Dora Darling the daughter of the regiment |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. | CHAPTER XI. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 26. |
| 27. |
| 28. |
| 29. |
| 30. |
| 31. |
| 32. |
| 33. |
| 34. |
| 35. |
| 36. |
| 37. |
| 38. |
 | CHAPTER XI. Dora Darling |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
We must now go back for a few hours to the dawning
of the day whose evening found Dora in the mountain
cabin, reading the story of Daniel to old Pic.
When Mrs. Wilson shrilly summoned her daughters to
arise, she called Dora's name with the rest.
“Dora ain't here,” sleepily replied Louisa.
“Ain't there! Where is she, then?”
“I don't know, I'm sure.”
“Don't you know, Jane?”
“No, ma'am.”
“She's gone out, I reckon. The door's unbolted,”
suggested Sam, one of the younger boys, who had risen
early to go fishing.
“Gone a walkin' for her health 'fore breakfast, I reckon,'
sneered Mrs. Wilson. “Ef she ain't back pooty
soon, I can tell her she'll get more walk than breakfast.
I don't believe in no such ways.”
The breakfast passed, and was cleared away. Mrs.
Wilson's displeasure at her niece's absence became a sort
of angry alarm, as the day went on, and brought no
tidings of her. Just before noon, Sam, returning from
ribbon.
“There's the bow Dora had pinned on her gown yesterday
— ain't it?” drawled he.
“Yes, I b'lieve so. Whar'd ye git it?” asked Mrs.
Wilson.
“In the yard of their old house. I come acrost it
coming from the brook, and 'bout half way I see this in
the path, and fetched it home. Ain't she got back
yet?”
“No,” said his mother, slowly, as she stood with her
eyes fixed upon the bit of ribbon.
“So she went up to the old house all 'lone, 'fore light.
Where'd she go next, I'd like to know,” said she to herself.
“Whar's your daddy, Sam, and whar's Dick
loafing now, when he might be o' some use?”
“They're coming up to the house, ma'am, this minit,
and a strange man and a big dog 'long with 'em.”
Mrs. Wilson peeped out at the window.
“It's Pete Flanders and his hound,” said she. “I
s'pose dad's brought him home to dinner; and here's the
vittles won't be done this half hour. 'Clare for't, I wish
Cephas 'ud let me know 'fore he brings folks home.”
The men now entered, and Mr. Wilson somewhat
sheepishly informed his wife that Mr. Flanders would
stay to dinner with them.
The dame went through some form of welcome, not of
daughters, to lay the table and dish the dinner.
When they were seated, she mentioned her anxiety at
Dora's prolonged absence, and also the clew to her
movements given by the cherry-colored bow.
“We can track her from that spot easy enough with
old Vixen,” said Flanders, eagerly.
“The hound? But he'd hurt her,” said Mrs. Wilson,
dubiously.
“Lord, ma'am, we'd muzzle him. He couldn't hurt
a babby then, 'cept by knockin' of it down.”
“You could hold him in a leash too, last part of the
way, couldn't you?” asked Dick.
“'Course I could. The gal shan't get hurt, and perhaps
we shall kill both birds with the same stone.”
“What two birds?” Mrs. Wilson inquired; and her
husband and his guest went on to tell her that Scipio,
one of Joe Sykes's “niggers,” had run away on the preceding
night, and that Joe had asked Mr. Wilson to go
after Flanders and his dog to hunt him. Arriving at
Wilson's house just at dinner time, they had stopped
there first.
More than this, Dick Wilson, who had been over at
Mr. Sykes's house in the morning, said that one of the
boys upon the place had been overheard saying to another
that he “reckoned Scip had gone off with Pic
Darley;” but though the lad had been strictly examined,
him confess that he had seen Picter, nothing could be
extorted from him more than that he “thought like
enough Pic had been round,” but did not know it certainly.
“I never see anything like the imperdence of niggers
nowadays,” remarked Mr. Flanders, indignantly.
“There ain't no gittin' at the truth, no how, 'thout you
cut it right out o' their hides.”
“Golly! I reckon you'd 'a thought Joe cut deep
enough inter that boy's hide this morning, but he didn't
come to the truth,” drawled Dick.
“That's cause there wan't no truth in him, I expect,”
said Louisa, with the air of one who utters a witticism.
“Truth,” chimed in her mother, “I'll put all the truth
you'll find in a nigger inter my right eye, and shan't go
blind with it nuther. I never b'lieve a word they say,
and I tell 'em so straight out.”
“It's no wonder they lie to you then,” growled Dick,
who was quite willing to argue against himself for the
sake of opposing his mother.
Dinner was now ended, and the men and dog all hurried
away to Joe Sykes's house, to begin the exciting
slave-hunt that they had prepared for.
But no clew could be gained to the starting-point of
the fugitive, who was, indeed, at that moment snugly
concealed in the great barn, having judged it best to
vigorously conducted, should be over, and the country
quiet, when he intended to steal away.
This little plan it may be as well to mention, was
afterwards carried out with perfect success, and the
“boy” (aged about forty) escaped to the Union lines,
and some time afterwards carried a musket at the battle
of Milliken's Bend.
The hunt, so far as he was concerned, was an entire
failure; but Mr. Flanders, determined to lose no opportunity
of turning an honest penny, now offered his services
to Mr. Wilson at a reduced rate, for, as he facetiously
remarked, —
“Chillen is alluz half price, you know.”
“Well, I don't suppose you'll have to travel very far,”
replied Mr. Wilson, who was incapable of taking even
so mild a joke as that offered by the slave-hunter.
“And if old Pic has been about, it's as likely as any
way that he'd harbor at the old place; and maybe Dora
went there to meet him, and they've took off together,”
suggested Dick, who had been in a brown study ever
since dinner-time.
This idea was hailed by his companions as little short
of inspiration, and Dick received various rough compliments
upon the brilliancy and penetration of his mind.
“Waal, it takes some eyesight to see inter the middle
of a millstone, that's certain; but then, when you git to
out most anything,” returned the lad, with a modest
pride, very refreshing to behold.
“Waal, let's git to work. It'll be sundown one o'
these days,” interposed Flanders, who felt that his own
importance must not be suffered to fade out of the public
mind.
The party accordingly adjourned to the spot where
Sam Wilson had picked up the little bow. Here a shoe
of Dora's was given the dog to smell of, and he was then
laid upon the scent.
This he immediately lifted, and set off at such speed
that the men could hardly keep him in sight.
Dick again suggested that he should be held in leash
or muzzled; but the slave-hunter objected that either of
these measures would retard the chase, and that there
could be no danger, as the child would not be in the open
road within a few miles of home.
“She'll be hid up somewhere—in a cave, or up a
tree, or somewheres like that, where Vixen couldn't
reach her. Besides, if the nigger's with her, we don't
want the hound muzzled, and Vixen wouldn't tech a
white gal; she knows better'n that, 'specially when there's
nigger to be got. She's trained fust rate, that dog is,
though I say it as shouldn't say it,” said Mr. Flanders,
modestly.
“Well,” retorted Dick, drawing a revolver from his
keep at that dog's heels, and if he offers to touch Dora,
supposing we find her, I shall just put a bullet through
his head for you.”
“Reckon you'd better not do that, young man, 'thout
you've got fifty dollars in your other pocket. That dog
ain't to be shot for nothing.”
“Nor my cousin ain't going to be worried like that
poor wench of Sykes's that you caught two year ago for
him. She died 'fore they got her home, she did.”
“Yes, that was kind o' unfortnit,” said Flanders, in a
lower voice. “But the fool might 'a clim a tree or sunthin',
and got out of his way. Wha' 'd she want to stop
right on the ground for?”
“I don' know nothing 'bout that, but this I do know.
If that dog flies at Dora, it'll be the last fly he'll ever
make,” returned Dick, emphatically, as he set off after
the dog, on a long lope, that could evidently be kept up
by so active a young fellow as Dick for a long period.
The others followed more slowly, two or three on
horseback, the less fortunate on foot.
The hound mutely followed the trail of the fugitives in
all its many windings, and Dick mentally concluded, from
its irregular and capricious course, that it had been
traversed in the darkness of night.
“Poor little Do,” thought he, “I wonder if she wa'n't
scart. I 'most hope old Pic was with her. By George,
chance to make off before the others come up.”
This benevolent intention was still fresh in the young
man's mind, when the hound stopped beneath the old
oak, concealing the entrance to the tunnel, and uttered
an impatient howl, followed by a furious bark.
“She's tree'd 'em!” exclaimed Dick, hurrying up,
and looking eagerly into the tree.
“Say, Dora!” called he softly, “if you're up there,
speak quick. No one ain't going to hurt you while I'm
round, and if you've got Pic with you, I'll give him a
chance to get off before the rest come up.”
To this proposal there was, of course, no reply, and
Dick now perceived that the dog was tearing at the
brush and broken branches wedged between the rock and
tree. He at once concluded that there must be a cave in
this rock, and that the brush concealed its entrance. He
hastened to drag away the obstructions, but, to his great
surprise, the face of the cliff was perfectly smooth and
unbroken. The dog also appeared somewhat puzzled,
but still persisted in clinging to the little space between
the oak and the cliff, and whimpering with impatience at
not finding it possible to pursue the trail.
The rest of the party now came up, and the united
wisdom of the whole finally succeeded in solving the
problem. The large stone was pushed aside, the tunnel
discovered, and every one drew back a little, expecting
agreed that the little girl could not be alone.
Nothing of the kind happened, however, and after a
moment or two, Dick boldly advanced, and looked into
the opening.
“Golly, that's curious!” exclaimed he. “There's a
hole here jist like a fox-hole. I reckon they've burrowed
down and hid since they heard us outside.”
All now crowded forward to look, and for some moments
nothing was to be heard but a confused wrangle
of voices, each one suggesting his own opinion or advice,
and rudely contradicting that of every one else.
“Waal, they're in there safe enough,” said Flanders,
at length; “now who's going down to fetch 'em out? I
can p'int to a man as ain't. I hain't got no fancy fer
havin' my throat cut by a nigger in a dark hole like
this'n. I'll send in the pup if you say so, or you may
go yourself, young man, sence you're so tender of the
gal getting scared.”
Dick, without reply, advanced a little way into the
tunnel, and called repeatedly to Dora, promising safety
and protection both then and at home if she would only
come out to him, and suggesting that if she refused, the
dog would next be sent to summon her, and might prove
a less considerate messenger than himself.
To this artful harangue there was naturally no reply,
as none of it reached the ears of any one but the speaker,
and Dick presently reappeared, somewhat disappointed.
“There's no one there,” said he, sulkily. “The dog
has got off the right scent, and been trailing a fox or a
badger, I reckon.”
“Foxes and badgers ain't so curus about shutting
their front doors when they go to bed,” sneered Flanders.
“The stuff's blow'd in sence the hole was given up,
I reckon,” said Dick, hastily.
“My dawg don't run on a last year's trail of a fox or
badger, when he's sot on the fresh trail of a human,”
said Flanders, with offended dignity.
“Muzzle the hound, and send him in, Flanders,” interposed
Wilson. “He'll soon tell us what's inside.
To this proposition, after some further discussion,
every one agreed; and Vixen, after a little encouragement
from her master, plunged into the tunnel and disappeared.
The men followed cautiously, and paused before
they had quite lost sight of daylight.
The muffled cries of the dog soon announced that she
had met with some obstacle; but before the listeners had
decided upon the nature of this, the sudden rush and
crash of Picter's land avalanche, and the clouds of dust
accompanying it, drove them tumultuously from the
entrance; nor did one of them care to reënter it, even
to ascertain the fate of the hound, whose loss Flanders
loudly and somewhat indignantly lamented.
A long and heated discussion of these events, continued
at “the grocery,” where they spent the evening, resulted
in the almost unanimous conclusion that Dora and Picter
had been hidden in the cave, which was supposed to be
of small extent, and that upon the approach of the dog,
they had made some effort to escape by climbing its
sides, that had brought the whole down upon their heads,
burying themselves and the hound in a common grave.
So Mrs. Wilson entered into undisturbed possession
of the orphan's heritage, and did not find it so satisfactory
as she had expected.
| CHAPTER XI. Dora Darling | |