Part 50 (1/2)

”Johnstown way, Mr. Renault. The Weasel, Tim Murphy, and Nick Stoner was a-smellin' after moccasin-prints on the Mayfield trail. About sunup they made smoke-signals at me that they was movin' Kingsboro way on a raw trail.”

He brought me his tin cup full of rum and water. I drank a small portion of it, then rinsed throat and mouth, still standing.

”Butler and Ross, with a thousand rifles and baggage-wagons, are making for the Tribes Hill ford,” I said. ”A hundred Cayugas, Mohawks, and Tories burned Oswaya just after sunrise, and are this moment pus.h.i.+ng on to Johnstown. We've got to get there before them, Elerson.”

”Yes, sir,” he said simply, glancing at the flint in his rifle.

”Is there any chance of our picking up the scout?”

”If we don't, it's a dead scout for sure,” he returned gravely. ”Tim Murphy wasn't lookin' for scalpin' parties from the north.”

I handed him his cup, tightened belt and breast-straps, trailed rifle, and struck the trail at a jog; and behind me trotted David Elerson, famed in ballad and story, which he could not read--nor could Tim Murphy, either, for that matter, whose learning lay in things unwritten, and whose eloquence flashed from the steel lips of a rifle that never spoke in vain.

Like ice-chilled wine the sweet, keen mountain air blew in our faces, filtering throat and nostrils as we moved; the rain that the frost had promised was still far away--perhaps not rain at all, but snow.

On we pressed, first breath gone, second breath steady; and only for the sickening foreboding that almost unnerved me when I thought of Elsin, I should not have suffered from the strain.

Somewhere to the west, hastening on parallel to our path, was strung out that pack of raiding bloodhounds; farther south, perhaps at this very instant entering Johnstown, moved the marauders from the north. A groan burst from my dry lips.

Slowing to a walk we began to climb, shoulder to shoulder, ascending the dry bed of a torrent fairly alive with partridges.

”Winter's comin' almighty fast; them birds is a-packin' and a-buddin'

already. Down to the Bush I see them peckin' the windfall apples in your old orchard.”

I scarcely heard him, but, as he calmly gossiped on, hour after hour, a feeling of dull surprise grew in me that at such a time a man could note and discuss such trifles. Ah, but he had no sweetheart there in the threatened town, menaced by death in its most dreadful shape.

”Are the women in the jail?” I asked, my voice broken by spasmodic breathing as we toiled onward.

”I guess they are, sir--leastways Jack Mount was detailed there to handle the milishy.” And, after a pause, gravely and gently: ”Is your lady there, sir?”

”Yes--G.o.d help her!”

He said nothing; there was nothing of comfort for any man to say. I looked up at the sun.

”It's close to noontide, sir,” said Elerson. ”We'll make Johnstown within the half-hour. Shall we swing round by the Hall and keep cover, or chance it by the road to Jimmy Burke's?”

”What about the scout?” I asked miserably.

He shook his head, and over his solemn eyes a shadow pa.s.sed.

”Mayhap,” he muttered, ”Tim Murphy's luck will hold, sir. He's been fired at by a hundred of their best marksmen; he's been in every b.l.o.o.d.y sc.r.a.pe, a.s.sault, ambush, retreat, 'twixt Edward and Cherry Valley, and never a single bullet-scratch. We may find him in Johnstown yet.”

He swerved to the right: ”With your leave, Captain Renault, we'll fringe the timber here. Look, sir! Yonder stands the Hall against the sky!”

We were in Johnstown. There, across Sir William's tree-bordered pastures and rolling stubble-fields, stood the baronial hall. Sunlight sparkled on the windows. I saw the lilacs, the bare-limbed locusts, the orchards, still brilliant with scarlet and yellow fruit, the long stone wall and hedge fence, the lawns intensely green.

”It is deserted,” I said in a low voice.

”Hark!” breathed Elerson, ear to the wind. After a moment I heard a deadened report from the direction of the village, then another and another; and, spite of the adverse breeze, a quavering, gentle, sustained sound, scarce more than a vibration, that hung persistently in the air.

”By G.o.d!” gasped Elerson, ”it's the bell at the jail! The enemy are here! Pull foot, sir! Our time has come!”