my secret, sir. Is it not enough to compel me to companion with a rebel spy, without asking impertinent questions? Let me help you with the ladder."
We passed it down slowly, and carefully, until the lower end rested securely on the floor below. If Nichols had recovered from the effect of the severe blow, he had made no sound, and I had almost forgotten his presence. I drew back, and permitted the lady to descend first, holding the upper supports firmly until her feet touched the floor. It was a struggle for me to force my larger bulk through the narrow opening, but I succeeded finally, and stood beside her. In the brighter light I could perceive more clearly the expression of the girl's face, and realized the friendliness of her eyes. My frank confession had won me her confidence; no matter where her sympathy might be in this war struggle my allegiance to the cause of the South was no serious barrier between us; even the fact that I was masquerading there in a stolen uniform, and under an assumed name, had not greatly changed her trust in an old playmate. My heart beat faster to this knowledge, yet, in some way, although I rejoiced, the recognition brought with it a strange embarrassment. To her I seemed to be only the boy Tom Wyatt, grown up. She met me in the same open-hearted, careless manner of our childhood—as though it was only yesterday when we played together. But to me she was no longer the girl who ran and laughed—she had changed into a woman; and my heart throbbed to the glance of her eye, my blood stirred to the touch of her hand. The very ease with which she appeared to resume the old careless relationship brought to me a pang of regret. I was not a boy, nor content that she should regard me from that standpoint.
"It sounds as though the storm was harder than ever," she said. "Where shall we go?"
"My choice would be to hide in one of these rooms, for the present, at least. We could scarcely hope to get the horse out of the stable unseen, and, even if we did, we would be likely to ride into some of the gang."
"But they will return to the house."
"Before they leave—yes; but it is hardly probable they will search up here again. Anse will be in ill-humor enough when he decides we have really escaped, but will never imagine that our hiding place is in the house. They will give up by daylight, and then the way will be clear."
"And where will you go?"
"Why," in surprise. "I could not leave you alone until I placed you in the care of friends."
"At Lewisburg, you mean?"
"If that is where you wish to go."
Her eyes met mine frankly, but with an expression in their depths I failed to fathom.
"Not wearing that uniform," she said quietly, "or under the name of Lieutenant Raymond. Do not misunderstand. There is friendship between us—personal friendship, the memory of the past, a knowledge of the intimacy between your father and mine. More, I am grateful to you for the service you have been to me this night; nor do I hold it against you that you risk your life in the cause for which you fight. But I am Union, Tom Wyatt, and I cannot help you in your work, nor protect you. When daylight comes I am going to say good-by—and forget that I have even seen you."
"But," I protested, "why could we not part, if we must, at Lewisburg, after I know you are safe?"
"There are Federal troops at Lewisburg. They know me, and their commander is aware of my acquaintance with the officer whose name you have assumed."
"Then you knew me for a fraud from the very first moment of our meeting?"
"Yes; I knew you were not the man you claimed to be. I said nothing, for I wished to learn your object."
"Yet, in a measure, at least, you trusted me?"
The eyes into which I gazed smiled slightly.
"Hardly that, perhaps. Your face is an honest one, and there was a vague familiarity about it which made me determined to learn who you were. Besides—well really, I had no choice; I was alone here, and helpless."
"True; yet you have not confessed all."
"All! What else?"
"My guess is you possessed a stronge desire to protect Lieutenant Raymond."
"Oh, indeed!" she laughed, but her eyes fell. "That might have been an added motive—yes. I naturally desired to discover, if possible, why anyone should pretend to be he. My interest was—was not personal, however; it was patriotic."
"But you are friendly?" I persisted, unable to resist the impulse. "This lieutenant is not a mere acquaintance?"
"I feel under no obligation to answer that question," she returned, her cheeks flushed. "There is no reason why you should ask. My interest in the Union cause is sufficient explanation. I am not a little girl, any more."
"Nor am I a mere boy, Miss Noreen. We have met here as man and woman," I said earnestly. "Our past is a bond between us; to me a pleasant memory—but I do not rely upon it for the future. Even although I am a Confederate soldier, I want you to consider me a personal friend—one in whom you feel an interest equal at least to that shown Lieutenant Raymond."
"Why I do," her eyes opening widely. "It is for your own protection I refuse your escort to Lewisburg. I am a traitor to my flag not to take you there, and surrender you a prisoner. If—if I did not care I would."
"You mean memory of the boy restrains you?"
She hesitated a moment, her lips parted, a frown wrinkling her forehead.
"No," she acknowledged slowly, as though the thought had just dawned. "That memory is not even vivid. I—I believe you to be a man I shall be glad to know—Hark! that was a shot!"
"Yes, and another; they sound to the west of the house."
"In the orchard, beyond the stable. Can there really be someone hiding there?"
"They are certainly firing at something—there speaks another rifle farther south. Those fellows will be back presently, and we must be out of their way. What room is that beyond the chimney?"
"It was used by the housekeeper. Do you know where Parson Nichols was left?"
"In the room at the head of the stairs; why yes, your room. Could they have killed the man?"
I pushed open the door, which stood slightly ajar, and looked in. Nichols had partially lifted himself by clinging to the bed, and his eyes met mine. The marks of the savage blow with which Cowan had floored him, were plainly evident, and the man appeared weak and dazed. Yet he instantly recognized me, and crouched back in terror. His return to consciousness, his knowledge of our presence in the house, only meant increased danger. Anse and his followers might not search again for us, but if they returned they would certainly examine into his condition, and he would immediately confess all he knew. The preacher might feel no eager desire to aid Cowan after the rough treatment received, but fear would compel him to speak, and there was no love in his heart for either of us which would restrain his lips. Our only safety therefore lay in having him completely in our power. If those fellows found him gone, they would naturally suppose he had recovered consciousness, and escaped in the darkness. They would scarcely care enough to search the house. I stepped into the room, and gripped his collar.
"Stand on your feet, man! Oh, yes, you can; you're a little groggy yet, no doubt, but with strength enough for that. Come; I'll hold you. Now, out into the hall. Miss Harwood, may I trouble you to open that door—yes, the housekeeper's room; we'll hide ourselves in there. By Jove, that sounds like a regular volley!"
I pushed the man forward, and flung him down on the bed, still retaining my grip on his collar.
"Not a move, or a sound, Nichols! Attempt to betray us, and your life is not worth the snap of a finger. Miss Harwood."
"Yes."
"Close the door, and lock it; is there a bolt?"
"A strong iron one, but it seems rusty."
I stepped across, and forced it into the socket with a sharp click. The same instant a vivid flash of red lit up the whole interior, the light glaring in through the unshaded windows, and reflecting from the walls. Nichols started up with a little cry of terror, but I forced him back.
"It is not the house," I said sternly. "They must have fired the stable. Keep down out of sight. Miss Noreen creep across to that nearest window and take a glance out—be careful that no one sees you. I'll keep guard over our preacher friend."
She left us quietly, crouching close against the wall, until she could safely peer out from behind the fold of a chintz curtain. This so shadowed her face that I could distinguish merely its dim outline. The glow from without reddened the entire room. Nichols began to groan, and mutter, but whether the words were those of prayer, or not, I was uncertain. That the fellow's brain tottered on the brink of total collapse was evident, and I was too fearful he might create alarm to desert my guard. Eager to learn what had occurred I called across to the girl:
"Is it the stable, Miss Noreen?"
"Yes," with a quick glance backward. "The whole west end is ablaze; I think it was fired in two places."
"Do you see anything of the men?"
"Not clearly, except two or three passing back and forth between the house and the stable. I think there are horses picketed beyond in the orchard, but am not sure—yes, there are men there with them. The fire, as it blazes up, gives me a better view."
"Can you tell how many?"
"No—they form merely a shadow under the trees where the light streams; occasionally one moves, and stands out separate enough to reveal himself as a man. I cannot really tell anything about them—but—but I didn't suppose Anse Cowan had so many with him, did you?"
"Why, really I cannot tell, for I have no conception either way. There must have been a dozen altogether in the house, and doubtless others were on guard without. Hasn't it ceased storming?"
"Yes; I wonder what time it is; why I actually believe the sky is becoming lighter in the east already."
She stared out intently, and then sank to her knees.
"Come over here quick! they are getting ready for something."
I swept my eyes over Nichols, who lay motionless, his arms folded across his face. To my mind the fellow was acting a part, and was not half as badly injured as he pretended to be. However, he could do us no great harm at present, and I stole silently across the room, and knelt beside her. She held the curtain aside, leaving just space enough for my eyes. For an instant the glow of the burning building blinded me, and intensified the surrounding darkness. I shadowed my eyes with my hand.
"Where are the men you saw? To the left?"
"Yes—back under the trees, close to the first negro cabin; see! just where I point."
Once located I could perceive the shadowy outline, which grew more distinct as I gazed. There were men there beyond doubt; it seemed to me twenty or thirty, although it was impossible to judge the number. But the shadow seemed to be disintegrating. Even as my eyes focused it, a section moved to the right, and then another swung into the open, circling along the orchard fence.
"There is a slew of them," I muttered unthinkingly. "Anse meant to have company at his wedding."
"Oh, hush!" her hand caught my sleeve. "They—they are coming back to the house now."
CHAPTER XIV
A MARRIAGE BY DURESS
THE girl was evidently right, although the path the party followed swung so far to the left I could see little of them from the window. The fence concealed their number, but there was a dozen, at least, and they moved steadily, the red flames gleaming on what I took to be gun barrels. They disappeared behind a low shed, merging almost mysteriously in its shadow. I heard no orders given, no sound of a voice. The silently moving figures seemed more like specters than men. As I strove vainly to discover where they had vanished I perceived the faint tinge of gray across the eastern sky. Daylight was coming; the gang meant to search the house again, perhaps fire it as they had the stable, and then ride away before the Federal garrison at Lewisburg could receive the alarm. The light of the fire would certainly be perceived there by the sentries, and reported. Perhaps already the troopers were in their saddles—but they would be too late. I turned away from the window to perceive Nichols sitting up on the edge of the bed.
"What's afire?" he asked.
"The stable," I answered crossing the room, "and, as near as I can make out the whole gang is headed back this way to finish their job. Get down in the corner, where you cannot be seen from the windows. Oh, yes you can; you are not so badly hurt. Miss Noreen."
She did not answer, but came to where I was standing, gliding swiftly along in the shadow of the wall. The light of the blazing stable illumined the face upturned questioningly to mine.
"What do you suppose those men will do?"
"That is all guesswork. The firing of the stable may have been an accident; but if it was done purposely then I believe they will also apply a torch to the house before they leave. But I am not so afraid of that, as I imagine the cowards will ride away so soon as they are assured the fire is well started. They will fear the approach of soldiers from Lewisburg. Of what does that garrison consist?"
"Two troops of cavalry—but what is it you most fear?"
"That the search without has convinced Cowan that we are still hidden in the house. Anything else is preferable to having you fall into the hands of that villain. He came here with one object in view; and will not give up while there is a hope left. Is there any other place better than this in which to hide?"
She shook her head.
"Well, then we must fight it out here if they come; you have your revolver—ah! the squad is already below; listen!"
We stood side by side, scarcely breathing, close to the bolted door. The flames of the burning stable were dying down, yet there was sufficient light to render every object in the room plainly visible. Intent as I was on every slight sound below and without, I kept my eyes on Nichols, seated dejectedly in one corner. Feet tramped noisily back and forth in the lower hall, and the sound of voices reached us, the words indistinguishable. There was an echo of splintered wood, the crash of dishes, and a loud laugh. The fellows seemed to be looting the kitchen and pantry, destroying whatever they could not use. Suddenly there arose a sound of smashing glass at the front of the house, and the tinkling of a piano as if some rough hand swept across the keys. Noreen pressed closer, lifting her eyes in appeal.
"They—they are searching the house," she whispered, her voice shaking, "and—looting it. Do you hear that? they are even tearing the carpet from the floor. Some of them will come up here."
"I am afraid so—but you must not lose your nerve. We shall have to fight!"
"Fight? yes; but what use?" and she grasped my arm with both hands. "Why—why they are ten to one, and there is no chance for us to outwit them. Do not think me a fool or a hysterical girl—it—it is not that! I—I would not be so afraid, only for that man. I cannot fall into his power. I will kill myself first! You do not know Anse Cowan; but I do; he is a dirty, foul, cruel dog; I would rather die than have his hands touch me. I hate and despise him; he is an incarnate brute—and—and he is here after me!"
"Hush," I urged, holding her tightly, her slight form trembling. "Do not let go yet; they may not even come up the stairs."
"But they will," she insisted. "I tell you I know the man. He—he swore he would marry me two years ago; he told me so, and I laughed at him. He stopped my father on the road, held a rifle to his head, and boasted that some day he would make me pay his debts. This is no mere incident of war—it is revenge! I—I would not be frightened but for that—that awful alternative. Tell me—tell me what to do!"
She stared pleadingly into my face, but, reading no answer there to her wild appeal, sank to her knees, and buried her face in her hands. All that was strong about the girl seemed swept away by sudden, uncontrollable terror—by dread of Anse Cowan. While there appeared to be some hope of escape her courage had sustained her, but now, all at once, it gave way entirely, leaving her in a perfect panic of fear. I realized fully the nature of this threat which had broken her spirit. She was no less womanly, no less worthy respect and love, in her shrinking of terror. It was not death she dreaded, nor any physical danger—it was dishonor; the contaminating touch of a brutal hand, the foul insult of a dirty cur. But what could I say? What could I do? I stood helpless, uncertain, unable even to find words of encouragement. No thought, no plan occurred to me—only to defend her while I lived. A hoarse, strange voice roared out an order, seemingly from the very foot of the stairs.
"That's enough of that, Samuels! Here, take your men up above. Be lively now, and don't let a rat get away."
The girl lifted her head; then got to her feet clinging to the bed-post. I could see the glitter of a pistol in her hand. A thought swept through my brain—so daring, so reckless, I gasped at the mere wildness of the suggestion. Yet it might answer; it might succeed! But would she consent; even in her desperation, in the extreme of her terror, would she grasp at such a straw? There was nothing else—not another chance. This might not be one—yet it would surely serve to delay; it would place me in between her and Anse Cowan. He could only reach her over my dead body; for the moment, at least, it would block his plan. She could not legally marry him, if she was once my wife! Of course the man might not hesitate in his mad anger, even at murder—yet again it was possible that my uniform would save me—the troops at Lewisburg were not far away; fear of them might make the villain cautious. It was a chance—a desperate, reckless chance—and no more! But the thought—crazy as it was—flashed instantaneously through my brain; took possession of me. Only the girl whose eyes just then met mine—
"I—I have thought of one way," I said eagerly, the words coming forth almost incoherent. "That is if you will listen to what I propose. There is nothing else feasible so far as I can see. They—they are in the front rooms now—hear them! We haven't a moment to lose. Will you—will you consent to marry me?"
She shrank back a step, staring at me with wide-opened eyes, breathing heavily.
"Marry! marry you?" she faltered wildly. "Why what can you mean! I—I do not understand!"
"Of course not—the conception is wild, impractical, perhaps. It must seem so to you—yet listen. It is the one way left open to save you from Anse Cowan. You can trust me? You do trust me, do you not?"
"Ye-es—but—"
"This is no time to question. They are coming here now, those fellows with Anse Cowan at their head. You know what for. Whatever the real object may be some among them have not hesitated at murder for its attainment—they will not spare you. The question is not do you wish to marry me; but do you trust me more than you do Anse Cowan? Do you hear them breaking down those doors at the front of the house? There, by the sound, someone is already in the room next to this. Listen! it will be a form only—I am not conceited enough to believe you desire me for your husband. But you know who I am; you have confidence in my honor, and I offer you this opportunity to escape from that brute. He cannot marry you if you are already my wife—"
"He—he could kill you."
"Yes, there are enough of them; but that might happen anyway. No doubt it would, for otherwise I should fight to the end. I do not think being your husband will add in the least to my danger—and it will possibly, legally, protect you."
"But how can I? Will it be legal?"
"Noreen, don't stop to argue, or doubt," I urged, grasping her hand in eagerness. "We haven't time. Listen to those voices in the hall! Of course it will be legal—Nichols is an ordained minister, and no license is required. I shall never attempt to hold you, Noreen, and any court will set you free the moment you tell the story. The one, the only thing, for you to consider now, is escape from Anse Cowan."
"You do this to—to save me?"
"To keep you from falling helplessly into the clutches of a beast—tell me yes! My God, girl, there they are now trying the door! Answer—will you?"
"Yes—yes, Tom Wyatt—"
With one leap past her I had Nichols by the collar, the muzzle of my revolver at his head. A heavy foot crashed against the locked door, and a voice without gave utterance to an oath.
"Marry me to this girl," I commanded sternly. "Come now, not a word; don't wait to ask a question. Noreen, take my hand—"
"Open up in there or we'll break down the door!" came hoarsely from the hallway.
My eyes never left Nichols' face. What he read of threat I know not, but his lips began to stumble through the form, though I could scarcely distinguish a word. His face was gray with terror, and I dare not look aside at the silent girl—only I vaguely realized that the hand held in mine trembled, and once, when she had to speak, the two words uttered were almost a sob.
Never surely was there a stranger marriage in all the world. The dying embers of the stable fire shot red gleams of flame over us through the unshaded windows, giving to Nichols a ghastly look, and glowing on the steel barrel of the revolver I held poised at his head. His voice faltered and broke, and clotted blood rendered hideous one side of his face, while his hands shook as if with palsy. All the sneaking coward in him was manifest. Outside a dozen voices roared, one rising gruff above the others shouting orders. Once a single shot crashed through the upper panel of the door and broke the glass of a window opposite. The girl, startled, reeled against me, and the preacher stopped, gasping for breath.
"No firing, you fool!" roared a deep voice angrily. "We don't want any dead ones—beat down the door!"
"Go on!" I ordered grimly, and thrust the black muzzle hard against his cheek. The preacher choked, but the usual words of the ritual—sounding almost like mockery—dropped mechanically from his tongue.
"And now I pronounce you man and wife, and whom God hath joined together, let not man put asunder. Amen."
She gave vent to a little sobbing cry, half stifled in her throat, and shrank away from me. I knew that her face was buried in her hands, yet had no time to look that way, or utter a word. Rifle butts were crashing in the panels of the door; I could perceive already dim figures revealed through the jagged openings made in the light wood, a vista of faces, a gleam of weapons.
"Hit lower down!" yelled the same gruff voice of command. "There is a bolt that holds fast—reach in Saunders!"
"Get back—beyond the bed," I called, pushing her behind me, and bracing myself for the first shock. The door gave, sagging aside on its hinges, and half falling inward, and through the opening men tumbled forward, carbines gripped in their hands. The red light gleamed ghastly across their faces, and revealed—the blue uniform of Federal cavalry.
CHAPTER XV
BEFORE LIEUTENANT RAYMOND
THE headlong rush stopped in startled amazement at sight of us, and I stood there staring at them, unable to speak, my revolver lowered. In that instant of pause, an officer thrust the men aside and faced me, sword in hand.
"What does this mean, sir? Who are you?" he questioned, sweeping his glance over my uniform, and then beyond me at the two others.
"I would ask the same question," I returned, not yet assured as to who I confronted, and suspecting some trick. "We believed ourselves attacked by guerrillas. Are you soldiers?"
"Well, rather," with a short, grim laugh. "These are Pennsylvania cavalrymen. My name is Raymond, and I demand to know, first of all, where you got possession of that Third U. S. Cavalry uniform."
Perhaps in his excitement he had not really recognized her before; but these words were scarcely out of his mouth when the lady stood beside me, facing him. I caught one swift flash of her eyes as though warning me to silence. Whatever of fear she had formerly felt seemed to have left her in this crisis, for she stood erect, her cheeks flushed, her eyes frankly meeting those of the surprised officer.
"You will, however, recognize me, Lieutenant," she said pleasantly, and extended her hand, "and, if you will listen, I think I can clear up the mystery."
"Miss—Miss Harwood," he murmured slightly embarrassed, but still belligerent, his glance wandering from her face to mine. "Certainly—we hoped to find you here. It was to rescue you we came—at least it was that hope which led me to request the sending of troops, and to accompany them. This outrage has been committed, I believe, by Cowan's gang, and this man here—"
"Is my friend," she interrupted quietly. "Lieutenant Raymond, if you will kindly order your men to retire, I will gladly explain his presence in the house."
"You wish to speak to me alone?"
"Not necessarily; but I certainly prefer greater privacy than this. You are in command?"
"No; Captain Whitlock is below." He turned toward the crowd blocking the doorway, and I grasped the opportunity to breathe a hasty word of warning into the ear of Nichols. The girl never glanced again at either of us.
"Take the men back into the hall, Sergeant," the Lieutenant ordered, "and look through whatever rooms have not been visited. Request Captain Whitlock to join me here."
We waited motionless, the lieutenant's hand on the butt of his revolver, as though he half suspicioned treachery. Twice he endeavored to open conversation with the lady, but her response was not encouraging, and he evidently did not feel safe except with his eyes on me. The sight of the uniform I wore perplexed and angered him; he would have greatly enjoyed the privilege of going for me rough-shod, and was restrained only by the presence of the lady. She stood quietly between us, her lips firmly set, and I thought was struggling to retain control of herself, and grasp quickly some explanation of my presence. I could perceive only the contour of her face, but Raymond fronted me, a tall, well proportioned fellow, with incipient mustache, black and curled at the points; a rather long face, and eyes sternly serious. There was about him an appearance of force—a bit of a bully I should say—and his uniform was new, and carefully fitted.
A man stood in the doorway, bowing, his mild blue eyes surveying us nervously. He sported a light beard, closely trimmed, the top of his head scarcely reaching to the lieutenant's shoulder. Miss Noreen greeted him with a welcoming smile, and he stepped gallantly forward, bending low as he accepted her hand.
"So pleased, so delighted, Miss Harwood to find you safe and well. We were, indeed, greatly worried at the thought of your being here alone," he exclaimed, a slight lisp in his voice. "You have not suffered, I trust?"
"Not seriously, Captain Whitlock; the guerrillas were outwitted—"
"Ah! do not attempt to explain, I beg. We understand what you have passed through, as we have captured two of the villains. You sent for me, Lieutenant Raymond?"
"Yes, sir, I did," the younger officer's expression exhibiting clearly the contempt he felt for his superior. "I preferred that you decide what shall be done with this fellow," pointing a finger at me. "Miss Harwood vouches for him, but I fail to understand how he comes to be in the uniform of my regiment."
The captain fitted a pair of glasses to his eyes and surveyed me with care.
"Why, bless me, so he is," he ejaculated, "and you never saw him before?"
"No, and there is not another third U. S. cavalryman west of the Alleghanies."
The girl laughed, and laid her hand on Whitlock's arm.
"I told Lieutenant Raymond that I would explain fully," she said, pretending to be amused.
"But I failed to understand then what it was which had so aroused his suspicion. So it is the uniform my friend wears?"
Raymond did not answer, but the captain bowed respectfully.
"As to that I must, assume all responsibility," she went on quietly, "as I furnished it."
"You!" there was a sarcastic sneer in the lieutenant's surprise exclamation. "Why should you have in your possession a uniform of the Third Regulars?"
"I did not," she answered sweetly, but looking at Whitlock. "That uniform belonged to my cousin, an officer of the Third Kentucky."
Raymond uttered a smothered expression, stared an instant at her slightly averted face, and then, with one stride forward, swung me to the light.
"See here, Captain Whitlock," he exclaimed indignantly. "I cannot conceive what object Miss Harwood may have in desiring to protect this man, but this is not the uniform of any volunteer regiment."
"Do I understand, Lieutenant, that you dare question my word?" she asked proudly, her eyes gazing straight into his. "I am unaccustomed, sir, to such treatment."
"Wait a moment, Raymond," broke in the captain. "There is no doubt of Miss Harwood's loyalty. Let us hear her explanation first. You say, Miss Harwood, you know this man? that he is a friend? May I ask his name? "
"Surely; I only desire an opportunity to answer any question. He is Thomas Wyatt, the son of the late Judge Wyatt, whose home was on the ridge yonder. We were children together."
"A rebel?"
"Really I never thought to ask," carelessly. "I was too glad to have his protection. We—we spoke only of our childhood days together, still I gathered the impression that Mr. Wyatt had never joined either side, and was merely here to look after his property. Of course he can explain all that."
"But how came he to be dressed in that uniform?" burst in Raymond.
"Will you be courteous enough to permit me to tell you? I have endeavored twice already to fully explain. Mr. Wyatt came here in midst of the storm last night. He had found his own home destroyed, and this was the nearest shelter to be found. He supposed the house deserted, and merely sought protection until morning. How I chanced to be here you gentlemen both know, and that matter requires no explanation. Mr. Wyatt arrived with his clothing muddy, and soaked with rain. I gave him the only change to be found in the house—a uniform belonging originally to a cousin of mine, Lieutenant Anton Harwood, Third Kentucky Cavalry."
"But this is not the uniform worn by volunteer troops. Captain Whitlock, I insist—"
"Really, Lieutenant Raymond," the girl said, fronting him, her eyes sparkling, "this is becoming most tiresome. What do I care what uniform it is! I have told you where it came from, how it chanced to be there, and the reason it was worn by this man. I cannot be expected to know all the petty distinctions of the service."
"But surely," spoke up the captain, plainly bewildered, "the suit he wore when he came can be produced. You know where that is?"
"I know where it was," she answered coolly. "Hanging before the fireplace in the dining-room. However I cannot guarantee that it remains there now—this house has been gutted by Cowan's guerrillas, and, from the sound, your own men were none too careful."
Whitlock fiddled with the tassel of his sword, evidently far from satisfied himself, yet unwilling to make final decision unaided.
"I hardly know just what to do," he confessed reluctantly. "Ordinarily, you know, a lady's word would be sufficient, but somehow, I—I—well this looks just a little queer. What do you think, Lieutenant?"
"That the fellow ought to be taken before Major Hawes, and made to explain what purpose brought him here. I have no desire to question Miss Harwood; indeed, I am perfectly willing to accept her statement. But this man is not a civilian—he is a soldier; he has had military training. He should be made to account for himself, sir." The speaker's eyes fell upon the preacher, huddled back in the corner, now clearly revealed by the gray daylight which was stealing in through the windows. "Hullo! here seems to be yet another specimen we have overlooked. Who are you?"
Nichols shuffled forward, looking woe-begone and miserable, his cheek disfigured by Cowan's blow, sneak and coward written all over him. His shifting eyes met mine, and he must have read in my gaze a threat he dare not ignore. Twice his mouth opened and closed before he could make words issue.
"One of Cowan's gang?"
"God be praised—no. Made to serve that human fiend by force. I am a minister of the Gospel."
"You!" the lieutenant burst into a laugh. "By Jove, you fit the part. Whitlock, did you ever hear of the fellow?"
The captain rubbed his glasses.
"Are you the Baptist preacher at Cane Ridge?" he asked doubtfully.
"For twenty years I have ministered to that congregation; the young woman can vouch for my labor."
"Then, I presume you are also acquainted with this fellow?" questioned Raymond impatiently.
Nichols turned his glance again in my direction, but his gray face was devoid of interest.
"I have no knowledge of the young man," he asserted solemnly, "but I knew the old Judge well. The resemblance is strong, and I have no doubt but he is a son. The father was a Christian, and a gentleman."
"And a rebel, I presume?"
"Judge Wyatt died before the breaking out of the war, sir, but was known throughout these parts as a Unionist."
There was a silent pause, Whitlock fumbling at his eye-glasses, Raymond, a perplexed frown on his face, staring first at Nichols, and then at me, as though more than half convinced he was being made a fool of. The girl had seated herself in a chair, and was leaning forward, her face hidden. The lieutenant turned and strode across the room, glancing out the window; then back again.
"Well, we cannot remain here discussing the matter," he said tartly. "If we do we may have a real fight on our hands before we are safely back in Lewisburg." He planted himself squarely in front of me. "See here, it is time you did some talking. You haven't opened your mouth yet."
"There has been no occasion," I replied pleasantly. "The others have told all you need to know without my even being questioned."
"I have a mind to search you," he retorted, completely losing his temper.
"At your pleasure, Lieutenant," I spoke coldly enough, although there was a catch in my throat at sudden memory of the paper I bore containing his name. "And there is no guessing what you might find in Lieutenant Harwood's uniform."
We were still looking defiantly at each other's eyes, and it began to occur to me that his evident dislike must have some other basis than a mere suspicion that I might be a Confederate spy. Did it arise rather because of my apparent friendliness with Noreen Harwood, and her swift words of defense? Could there be a personal motive urging this young West Pointer to determine my guilt? The suspicion that this might be the real reason for his conduct had scarcely flashed across my mind when a trooper appeared in the open doorway, saluted, and said something in a low tone to Whitlock. I failed to catch the words spoken, but heard the captain answer:
"Certainly, Corporal, have him come up at once."
The soldier disappeared down the hall, and the lieutenant stepped back across the room, bending his head to whisper something privately into Whitlock's ear. My eyes followed his movement, and then sought the face of the girl; she sat motionless, the long lashes shading her eyes, the only visible sign of excitement the swift rise and fall of her bosom. Then a man came hastily into the room through the opened door. My heart leaped into my throat at sight of him—he was Captain Fox.
CHAPTER XVI
A PRISONER
THE captain was hatless, and a bloody handkerchief was wound about his head; his uniform was torn and black with mud. He saw Whitlock first, and gripped his hand warmly, his glance straying from the face of the little captain to the other occupants of the room.
"Gad, but it is good to see a blue uniform again," he exclaimed heartily. What was the row here, Fred some guerrilla work? Ah! by Jove!" his eyes brightening as he recognized me. "Raymond, I am glad to see you again," and he strode forward, his lips smiling, his hand held out. "Old Ned swore to me you were dead, but the sergeant said you got away at the first rush. Not even a scratch—hey—"
"Just a moment, please," and the interested lieutenant interrupted him by a hand on the shoulder. "I believe we have never met before, but I presume you are Captain Fox?"
The latter turned, a trifle indignant at the other's manner.
"I am; what of it?"
"Only I am naturally somewhat interested in your identification of this fellow. To us he has claimed the name of Wyatt, but you address him as Raymond. What Raymond did he represent himself to be?"
Fox stared about in surprise at the faces surrounding him, scarcely able to collect his scattered wits.
"Why," he answered, as though half in doubt of his own words, "Lieutenant Charles H. Raymond, Third Cavalry, on recruiting service. I—I met him at Hot Springs, and he showed me his papers. Isn't—isn't he all right?"
"Well, you can draw your own conclusion," returned the lieutenant, his thin lips curled in a sneer, "for I am Raymond, Third Cavalry. This man is a rebel spy."
Escape was impossible; I knew that, for I had considered the chances. Both Whitlock and the lieutenant—the latter with revolver drawn—stood between me and the windows. The hall without was thronged with troopers, and, although I might attain the open door, that would be the end of it. I saw Noreen rise to her feet, her startled face turned toward me, but I held my nerves firm, and managed to smile.
"I expect the jig is up, gentlemen," I acknowledged quietly, determined they should get as little comfort out of me as possible. "I know when I have played my last card."
"Is your name really Wyatt?"
"It is; I am a sergeant in the Staunton Horse Artillery."
"And Miss Harwood—she knew you, as she said, by that name?"
"She did; I was born in this county, and we were children together. If she has attempted to protect me from arrest, it has been because of no disloyalty, but a womanly desire to assist an old friend."
Raymond was far from satisfied, suspiciously glancing from my face to where she stood, white-lipped and silent.
"There is nothing else between you?" he asked roughly. "Do you mean to say she told that story of her cousin's uniform merely because of a girlhood friendship."
"I am unable to say, sir."
"I hardly think, Lieutenant," broke in Whitlock, suddenly realizing his authority. "It is necessary to ask such questions now. The man confesses himself a spy, and a court-martial will probe into this matter. We must remember the young lady is the daughter of Major Harwood."
"And as Major Harwood's daughter," she said gravely, standing before me, "I desire to be heard, and to answer this gentleman's question. I sought to save Sergeant Wyatt because of our early friendship, and also because of the special service he has rendered me during the past night. I know nothing of his purpose here, but—but I hold him friend whatever may be his uniform."
The lieutenant bowed, hat in hand.
"I intended no criticism of your motives, but a soldier must perform his duty. Under whose orders are you here, Wyatt?"
"Those of General Jackson, sir."
"Ah! the old fox is casting his eyes this way for his new campaign. What were your orders?"
"I refuse to answer."
"No? Well, Ramsay will get a reply out of you!"
"I hardly think so, sir. You hang spies, but do not torture them."
"True enough," and Whitlock stepped to the door. "Sergeant, bring a file of men, and take charge of this prisoner. There is nothing to detain us longer. We have extra horses, Captain Fox, and you will ride with us as far as Lewisburg; Miss Harwood, I presume you have no desire to remain here alone—indeed, I could not permit it. Better bind the fellow's hands, Harper; search him first for weapons, and whatever papers he may carry. Mount him on that old artillery horse, and wait for us."
Raymond watched the proceedings carefully, taking my credentials as a Federal recruiting officer from the hands of the sergeant, and reading them over with a grim smile. I gave small heed to the glance of satisfaction with which he regarded me, and only ventured to look once toward the girl, as the soldiers roughly bound my hands. She had turned away, and was staring out of the open window. With lips pressed tightly together I marched out into the hall closely surrounded by the guard, my thought less concerned with my own fate than with her feeling toward me. Suddenly the truth revealed itself to my mind that I loved the woman I had so strangely married.
It is indeed odd how the human mind works, and now this new discovery completely eclipsed every other consideration. The thought of possible escape, of any means of defense, never occurred to me. All my memory retained was that last glimpse of her slender figure at the window, and the silhouette of her averted face. What was her thought of me? Why had she endeavored so bravely to open a way for my escape? She had not even hesitated at quick invention at falsehood in my behalf, fearlessly facing her questioners, risking her very reputation in hope of protecting me. Could it have been merely from a sense of gratitude for the small service I had rendered her? This was hard to conceive; yet it was even harder to convince myself that she really cared—that her swift sacrifice of self had been other than the impulse of a moment. Why, really, she almost had reason to hate me for what had occurred. I had practically forced her into marriage, needlessly, uselessly. She might even be justified in believing I realized the truth, and was guilty of a cowardly deceit. My memory of her in the past was that of a proud, headstrong girl, possessing a quick temper, careless of whom she hurt. I had never thought she even liked me, or valued my friendship, and this adventure was far more liable to arouse hatred than affection. She was of a nature to resent the unfair advantage I had taken, and declare war. In the moment of her first surprise she had sprung to my defense, but as soon as she could consider the conditions, her whole nature would turn against me—even now the feeling of disgust had come. She had turned coldly away, hating the very sight of me staring out of the window until I should disappear, dreading lest I prove cur enough to boast of our relationship. Well, the lady need not fear that. Nichols might tell the story, but it would never find utterance on my lips. And it would soon be over with, blotted out. My fate would be swiftly and surely settled—a drumhead court-martial at Lewisburg, a verdict of guilty, and a firing squad at dawn. The remedy was simple and effective. No one need ever know, for the preacher's lips could be easily closed. And perhaps Lieutenant Raymond—Bah! my teeth clinched angrily at thought of him, and I tramped on down the stairs to the gruff order of the sergeant.
There were three other prisoners, sallow faced, roughly dressed mountaineers, one wounded in the arm, but I was kept separated from them with a special guard. The day was gloomy, with clouded skies, and the road so muddy the horses stood fetlock deep. Within ten minutes the entire command was in saddle, and moving slowly northward. The lieutenant rode in my rear for the first mile, watchful and suspicious; I could hear his voice issuing orders, but cared nothing as to what precautions were taken. The faint hope of some possible escape was beginning to dawn on my mind, but I realized the futility of any attempt then—a way might open at Lewisburg if the guards grew careless, but the slow moving horse under me, limping painfully with each step, was proof positive that any effort made now to break away would prove utterly useless. Noreen was riding in advance of the column between the two captains. A gray circular cape concealed her slender form, but I could observe the frequent turning of her head as she apparently conversed vivaciously with her attentive escorts. After we reached the crossroads Raymond spurred his horse forward and joined them, evidently convinced that my guard was sufficiently vigilant, although he stopped in passing to test the knot which bound my hands behind the saddle. It was an insolent act, but I gave no outward sign of resentment, not even glancing aside at his face as he finally rode on. No one spoke to me, the sergeant gripping my rein in one hand, his face as expressionless as though carved from stone. Once I asked a question of the trooper on the other side—a rather pleasant faced lad—but he only shook his head, and looked away. I was thus driven to my own solitary thoughts, and they were far from enjoyable.
I had been caught red-handed, within the enemy's lines, dressed in Federal uniform, and bearing papers purporting to belong to Lieutenant Raymond. There was no defense I could offer, no plea for mercy I could make. The court-martial before which I would be brought for trial would be merely a form—I was condemned already. I realized all this, yet the knowledge of my desperate condition did not weigh on my mind as heavily as did the memory of my relations with that careless, laughing girl riding in advance. Could she be acting a part? or did she actually feel indifferent to my fate? Surely she must know, must understand the conditions of my arrest. She was a soldier's daughter, and had seen enough of army life to realize the treatment given a captured spy. Yet the fate overhanging me apparently made not the slightest impression upon her. She had never glanced at me as she came forth from the house; she had passed me by as if totally unaware of my existence, and now I could hear the sound of her laughter, as she chattered unconcerned with her three companions. There was but one conclusion possible—she really cared nothing. She had, obeying blindly the first impulse, endeavored to protect me from arrest, yet even that effort might have been made in fear lest I announce our marriage. But now, assured that I would not speak, relieved of that dread, her only remaining desire was to forget me utterly, to blot me completely from her memory.
It was a bitter thought, and yet no other was possible; nothing in her conduct, in the echo of her laughing words, the interest she exhibited in her blue-coated cavaliers, led me to any other conclusion. Perhaps I should have realized that such light-heartedness on her part must be assumed, for, casting my own case entirely aside, it was not natural that she should so soon forget the death of her father. It had come to her a shock, a blow. I had witnessed the intense suffering in her face at her earlier realization of the truth. She could not have forgotten so suddenly, so completely; her present effort to appear light-hearted, indifferent, must arise from some special purpose in her mind. In a vague way this occurred to me, but prejudice, doubt of her, had assumed possession of my brain, and I could not grasp the probability in any clearness. Her show of utter, heartless indifference hurt and blinded me. I actually believed the girl was glad of my capture; that she rejoiced at the knowledge that within a few hours she would be freed from all the consequences of our rash act. It was the reaction which had given her such high spirits, the exhilarating sense of escape, a relief so profound as to cause her to even forget her father's death. This was the conception which took possession of me, obliterating every other possibility.
At first the thought served to numb my faculties, and I rode forward with lowered head, all interest in life dead within me. Then pride came to the rescue, and I straightened up in the saddle. She was my wife—that slender, laughing girl! Of course I would never claim her; no word would ever pass my lips to bring to her pain and humiliation. No one would ever know—excepting us two. But if I did speak she could not deny, and she must realize why I had kept silent, why I had even gone down to death with closed lips. She could not be a woman and fail to appreciate such a sacrifice. It would live in her memory; she would think of me as not altogether unworthy; she would know some time this was not a trick, but an accident, in which my part was as innocent as her own. Resentment would die out in her heart, and a kindlier feeling creep in. And then—there was yet a chance! While there was life there was hope, and I was soldier enough, and sufficiently reckless, to accept of any opportunity. There might occur a relaxation in the vigilance of the guard, some delay at Lewisburg, possibly a forwarding of me to headquarters at Charleston—some sudden, unexpected opening through which I could squeeze. I was ready enough to try, however desperate the occasion; and, if such a chance did serve, the end might not come merely with escape. I could see her again; talk with her face to face. It became a fascinating dream, an inspiration—at last a grim determination.
And so through the mud we rode steadily on, following the pike that curved along the base of the mountains, and finally into the streets of Lewisburg.
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