University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

I felt my heart grow very chill as I reviewed
my situation. My path was every where beset, and
Bud Halsey, knowing the country as he did, and
being the person that he was, was not likely to
leave his work unfinished. The conversation of
my pursuers was of a kind to leave me hopeless

of any escape, except through the merest good
fortune, and the most unyielding firmness. On
the very path that I was pursuing, my arch enemy,
with his two subtle satellites, was himself
upon the watch, and yet, I could not choose
any other route. I knew of no other, and the
very fact that I knew my enemies upon this, who
they were and where they were, determined me
still to go forward as I had begun. I must take
my chance and meet events with whatever courage
and conduct I could command. It was evident
from what they had said, and from the free
rein with which they dashed forward, that there
was some certain point ahead, at which they
aimed, and where they intended to await me.
What was that point? Where was `Raccoon crossing?'
I was ignorant of every step of the route.
I had nothing to do but to go forward with as
much prudence as possible—to prepare against
all sudden surprises—to keep in the cover of
the woods, where they were of a nature to
suffer me to do so, and to feel my ground at
every change of position before betraying myself.
In no other way could I hope to avoid the
encounter,—for which, should it be unavoidable,
I must only man myself with the most desperate
resolution. The determination to sell my life as
dearly as possible, seemed to nerve me with
strength to proceed, and, cutting myself a stout
hickory for the wayside, I started forward, with
spirits much lighter than seemed to be altogether
justified by my situation. A moment's reflection
now served to convince me that, what I had
lately regarded as a crowning evil—the loss of
my horse—was, in reality, somewhat favorable
to my hope of escape. It enabled me to keep
the cover of the woods, to advance noiselessly,
and to conceal myself with more facility on the
approach of danger. Encouraged by thoughts
like these, and by that sort of audacity which
comes from one's desperation, I dashed into motion
with a sort of defiance, and, keeping along
the margin of the road, ready to seek the shelter
of the woods at the smallest alarm, I commenced
my pedestrian expedition with all the philosophy
of which I was master.

I had always been counted a good amateur
walker,—but walking as a duty, and in a new,
unopened country, following Indian foot-paths,
and fording streams, wading swamps, and “cooning
logs,” is a very different business. The road
was a terribly broken one, crossed by frequent
ravine and rivulet,—for I was not yet entirely
out of the Swamp country,—and full of obstructions
from fallen trees, vines, briars, stumps, and
broken branches. But I was sustained by the
very difficulties of my situation. I was stimulated
by the trial of my strength, and able to get
forward at the rate of three miles an hour, which
was probably quite as much as could have been
done, in his best days, by the miserable beast I
had abandoned. But, five hours at this pace

soon lessened pretty equally my strength and
elasticity. Towards evening, I began to feel the
approaching gravity of the scene. The trees began
to cast a longer, denser shadow across my
path, and the sun glimmered faintly, sprinkling
the open space with a cluster of beaded gold-drops,
which, while they caught my glance, and
while I looked for them from side to side, did not
very much tend to enliven me. The wilderness
seldom has its singing birds, and I failed to hear
the chirp of one the whole afternoon. Once, a
couple of deer glided over the road from one
thicket to another, but sign of living thing beside,
I saw not; and, as the sun disappeared, a couple
of screech owls commenced a most gloomy death-duett,
from opposite sides of the path over which
I was to make my way, and seemed to accompany
my progress for a good half hour after. The moon
rose, however, almost with the disappearance
of the sun, and I gave her, from the bottom of my
heart, a traveller's benison. She poured a steady
blaze of light across the path, and thus enabled
me to avoid its pitfalls and obstructions. Having
no place of retreat, and with my spirits somewhat
revived by her countenance, I still pursued
my way, resolving to continue on until absolutely
worn out with fatigue. For three hours more I
did so, but weariness began to wrap me as with a
cloud. I staggered rather than walked along the
path, and, to keep my eyes open, though I felt no
hunger, I took from my pockets one of the corn
biscuits with which I had provided myself at the
hovel of the Choctaw, and commenced eating
against time. While thus engaged, I happened
upon a trail which struck into the woods upon
my right, and seemed to lead to an opening,
which was partially discernable from the road—
the moonlight falling down upon the space, in a
body, giving it the appearance of a placid lake.
My exhaustion furnished me with sufficient reasons
why I should turn into this path, which I
did without a moment's hesitation. I followed it
for some hundred and fifty yards, when it forked.
I took one of the branches at hazard, followed it
some fifty yards farther, and found myself suddenly
in front of a rude shanty of logs, more like
the den of a wild animal than the dwelling of a human
being. Prudence would have counselled me
rather to find my night's rest in the thicket than
in such a hovel;—but the sight of anything in
the shape of human habitation, seemed to me to
convey the idea of security. Besides, this place
was evidently abandoned, and had been long
without a tenant. I did not plunge into it head-long,
but exercising all the circumspection that I
could command, in that general dulling of the
faculties that had been produced by weariness
and cold, I examined the hut cautiously from the
outside,—taking care to peer into it from each
corner,—and without seeing anything to alarm
me. The roof, which had been originally a thin
thatch of pine boughs and leaves, was half broken
in and lay upon the ground below—the ends of
the remaining branches still hanging half way
down and threatening a further fall. The door
which was made of plank, was thrown down
within;—and such, in short, was the generally
desolate air of the place, that I took possession at
once, taking for granted that my pursuers were
considerably ahead of me,—and of other persons
I had nothing to fear. I was, perhaps, more
readily persuaded to give this preference to the
hovel over the woods, as, by this time, I could
hear, rising at intervals from the deep recesses
of the swamp-thickets, confused sounds, not unlike
the hoarse voices of beasts of prey preparing
to emerge for their nightly orgies. I could not
doubt that, among these, the sharp bay of the
wolf was a frequent sound;—and, as it would not
be prudent for me to raise a fire, lest, in driving
the brute from my slumbers, I should only furnish
a conducting signal to a foe equally if not more
deadly—I concluded to take my rest in the cabin.
The door I raised to its former position so as to
close entirely the opening, fastening it in its place
by the wythes of grape-vine, which I found in
long coils conveniently within the cabin. This
done, I looked at my inner accommodations. The
moon, shining down through one half of the dismantled
roof, enabled me to see and to dispose
of the massed pine trash, which had once furnished
the thatch above. Of this, I made a very
comfortable couch in the covered part of my den,
which was still in shadow; and, having put my
pistols within convenient grasp of my hand, I
yielded my farther cares of the night, to the
gracious providence, which had hitherto had me
in its keeping, a brief prayer for protection, and
a few sad thoughts to the memory of poor Helen,
and I was soon lost to the farther troubles of consciousness.

I slept very soundly and satisfactorily. My
previous excitements and fatigues had given to
my slumbers a rare and delightful relish, to confirm
the sweetness and efficacy of which, my
dreams were of the most soothing and grateful
tendency. The past experience of pang was forgotten
in their ministerings. Poor Helen was
once more a living and loving spirit in my arms.
Once more I found myself roving over the wild
recesses of Conelachita in her company—my
arm about her waist, and both of us as happy, and
as little moved by care, as if there had been no
other human beings in the world around us.
From this happy state, I was suddenly awakened,
—I know not how! The moon was shining
directly down upon my face. I looked round as
if seeking Helen,—becoming aware very slowly
of the solemn truth of my loneliness. But I soon
became aware of other facts in my condition.
The door which I had so carefully put up, as a
defence during my slumbers, was removed, and
now partly rested against the passage. I could
see one of its angles protruding through the space.
In the opening, and upon the sill, crouched a
form, which, at my first consciousness, seemed to
me to be that of a wild animal. I fancied it a
bear. Under the momentary impulse, I stretched

out my hands to the spot just by my head where
I had placed my pistols. They were gone!—
and the half scornful chuckle of the intruder, as
he beheld my movement, at once informed me by
what agency. I started up into a sitting posture
and confronted the stranger.

“Be quiet,” said he, and I then recognized the
voice of Mowbray. “Be quiet—keep your temper
and your breath, and all may go well with
you.”

“Where is Bud Halsey?” I demanded, under
I know not what impulse.

“Fortunately for you, not within hearing distance.
You are lucky in one thing, that he sent
me on this route, instead of taking it himself.
But for this your sleep had not been so gently
broken!”

“But how did you find me out?”

“Ha! ha! ha! you are a rare person at hide-and-seek.
You remind me of that sagacious
bird—the ostrich I think it is—that, when pursued
by the hunter, buries its head in a hollow,
leaving the rest of its carcass to take care of itself.
He's a bad scout who thinks, because he
can no longer see his enemy, that he himself must
needs remain unseen. Why did you hide in the
hovel at all—why not in the woods?”

“I was afraid of wolves, and did not dare to
light a fire.”

“But why not take a tree?”

“I never thought of that! I was, indeed, too
much tired, and too sleepy to think at all!”

“Well, that is frank enough,—but, when you
determined to take the cabin, you should not
have raised the door. That was enough to tell
me that somebody was within,—and then you
slept in the moonlight! I saw your features distinctly—saw
where your pistols lay, and found
no difficulty in cutting through grape-vines, letting
the door down quiently, and removing your
pistols.”

This simple statement showed how obtusely I
had gone to work, in the stupor caused by fatigue
and drowsiness, in rendering myself secure.

“I guarded only against wild beasts—I thought
you were far ahead!”—I muttered, as if to excuse
my stupidity.

“You thought we were far ahead? Why,
what did you know about it?” said Mowbray
with some surprise. I hesitated before replying.

“Why should I answer you? Do I not know
you to be my enemy? What need of parley between
us?”

I spoke this very fiercely. I was now desperate.
His coolness,—as I conjectured, what was
the feeling of confidence in my capture which
filled his mind,—incensed me, and I felt the momentary
impulse to spring upon him where he
stood.

“Be not wrothy!” he said—“keep cool! You
forget, my good fellow, that you are defenceless!”

“Are you sure of that?” I demanded.

He held up my own pistols as I spoke.

“What are these?”

“True,—but I have this!”—and I drew the
dirk from my bosom with which Bush Halsey
had provided me.

He cocked both of the pistols as I answered.

“And of what avail would your dirk be, Henry
Meadows, against these? I have but to draw the
trigger of either. I know the pistols and you
know my aim. But a truce to this,—you do not
yet know me. I do not seek your life. I will
save it if you will suffer me As I said before, it
is fortunate that Bush Halsey sent me on this
route instead of taking it himself.”

I interrupted him.

“Speak to me as an honest man—as a man,
Mowbray. Do I understand you? Can I
believe you? Do you not mean to betray me
once more, as you did when you devised the
scheme for robbing the supposed agent?”

“How know you that?” he demanded.

In brief, I told him of the position I had kept
when Bud Halsey, Warner, and himself stopped
for dinner at the spring. How, hanging over
their heads, I had heard all their conversation.

“You heard, then, the insolence of this bearded
tyrant? You saw what I had to endure—I, a
gentleman born and bred, at the hands of that
ruffian. You heard,—you say? you heard!”

“Every syllable.”

“And you cannot understand why I would
thwart the scoundrel—why I would save you?—
nay, why I should show you how to put a bullet
through his brains? All this will I do! Are

you ready to second me? Will you play a desperate
game for your life?”

“Try me! If you speak me fairly, the thing
may be done. They are but two, and we are—”

“Wronged—and of equal number. Be it so!
To prove to you that I am in earnest, here are
your pistols. Sound them—see that they are
charged. Take nothing on trust. All right?”

“Yes!”

“Now hear me! You chose for your place
of rest, the very region where we proposed to
lie in wait for you. `Raccoon Crossings' has three
tracks, each leading to an old Indian encampment.
You happened to choose the one least likely to
have been chosen by one seeking concealment.
It lies almost within sight of the road, and was
probably the only track you happened to see. It
was for this reason that Bud Halsey sent me on
this route. He took for granted that you would
be more likely to be encountered on either of the
others. To one of these he sent Warner, the
other he pursued himself. The third, and least
likely, under ordinary calculations, to have
brought you up, he assigned to me, for no better
reason than I can conjecture, but that he suspects
me. He suspects me of being privy to your
flight, and some singular circumstances, which I
need not tell you now, contributed to make his
suspicions natural and strong. It will probably
increase your confidence in my present plan,
when I tell you that, being under his suspicion, I
am probably marked out as his next victim, and
he only brought me with him, from the Swamp,

that I might be under his own eye till the proper
moment of dealing with me. A common cause
unites us. Are you ready?”

“For what?”

“For what?—Why, blood!—Death!—what
else? Do you fear? Will you not fight?”

“Fear! no! Be not so violent! I like harsh
language as little as yourself. All I wish to know
is what you design—your plan. I have no notion
of striking like a blind man in the dark.”

“Very good! I understand you. I am a little
irritable—half mad, indeed! I feel that I am just
sane enough to do mischief, as I certainly am to
design it. Here, then, you wait. Keep your
den—keep in the dark corner,—while I go and
bring Halsey.”

“Would it not be better to go to him?”

“No! no! it is better as I tell you. I will
bring him here. You will keep still—keep dark.
I will lead the way into your den, and when he
comes, be sure and make your mark upon him.
I will be ready to follow up the blow. Only be
sure to hit the right man. I am not quite prepared
to be laid by the heels—far from it—far
from it—yet I have an ugly notion that my time
is not far off. Be you sure of your man, that's
all. Look to your pistols—have them cocked,
and in readiness,—and, above all things, be cool
—be firm—do nothing in a hurry!”

Having thus counselled me, he warned me
where to dispose myself, and proceeded to replace
my door, which he made me fasten on the
inside precisely as I had fastened it before.

“He will probably insist upon the removal of
the door himself, for he fancies nobody can do
such things half so skilfully. Should this be the
case, he may, and probably will, enter the cabin
first. In this event, you will act without waiting
for me, only taking care that I am not immediately
behind him. You will easily know him by
his superior bulk. You cannot well confound
us, unless you are alarmed beyond measure,
which I hardly think will be the case. Be of
good heart—you will need all of its strength in
half an hour.”—With these words, he disappeared.