The Rock of Chickamauga by Joseph A. Altsheler (best love novels of all time txt) 📖

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. Dick 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 passed

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 pass 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.

 

Dick 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. Dick 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

Dick 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 Dick 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.

 

Dick 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 Dick. 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 mass 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. Dick 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.

 

Dick 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

Dick 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 Dick 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.

 

Dick 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!"

 

Dick 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 Dick 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. Dick'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."

 

Dick 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 passed 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."

 

"I'll do anything I can, Mr. Mason."

 

"Kill Slade first. That little villain gives me the horrors. I believe

the soul of the last bloodhound I shot has been reincarnated in him."

 

"All right, Mr. Mason," returned the sergeant, placidly, "if we have to

fight I'll make sure of Slade at once. Is there anybody else you'd like

specially to have killed?"

 

"No thank you, Sergeant. I don't hate any of the others, and I suppose

they'd have dropped the chase long ago if it hadn't been for this fellow

whom you call Slade. Now, I think I'll lie quiet, while you watch."

 

"Very good, sir. I'll tell you everything I can see. They're passing

over the hill out of sight, and if they return I won't fail to let you

know."

 

Sergeant Whitley, a man of vast physical powers, hardened by the long

service of forest and plain, was not weary at all, and, in the dusk, he

looked down with sympathy and pity at the lad who