University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

The fading twilight, although barely sufficient to show
the little party their path among the trees, was yet enough
to bring out a thousand grotesque forms and shadows
among the gnarled old trunks and tangled thickets, so
that total darkness would have been less frightful, while,
in addition to the moaning and howling of the wind, their
ears were now assailed by the cries of numerous night
birds and the smaller beasts of prey, who still roam these
mountain regions.

Picter, keeping close to his young mistress, ceased not
to mutter gloomy prognostics of their approaching fate,
mingled with reproaches upon her wilfulness in placing
herself and him in such a situation.

“Don't, Pic,” said Dora at last; “we can't make it
any pleasanter by talking about it. Let us wait and see;
or you, if you like, may go any minute.”

“Now, honey, chile, what for ye go talkin' to ole nigger
like dat?” inquired Pic, reproachfully. “I's ready
to go to de wuss place you eber hearn tell of, if you's a
mind fer to lead de way. But sence I gib up chawin'
terbacker, I's got a orful habit o' chawin' words. I's

gittin ter be a reg'lar ole scold, an' I reckon it's de wuss
habit o' de two. I's been layin' out fer ter go inter de
woods arter some spruce gum to set my teeth inter; 'spec
it'll sweeten my temper 'mazin'.”

At this moment Bonaparte stopped, and whistled
shrilly three times, with an interval between each. The
signal was answered from a short distance, and two figures
were presently seen advancing through the gloom of
the wood. Bonaparte stepped forward, and spoke in a
low voice to the taller of the two men, who then advanced
toward Dora, saying, —

“Well, Miss Do, so you've come back to see your
friends — have you?”

“Dick! But where is Tom?”

“O, he's up to the camp, safe enough.”

“Why didn't he come to meet me?”

“Well, he was busy, I expect; or else he didn't know
you was going to be here.”

“But, Dick, what do you mean? Tom wrote to me
to come. It is to meet him that I am here!” exclaimed
Dora, in much agitation.

“I know it, sis,” replied Dick, putting an arm about
her waist, and taking her hand in his; “but, you see,
Tom's ideas didn't fay in with mine, no how. I saw you,
the other night, on the hill up there, sitting with a chap I
took for the parson of the regiment.”

“Dick, it was you, then.”

“Yes, it was me; and I set out to shoot him and carry
you off then; but that black scoundrel there pretty nigh
turned the tables on me. You'll catch it, you old black
cuss, when I get you home.”

This parenthesis, addressed to Picter, who was following
close to Dora, with a guard on each side, met with no
response, the luckless philosopher being, for the moment,
so overwhelmed with mortification, terror, and surprise,
as to have lost the use of his nimble tongue.

“And is Tom really in your camp? and where is
father? and where are you taking me?” asked Dora,
indignantly.

“Don't get mad, sis, and I'll tell you all about it
as fast as I can,” retorted her cousin, carelessly. “I
told Tom, who is `really in camp,' that I'd come
upon you while I was scouting round the Yankee camp,
and that I meant to try to get hold of you. But the fellow
fired right up, and said you shouldn't be touched — that
you'd as good a right to choose your side as we had, and
that you'd explained the whole matter to him before you
parted.”

“Dear Tom!” murmured Dora.

“Well, it's more dear Dora than `dear Tom' with
me,” returned Dick. “So, when I found he wouldn't
have anything to do with catching you, I set my wits to
work to do it for myself. Think I made out pretty well
— don't you?”

“Then it was you who wrote the note; and you sent
that negro to bring me here! It was all a trap, a bad,
mean lie, and it was you that did it!” cried Dora, passionately.

“Just so, missy. But there's no use in raving and
tearing out your hair about it. If I ain't your brother,
I'm your cousin, and that's most the same; and I ain't
going to let no one hurt you, any way. I'm only going to carry you home to ma'am, and let her keep you till
the war's over, and you're a little older; and then I reckon
I shall take you for my old woman. I like you first rate,
Do, and home didn't seem like home after you run away.
It wasn't anything but you brought me here; and I didn't
enlist regular, because I always meant to leave any time
when I found you out. I'm a sort of a scout and runner
to the confederate general up here on Alleghany, but I
don't live in camp, though I draw rations. I've got a
cabin down here a piece, and this fellow Clarkson and
his nigger Bonaparte live with me.”

“Is there where you're carrying me now?” asked
Dora, faintly.

“Just so. To-morrow I shall go and bid the general
good by for a few days, and tell him not to break his
heart before I get back; and then I shall take you home,
and tell ma'am, if she knows what's good for herself, to
treat you a little better than she did last time. There
shan't no one hurt a hair of your pretty little head, Do,
not while I've got the heart of a man in my body.”

The last words were spoken with more feeling than
Dick Wilson had ever before been known to exhibit; but
Dora still indignantly shook off the arm he again tried to
put around her.

“It's very fine to talk about not letting any one hurt
me,” said she. “But it's you that are doing me all the
harm you can at this very minute. If you really care to
make me happy, why don't you send me back to my
friends?”

“I'm taking you to your friends; I'm your best friend
myself,” interposed Dick.

“No rebel is a friend of mine,” exclaimed the vivandi
ère, proudly; “I am the daughter of a Union regiment.”

“And the sister and cousin of rebel soldiers,” said
Dick, slyly.

“I won't give up my brother as a brother, but I don't
love him as a rebel; and as for cousins, I care no more
for them than for any other rebels,” retorted Dora, hotly,
adding, in the next breath, “but father; you don't speak
of him. Where is father?”

“Dead.”

“Dead! When, and how?” asked Dora, in a voice
of horror.

“He died of camp fever soon after he joined. I didn't
know it till I saw Tom. You know, Do, it's what we've
all got to come to, one time or another,” began Dick, trying

to remember some of the remarks he had heard his
mother use on similar occasions; but his cousin gently
interrupted him.

“Yes; I know. Please don't talk about it, Dick, just
now.”

“Certain I won't, if you don't want me to,” assented
the lad, considerably relieved; and not another word was
exchanged between them until the party reached the door
of a small and hastily constructed shanty on the edge of
the wood.

From within the closed door was heard a hoarse
bark.

“Lope's on hand,” remarked the man called Clarkson.

“Yes; I expect he wants something to eat,” returned
Dick, opening the door.

A large gray animal bounded out as he did so, and
leaped upon Clarkson with a joyful whine, suddenly
changed to a savage growl, as he caught sight of the
strangers.

“Hebenly Mas'r, what dat?” exclaimed Pic, dodging
behind Bonaparte, while Dora sprang to her cousin's
side.

“Don't be scart, Do,” said Dick; “Lope's an ugly fellow
enough to strangers, but he won't touch you while
we're round. You mustn't try to stir out of the cabin by
yourself, though.”

“What is it, Dick?”

“A wolf, child. Just such a one as eat up Red Riding
Hood and her grandmother, in the story book.”

“But how came he here? Is he tame?”

“As tame as it's the nature of the beast to be. I
reckon they never turn into lambs, do what you will with
them. Clarkson brought him up from a whelp, and he
minds him pretty well. The rest of us don't trouble him
much.”

“Walk in, miss. Bony, you and this other darky
fetch in some wood for a fire, and get some supper about
the quickest. I'm as hungry as the — as a wolf,” said
Clarkson, laughing loudly at the joke intended by his
companion.

The laugh was obsequiously echoed by Bony, while
Picter preserved a solemn and somewhat contemptuous
expression. The negroes then returned a few rods into
the forest to collect firewood, while Dora and Clarkson
followed Dick into the cabin.

“Sit down on this log, Do,” said the latter, as he led
her to a seat. “The old shanty ain't much of a parlor,
but we'll do the best we can for you while you stay.”

A cheerful fire soon blazed upon the hearth, and Bonaparte,
with some unwilling help from Picter, prepared
over it a stew of chickens, salt pork, army biscuit, onions
and potatoes, liberally seasoned with shreds of dried peppers
and sweet herbs.

A pot of coffee, with sugar boiled in it, but no cream,

completed the repast; and as soon as it was placed upon
the table, Clarkson, Dick, and Dora sat down, while the
two negroes and Lope remained in the background, hungrily
watching the progress of the meal.

The stew was savory, the coffee potent, and Dora made
a far better supper than she would have supposed possible,
under the circumstances. As her body became refreshed,
her courage and energy revived, and when she rose from
the table it was with a firm, though undeveloped, intention
to make her escape with Picter from the hut before
morning.

A deep growl from Lope, as she walked towards the
door with the intention of looking out, warned her of one
of the obstacles to her attempt.

“Be quiet, you brute! He won't touch you, miss,
without you was trying to get away,” said Clarkson,
significantly. “Now, boys,” continued he to the negroes,
“fall to, and polish off the bones; and you, Bony, see
that Lope gets something. Not too much, though; he's
got to watch to-night.”

Picter and Dora exchanged a glance, and the quick wit
of each divined the thoughts of the other.

Dora, returning towards the fire, contrived to stumble
as she passed behind the log where Picter was now seated
at supper, and saved herself from a fall by catching at
his shoulder. As she did so, she softly whispered, —

“Keep awake.”

“Take keer, missy. Keep your eyes wide open,
honey,” said Picter aloud, as he put out his hand to help
her to her feet. Dora, with a quick pressure of the hand,
signified that she comprehended the double meaning of
the words, and then, fearful of attracting attention, she
passed on, and seated herself beside the fire, with her
back to the room.

“There's a shake-down in the loft for you, Do,” said
her cousin, seating himself beside her. “I got it all
ready before I went after you.”

“You was very sure of finding me,” said Dora, rather
bitterly.

“Yes; I reckoned I'd put a sure bait in the trap,”
said Dick, complacently.

“I'm afraid it was your own bed up stairs — wasn't
it?” asked Dora, presently.

“No. Clarkson and I mostly camp down here by the
fire, when we ain't out all night on the scout. The nigger
has slept up there, generally, but I put your bed at
the other end of the loft, and there ain't none of the same
things on it.”

“And where is he going to sleep?” asked Dora, carelessly.

“Out in a kind of lean-to we put up, to keep a horse
in occasionally. There ain't any horse there now, and
he and Pic can have all the straw to themselves,” said
Dick, yawning.

Dora had now learned nearly all that she wished to
know. One point, however, remained unsettled, and
after a pause, she said, carelessly, —

“I should think that wolf would run away in the
night if you turn him out loose.”

“No, he don't. He knows too well where he gets
fed. He never goes far from home.”

The heart of the brave girl sank, as she glanced at
the glaring eyes of the wolf, who was now gnawing the
bones thrown to him in a corner by Bonaparte, whose
method of clearing the table was more rapid than nice.

“He looks pretty ugly,” said she, almost unconsciously.

“Ugly enough, any one would find him that came
round the shanty nights. Clarkson has trained him so's
he's better than any watch dog, and fiercer too,” returned
Dick, significantly.

Dora sat for a few moments longer, looking thoughtfully
at the fire, and then signified her desire to retire.

Her cousin, lighting a torch, preceded her up the ladder
leading to an unfinished and windowless loft, where
he showed, with some exultation, a comfortable looking
bed in one corner, heaped high with dried leaves and
branches of sweet fern, overspread by a large army
blanket.

“There, Do. I fixed your bed myself, and I reckon
you might find a worse one by looking sharp here
amongst the mountains.”

“It's very nice, Dick, and I'm much obliged to you,”
replied Dora, looking sharply about the place.

“There's no one else to be here — is there?” added
she.

“No. And if you're a mind to, you may push that
board over the trap after I'm gone. I shall take away
the ladder, any way. `Safe bind, safe find,' you know.”

“Well. You had better go down now, at any rate,”
said Dora, rather petulantly; for she was both alarmed
and provoked to find that she was thus to be deprived of
the only apparent means of exit from her prison.

Dick grinned significantly as he placed the torch upright
in a knot-hole of the rude floor.

“Good night,” said he. “I'll stick up the ladder time
enough for you to come down to breakfast.”

So soon as the head of her cousin had disappeared
through the trap, Dora pushed the piece of plank, serving
as a door, into its place, listened to hear the ladder
withdrawn, and then sat down to meditate upon the
escape she was still determined to effect.