Part 6 (2/2)

d.i.c.k laughed to himself. He had won a triumph, although he did not yet know that it would amount to anything. At any rate the men could no longer glide up and down the river at their leisure looking for him to come forth from the forest.

He knew that the shots would bring the single pursuer at full speed, and, as he had saved some ounces of strength, he now ran at his utmost speed. The river curved again and just beyond the curve it seemed shallow to him. He plunged in at once, and waded rapidly, holding his rifle, pistols and saddlebags above his head. He was in dread lest he receive a bullet in his back, but he made the farther sh.o.r.e, ran into the dense undergrowth and sank down dripping and panting.

He had made the crossing but he did not forget to be ready. He rapidly reloaded his rifle, and fastened the pistols at his belt. Then he looked through the bushes at the river. The two canoemen, water running from them in streams, were on the other bank, though a little farther down the stream. He believed that they were no longer silent. He fondly imagined that they were cursing hard, if not loud.

His relief was so great that, forgetting his own bedraggled condition, he laughed. Then he looked again to see what they were going to do. A small man, his face shaded by the broad brim of a hat, emerged from the woods and joined them. d.i.c.k was too far away to see his face, even had it been uncovered, but his figure looked familiar. Nevertheless, although he tried hard, he could not recall where he had seen him before. But, as he carried a long-barreled rifle, d.i.c.k was sure that this was his unknown pursuer. There had certainly been collusion also between him and the men in the boat, as the three began to talk earnestly, and to point toward the woods on the other side.

d.i.c.k felt that he had avenged himself upon the boatmen, but his rage rose high against the little man under the broad-brimmed hat. It was he who had followed him so long, and who had tried ruthlessly to kill him. The lad's rifle was of the most improved make and a bullet would reach. He was tempted to try it, but prudence came to his rescue. Still lying close he watched them. He felt sure that they would soon be hunting for his footprints, but he resolved to stay in his covert, until they began the crossing of the river, to which his trail would lead when they found it.

He saw them cease talking and begin searching among the woods. It might be at least a half-hour before they found the trail and his strength would be restored fully then. His sinking of the canoe had been in reality a triumph, and so he remained at ease, watching the ford.

He was quite sure that when his trail was found the little man would be the one to find it, and sure enough at the end of a half-hour the weazened figure led down to the ford. d.i.c.k might have shot one of them in the water, but he had no desire to take life. It would serve no purpose, and, refreshed and strengthened, he set out through the forest toward Jackson.

He came to a brook soon, and, remembering the old device of Indian times, he waded in it at least a half-mile. When he left it he pa.s.sed through a stretch of wood, crossed an old cotton field and entered the woods again. Then he sat down and ate from his store, feeling that he had shaken off his pursuers. Another examination of his map followed. He had kept fixed in his mind the point at which he was to find Hertford, and, being a good judge of direction, he felt sure that he could yet reach it.

The sun, now high and warm, had dried his clothing, and, after the food, he was ready for another long march. He struck into a path and walked along it, coming soon to a house which stood back a little distance from a road into which the path merged. A man and two women standing on the porch stared at him curiously, but he pretended to take no notice. After long exposure to weather, blue uniforms did not differ much from gray, and his own was now covered with mud. He could readily pa.s.s as a soldier of the Confederacy unless they chose to ask too many questions.

”From General Pemberton's army?” called the man, when he was opposite the house.

d.i.c.k nodded and stepped a little faster.

”Won't you stop for a bite and fresh water with friends of the cause?”

”Thanks, but important dispatches. Must hurry.” They repeated the invitation. He shook his head, and went on. He did not look back, but he was sure that they stared at him as long as he was in sight. Then, for safety's sake, he left the road and entered the wood once more.

He had now come to country comparatively free from swamp and marsh, and pursued his way through a great forest, beautiful with live oaks and magnolias. In the afternoon he took a long rest by the side of a clear spring, where he drew further upon the store of food in his saddlebags, which he calculated held enough for another day. After that he would have to forage upon the country.

He would sleep the second night in the forest, his blanket being sufficient protection, unless rain came, which he would have to endure as best he could. Another look at his map and he believed that on the following afternoon he could reach Hertford.

He took the remaining food from his saddlebags, wrapped it in his blanket, and strapped the pack on his back. Then, in order to lighten his burden, he hung the saddlebags on the bough of a tree and abandoned them, after which he pressed forward through the woods with renewed speed.

He came at times to the edge of the forest and saw houses in the fields, but he always turned back among the trees. He could find only enemies here, and he knew that it was his plan to avoid all human beings. Precept and example are of great power and he recalled again much that he had heard of his famous ancestor, Paul Cotter. He had been compelled to fight often for his life and again to flee for it from an enemy who reserved torture and death for the captured. d.i.c.k felt that he must do as well, and the feeling increased his vigor and courage.

A little later he heard a note, low, faint and musical. It was behind him, but he was sure at first that it was made by negroes singing. It was a pleasing sound. The negro had a great capacity for happiness, and d.i.c.k as a young lad had played with and liked the young colored lads of his age.

But as he walked on he heard the low, musical note once more and, as before, directly behind him. It seemed a little nearer. He paused and listened. It came again, always nearer and nearer, and now it did not seem as musical as before. There was a sinister thread in that flowing note, and suddenly d.i.c.k remembered.

He was a daring horseman and with his uncle and cousin and others at Pendleton he had often ridden after the fox. It was the note of the hounds, but of bloodhounds, and this time they were following him. From the first he had not the slightest doubt of it. Somebody, some traitor in the Union camp, knew the nature of his errand, and was hanging on to the pursuit like death.

d.i.c.k knew it was the little man whom he had seen by the river, and perhaps the canoemen were with him-he would certainly have comrades, or his own danger would be too great-and they had probably obtained the bloodhounds at a farmhouse. Nearly everybody in Mississippi kept hounds.

The long whining note came again and much nearer. Now all music was gone from it for d.i.c.k. It was ferocious, like the howl of the wolf seeking prey, and he could not restrain a shudder. His danger had returned with twofold force, because the hounds would unerringly lead his pursuers through the forest as fast as they could follow.

He did not yet despair. A new resolution was drawn from the depths of his courage. He did not forget that he was a good marksman and he had both rifle and pistols. He tried to calculate from that whining, ferocious note how many hounds were pursuing, and he believed they were not many. Now he prepared for battle, and, as he ran, he kept his eye on the ground in order that he might choose his own field.

He saw it presently, a ma.s.s of fallen timber thrown together by a great storm, and he took his place on the highest log, out of reach of a leaping hound. Then, lying almost flat on the log and with his rifle ready, he waited, his heart beating hard with anger that he should be pursued thus like an animal.

The howling of the hounds grew more ferocious, and it was tinged with joy. The trail had suddenly grown very hot, and they knew that the quarry was just before them. d.i.c.k caught a good view of a long, lean, racing figure bounding among the trees, and he fired straight at a spot between the blazing eyes. The hound fell without a sound, and with equal ease he slew the second. The third and last drew back, although the lad heard the distant halloo of men seeking to drive him on.

d.i.c.k sprang from his log and ran through the forest again. He knew that the lone hound after his first recoil would follow, but he had his reloaded rifle and he had proved that he knew how to shoot. It would please him for the hound to come within range.

When he took to renewed flight the hound again whined ferociously and d.i.c.k glanced back now and then seeking a shot. Once he caught a glimpse of two or three dusky figures some distance behind the hound, urging him on, and his heart throbbed with increased rage. If they presented an equal target he would fire at them rather than the hound.

He could run no longer, and his gait sank to a walk. His very exhaustion brought him his opportunity, as the animal came rapidly within range, and d.i.c.k finished him with a single lucky shot. Then, making an extreme effort, he fled on a long time, and, while he was fleeing, he saw the sun set and the night come.

The strain upon him had been so great that his nerves and brain were unsteady. Although the forest was black with night he saw it through a blood-red mist. Something in him was about to burst, and when he saw a human figure rising up before him it broke and he fell.

d.i.c.k was unconscious a long time. But when he awoke he found himself wrapped in a blanket, while another was doubled under his head. It was pitchy dark, but he beheld the outline of a human figure, sitting by his side. He strove to rise, but a powerful hand on his shoulder pushed him back, though gently, and a low voice said: ”Stay still, Mr. Mason. We mustn't make any sound now!”

d.i.c.k recognized in dim wonder the voice of Sergeant Daniel Whitley. How he had come there at such a time, and what he was doing now was past all guessing, but Sergeant Whitley was a most competent man. He knew more than most generals, and he was filled with the lore of the woods. He would trust him. He let his head sink back on the folded blanket, and his heavy eyes closed again.

When d.i.c.k roused from his stupor the sergeant was still by his side, and, as his eyes grew used to the darkness, he noticed that Whitley was really kneeling rather than sitting, crouched to meet danger, his finger on the trigger of a rifle. d.i.c.k's brain cleared and he sat up.

”What is it, Sergeant?” he whispered.

”I see you're all right now, Mr. Mason,” the sergeant whispered back, ”but be sure you don't stir.”

”Is it the Johnnies?”

”Lean over a little and look down into that dip.”

d.i.c.k did so, and saw four men hunting among the trees, and the one who seemed to be their leader was the little weazened fellow, with the great, flap-brimmed hat.

”They're looking for your trail,” whispered the sergeant, ”but they won't find it. It's too dark, even for a Sioux Indian, and I've seen them do some wonderful things in trailing.”

”I seem to have met you in time, Sergeant.”

”So you did, sir, but more of that later. Perhaps you'd better lie down again, as you're weak yet. I'll tell you all they do.”

”I'll take your advice, Sergeant, but am I sound and whole? I felt something in me break, and then the earth rose up and hit me in the face.”

”I reckon it was just the last ounce of breath going out of you with a pop. They're hunting hard, Mr. Mason, but they can't pick up the trace of a footstep. Slade must be mad clean through.”

”Slade! Slade! Who's Slade?”

”Slade is a spy partly, and an outlaw mostly, 'cause he often works on his own hook. He's the weazened little fellow with so much hat-brim, and he's about twenty different kinds of a demon. You've plenty of reason to fear him, and it's lucky we've met.”

”It's more than luck for me, Sergeant. It's salvation. I believe it wouldn't have been half as hard on me if somebody had been with me, and you're the first whom I would have chosen. Are they still in the dip, Sergeant?”

”No, they've pa.s.sed to the slope on the right, and I think they'll go over the hill. We're safe here so long as we remain quiet; that is, safe for the time. Slade will hang on as long as there's a possible chance to find us.”

”Sergeant, if they do happen to stumble upon us in the dark I hope you'll promise to do one thing for me.”

<script>