23. CHAPTER XXIII.
HARLEY'S RIDE IN THE STORM.
Let us follow Harley.
Half an hour after his departure from Huntsdon, the moon disappeared
behind a heavy cloud, the wind began to rise, and soon
the low mutter of thunder was heard, preluding a storm. Lightning
followed, dividing the murky mass like a serpent of fire, and
then the rain began to fall, lashing the world with its fury. A
heavy, continuous, unintermitting torrent roared down, bowing
the tallest cypresses, driving into the eyes of wayfarers, and
blinding all who were exposed to its rage.
Harley rode on without paying the least attention to the fury of
the tempest. He seemed to be possessed by a single thought—
that it was necessary to keep an appointment with, or to make
some communication to, some person, which person seemed to live
in or near the Blackwater Swamp. The rain was still descending
in torrents when he found himself in the vicinity of Puccoon's
hut. He checked his horse. The animal tried to turn his back to
the storm, and shelter his face, at least, from the driving gusts.
But Harley did not seem to notice it. He lowered his head—that
was all—and evidently reflected.
“I will not take Puccoon,” he muttered, “but I will leave my
horse in his charge.”
And riding rapidly up the hollow, he stopped at the trapper's
hut, and hallooed. Puccoon was asleep, but the sound soon woke
him.
“Who is there?” he said, coming to the door, and rubbing his
eyes.
Harley dismounted.
“Puccoon,” he said.
“You, squire!”
“Yes.”
Puccoon again rubbed his eyes.
“I want a friend to-night. Take my horse. I am going where
I am going on foot. Keep my horse until I return.”
Puccoon took the animal by the bridal in a dazed way.
“Yes, squire.”
Then he recovered the use of his faculties.
“Where are you going?”
The rain dashed in his face, but he did not seem to feel it.
“I am going into the swamp,” said Harley.
“Into the swamp!”
“Yes.”
Puccoon's countenance assumed an imbecile expression. He
shuddered, after his fashion—that is, he shook.
“Don't squire!” he said.
Harley buttoned up his coat.
“Why not?” he said.
“The man o' the swamp is there.”
“Well,” said Harley, composedly, “that is the exact person I am
going to see. I am in pursuit of the man of the swamp.”
Puccoon's eyes resembled saucers.
“You will not find him!”
“You are mistaken.”
“You tried, and couldn't.”
“I know that.”
“And you think, squire—?”
“That I shall be more successful now? Yes, I know where I am
to look for him, and mean to go straight to the spot. I can even
tell you before I set out where he lives.”
“Squire!”
“Speak quickly, Puccoon, I am in haste. It is nearly one
o'clock, and I have many things to discuss before morning with
the man of the swamp.”
“You!”
“I.”
“You say you know where to find him?”
“Yes.”
“Squire! I have shot at him to-night.”
Harley lowered his head to protect his eyes from the storm.
“Then he has been lurking around again?”
“Yes. But that is nothing. You are joking, squire! You are
not going to see the man of the swamp?”
“Yes.”
“You will not find him, I say!”
“I will find him.”
“Where?”
“In his house.”
“His house!”
“On the southern bank of the lake, where the outlet to the
Blackwater runs around an island covered with black gum, with
one laurel in the centre, and three cypress trees growing within a
few feet of each other. Under the cypresses there is a knoll,
covered with sod. This sod is the roof of a house. The house
is that of the man of the swamp.”
Harley spoke in a tone that was almost gay. His face glowed,
as it had done throughout the conversation. He did not seem
to perceive the storm.
“Who told you that?” exclaimed Puccoon.
“A dead man,” returned Harley.
“I am going there!” he added; “I shall leave my horse here.
You may expect me back at daylight.”
Puccoon led the horse quickly to a shed behind his cabin, which
afforded some shelter. He then came back promptly, and reaching
inside his door, pulled out his carbine and his fur cap.
“Really, squire!” he said.
Harley shook his head.
“No, you cannot go with me. I have business with the man of
the swamp which will not admit of the presence of a third person.
Stay here.”
“Squire! You are as good as a dead man if you go by yourself!
How you have found out about this devil, and where he lives,
I don't know; but I know you are risking your life to go by
yourself!”
“That's my business.”
“Squire!”
“I have no time to talk with you now,” said Harley. “Remain
here. What is your man of the swamp, that I should fear him?
Am I not a man, and what is he more than that? Good night!”
Harley wrapped his coat closely around him, pulled his hat over
his face to protect his eyes from the storm, and turning his back
upon Puccoon, set forward, walking rapidly in the direction of the
swamp, in whose sombre depths, now lashed by the tempest, he
disappeared.
As he did so, the old clock at Huntsdon, miles away, struck,
solemnly.
“One!”
