My Lady of the South/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII
WE FIND THE COURIER
THE column of cavalry was already advancing, ploughing their way through yellow spirals of dust, the men eager with the thrill of participating in an important movement. Half way to Coulter's my little party of scouts rode past the vanguard, and swung into the main road, our horses on a trot. When once safely beyond the sight of the head of that plodding column, I checked the speed to a swift walk, my mind free to consider the nature of those strange duties so suddenly thrust upon me. There was nothing at all complicated in my orders. We were merely to keep well in advance of the main body, spreading out sufficiently to cover all the country within eyesight, seeking thus to prevent any possible knowledge of our movement being borne to the enemy's camp. But this service would not be important until we were well across the river. I glanced about at the small squad over whom I had been appointed in temporary command. There were twenty all told, exceptionally well mounted, I observed at a glance, but of so varied characteristics, and such peculiarity of dress, as to form a rather remarkable medley. There was, to be sure, a semblance of uniform, but exhibiting marks of rough service, and representative of every department, so that no two men appeared similarly attired. Yet they had a sturdy and resolute fighting appearance which pleased me, and had all, without doubt, proved their value in hazardous service.
Perhaps a dozen were unmistakably of the mountain white type,—gaunt, unshaven, slow of speech, their keen, restless eyes searching every covert for a possible enemy in ambush; the others were mostly young, reckless-looking fellows, picked from the ranks of various organizations because too restless for the discipline of regular command. Someway they appealed to me, and I felt a hope that I might be retained in command, and thus given opportunity to test their mettle. Back of Daniels, who slouched carelessly in the saddle peering out suspiciously from under the broad flapping brim of his hat, rode a red-headed, freckle-faced boy of eighteen, his eyes dancing with the merriment of unrestrained dare-deviltry evidently from his dress originally a trooper. Beside him was a pudgy, broad-shouldered, round-faced man of thirty whose previous life had apparently been that of the farm with large black eyes glowing feverishly beneath his cap visor. The faces were principally American, yet of greatly varying types, one or two aristocratic enough to win a second glance, but all bronzed by exposure, and marked by that alertness born of individual action. They rode in open order, careless as to military form, scarcely exchanging words, yet leaving upon my mind an impression that they were prepared at any time to try me out and would obey my orders only so far as I made good according to their rough and ready standards. The knowledge that I must control by personality, rather than military rank, brought with it a new sense of responsibility, and a desire to test my authority.
"Daniels," I said, drawing back my horse till I rode beside him, "this looks an odd command given me. What are they—enlisted men?"
"Some of 'em are," he answered slowly, shifting his eyes over the rabble behind, "but ther mountain men mostly are jus' volunteer scouts, picked up yere in ther deestrict 'cause they know ther way 'round. I reckon maybe it's a tough-lookin' outfit from a sojerin' pint o' view, but thar's some damn good scouts a-ridin' thar behin' yer."
"Some of them appear mere boys."
"Sure they do, an' they're ther sort what takes chances whar a grown mar would Have a nerve fit. That yaller-headed feller thar has been mostly my partner lately; he's Irish, name Con O'Brien; deserted twice from ther Ninth Illinois Cavalry, but since they put him scoutin' thar ain't no job too blame hard fer him ter tackle. I tell ye, Leftenant, scouts is born, not made."
"Yes," I said, my blood tingling as I recalled to mind those stories of adventures between the lines frequently related around the camp-fire, "and from all I learn, you are one thus born. I've heard of you often enough. You have had some thrilling experiences."
"Oh, tol'ble, tol'ble."
"How long have you been at it?"
"Oh, mostly since the war begun; I started in with Buell in Kentucky."
"You came from up there?"
He looked at me almost suspiciously, then his eyes shifted to the scene in front.
"I reckon I was born 'bout ten mile from yere, over yonder on ther east ridge." His eye, narrowed, a new light visible within their depths. "It was jist ter git back yere, with sich an outfit as this yere ahind me, thet made me a sojer," he acknowledged slowly. "I got some private work ter do in this yere kintry "
"A feud?"
"I reckon thet's whut ye call it. Maybe it's bin a hundred years runnin', an' has caused a heap o' killin' one way an' an' other, but it's sorter simmered down ther las two year to Jem Donald an' me. Whin this yere war broke out, he sorter took to ther Confed side an' thet naturally made me a Yank. They hed ther best o' it round yere in them days, an' arter a while I skipped. But I'm back yere now, an' I ain't skulkin' 'round alone neither I reckon I've got an ol' woman an' some kids down thar on Salt Crick, if ther house ain't been burnt over 'em 'fore now; an' if it has, God pity Jem Donald. I reckon he'll hear from me soon 'nough anyhow."
There was a grimness in these words spoken deliberately the tone utterly expressionless, which I cannot properly convey in written language—the glint of the eye. the compression of the thin lips, making the deadly meaning perfectly apparent. It was the unyielding hate of savagery, long brooding over past wrongs. Involuntarily I glanced about it to the fringe of woods.
"Is Donald about here, then?"
"Who? Big Jem Donald? Sure; 'h ain't ye never heard o' him?"
I shook my head, hoping thus to lead him on to his story, but the natural taciturnity of the mountaineer restricted him to a few brief sentences.
"Wal, ye will if ye 're long in this kintry. I 've heern as how Jem hed a commish from ther Confeds, an' was runnin' a sorter independent command. Anyhow he's got quite a parcel o' men, mainly deserters an' sich truck, thet he hes ther bossin' of, an' jist 'bout controls all that kintry thar east o' ther ridge." He swung his hand in a half-circle over the landscape in front. "I reckon, Leftenant, it would be a mighty good thing fer ther Union if some o' us could ketch thet cuss an' hang him to ther first tree."
His peculiar voice was so intense with passion, that I could not forbear saying,
"What is the special trouble between you and this Big Donald, Daniels?"
"Darn if I know whar it started," he acknowledged, as though the thought came to him almost as a surprise. "It was 'fore my dad's time, I reckon, an' seems ter me it was over a lot o' hawgs thet got rootin' up some corn down on Rock Crick. Thet's whar ther Danielses an' Donalt's lived in them days, but blame if I know which one owned ther com, an' which owned ther hawgs. Hell, it don't make no difference, fer ther whole kit an' caboodle are dead long ago. Ther Donalds were well off in them days; hed a fine plantation, with a big house on it, an' maybe a hundred slaves. Ther Danielses was allers pore, but thar was a monstrous lot o' us scattered 'long Rock Crick. an' when they went gunnin’ fer ther Donalds they gin'rally got 'em. All I know is thet when I come 'long 'bout a hundred years later, ther Donalds was livin' in a log shack back o' Bald Mountain. an' ther fight was still a goin' on. My dad was shot down at Milliken Bend by one o' ther crowd when I was eight year old: then my brother got ol' man Donald somewhar on ther trail, an' filled him full o' buckshot. Ther next thing. they set fire to our house, when nobody but mam was to hum. She shot into ther bunch, and got away with a broken arm, hidin' out in ther bush fer a week. Then ther Danielses rode over ter Bald Mountain, an' we come pretty damn near puttin' ther Donald tribe outer business, until a gang o' 'em ambuscaded us one night in ther bottoms. Not two bullets in thet fracas, an' my brother was killed. 'Bout thet time ther war broke out. Damned if I keered which side licked in ther war, but Jem Donald come out fer ther Confeds. an' so I went in fer ther Union. Wal, we fought it out yere fer maybe six months, but ther odds was all with his outfit: thar wan't many Danielses left able ter tote a gun: an' finally I skipped out, and jined Buell."
"The Secession sentiment was strong through this section, I suppose?"
"Wal, I don't know 'bout thet. Ther mountain men mostly did n’t care much; mighty few o' 'em owned any niggers. But ther gentry was with ther Secessionists. an' Big Donald allers kinder nat'rally belonged to thet bunch. He never did chum with ther mountain men much. but somehow managed ter be mighty thick with ther Denslows Denslows an' ther Dunns, an' all thet lot along ther river yere. I 've heern tell as how Jem Donald's wife was a Denslow, but I don't never remember seein' her."
This mention of the name of Denslow brought up before me instantly the face of the young girl whom I had left a few hours before. So she also was, in a way, connected with this fierce mountain feud which had already cost so many lives. I had reason to know she was of fighting blood, yet it was seemingly impossible to connect her directly with such savagery.
I was busily thinking still, as we forded the river and came straggling up the other bank, our horses glistening in the sunshine. Coulter's Landing was apparently deserted of all inhabitants; back along the opposite shore we could see the dust cloud rising above the column of advancing cavalry. A few brief orders scattered my nondescript command to right and left, Daniels and I riding alone along the road leading up toward the ridge, watchful that the others covered thoroughly the country on either side of us. We were a mile in advance when Wilson's men first began taking water at the ford.
The knowledge of what our rapid movement meant gave zest to this advance scouting, and we pushed forward alert to any suspicious happening in our front. I observed how old Daniels's eyes narrowed like those of a cat, as he scanned the hills, peering out from beneath the brim of his slouch hat, his thin lips drawn back so as to reveal the yellow teeth. For the first time he became revealed to me as a savage, living merely for revenge, merciless and unforgiving. To him the war was only a greater feud, bringing with it a long-sought opportunity for vengeance against his enemies. Somehow the very thought sickened me; yet, although I turned away, striving to concentrate my attention on other matters, my eyes invariably came roving back to observe his wrinkled face, his thin set jaws, and his gaunt form slouching in the saddle. Twice I spoke, hoping to break the spell, but he answered only in gruff monosyllables, oblivious apparently to everything except that he was again back on the old familiar ground, ever drawing nearer to those he hated with an intensity I could not comprehend. However much of a soldier his long service had made him, all was now forgotten, and he had returned to the bitterness of his mountain feud. He would hunt and kill as the beast hunts and kills—treacherously, and from covert. Yet he was alert enough and watchful, his keen eyes being first to observe the signal of some discovery waved back from a scout far away to the left, who suddenly tipped a distant ridge, a mere black dot among the rocks.
"What is it, Daniels?"
"Ther feller out thar is wavin' us over. He 's run up agin something that 's made him need help, I reckon."
We rode straight across the upland, side by side, I spurring cruelty to keep my horse even with his raw-boned mount, both intently watching the movements of the man who had signalled. As we struck the ridge he came toward us on a lope.
"It's O'Brien," I said, as soon as my eyes clearly revealed his identity.
"O' course it is; I saw that back yonder, an' he don't never wigwag without thar's reason fer it, thet boy."
We met at the edge of a ravine, our horses jerked back sharply.
"What is it, O'Brien?"
He waved his hand backward. "There's a house down there in the hollow, without nobody livin' in it, just a shack of a place, but Oi thought maybe Oi bether look inside afore Oi went by; an thar's a dead man lyin' there: Oi had to push the body aside to get the door open."
"A soldier?"
"Naw; one o' Daniels's sort, Oi reckon."
"Killed?"
"Shot through the head."
I spurred my horse around the end of the ravine, Daniels keeping close at my heels. Apparently he needed no guide, for, as we drew up to where O'Brien waited, the old scout pressed straight forward up a cleft in the ridge, and, with a nod to the boy, I followed silently.
The house, a rude log affair with dilapidated lean-to, occupied a little hollow, partly overgrown with underbrush, and was not easily discernible against the brown background of the hills. The ridge cleft, however, led almost directly to the door, which stood ajar. Daniels swung down from the saddle and disappeared within. Following I found him bent above the prostrate figure of a man, lying upon its back, a haggard face, covered by a straggly iron-gray beard, staring with sightless eyes up into the black shadows of the rafters. The light was dim, being merely that which streamed in through the partially opened door, but I could perceive no signs of previous occupancy excepting a rude table, and a single overturned chair. Daniels glanced up at me, his face expressionless.
"It's one o' ther Farley boys," he announced quietly, "an' he was shot in ther back o' ther head."
"You knew him, then?"
"Wal, I reckon; he was a cousin o' mine," grimly "He was hidin' out over Bald Mountin way, an' I wonder whut ther hell he was doin' yere."
He stooped down suddenly, and pressed one one of the dead man's tightly clinched hands. I caught the flutter of a white slip of paper as it fell to the floor. The scout picked it up, gazing at it blankly.
"Thar's some writin', thar, sir, but it don't do me no good, 'cause I can't read."
I took the paper, and leaned back to where the light revealed the writing. The paper was an irregular strip, evidently torn from off a larger sheet.
reached Rosecrans by
morning with news of
the left flank. He
t two o'clock
od horse, and
Confederate Cav
powerless to stop
and may rely on
g correct. I
k trustworthy,
here able to
n Denslow.
"Daniels, you say this dead man was your cousin; what side was he on?"
"Wal, he was agin Big Donald, an' thet's 'bout all ther side thar is up yere in ther mountings. We ain't carin' much between Yank and Reb, but I reckon under ther circumstances he was most likely with us."
"Oh, I see; but what was he doing with this paper, then? That was a message to Johnston warning him that I had taken a report of his plans to the Federal camp."
"Ther hell! who sent it?"
"A young girl—Jean Denslow."
The seamed, whiskered face appeared to darken, the eyes narrowing, with a cruel gleam in them.
"You know her?" I questioned doubtfully.
"I reckon I do, tol'ble; but I don't know how she ever got no chance fer to butt in yere. However ther way o' it is clar though. She must have run up agin Jake somewhar, an' mistook him fer one o' Donald's outfit. But Jake never was ridin' fer Johnston's camp, or he would n't a bin way down yere. He was streakin' it fer ther Landin', an' either run into some guerillas, or else Donald trailed him. Anyhow he was shot out yonder in ther openin' an' then dragged in yere."
"Does Jean Denslow know Big Donald?"
He stared at me, his yellow teeth showing grimly.
"I rather reckon she does. Whar is she now?"
"At Fairview; Judge Dunn's place."
He drew his breath whistling.
"Hell; then, o' course, thet's ther way o' it."
There was little more I could get out of him. but he went through the dead man's clothes, after which the three of us carried the inert body outside. hastily dug a grave with a spade found in the lean-to, and silently buried the mountaineer. Within a few moments we were riding away, our minds busy with the thoughts awakened by the tragedy. To me it all seemed to centre more and more about the girl with the blue-gray eyes.