a gayly profane catch-phrase of the Confederate camp: “Don’t say Yankee, say damned Yankee.” But what about a damned Confederacy? Teague spoke of the day of victory; what of the day of reckoning?
What payment would this ally ask in the end?
Again Faust popped into his mind. He imagined the Confederacy as a Faust among the nations, devil-lifted, devil-nurtured—and devil-doomed, by the connivance of one Joseph Paradine.
Better disaster, in the way of man’s warfare.
The bargain was offered him for all the South. For all the South he must reject, completely and finally.
Aloud he said: “My name? Signed to something?”
“Right here’ll do.”
Once more Teague brought forth the Pow-Wows book which he had edited so strangely. “Here, son, on this back page—in blood.”
Paradine bowed his head. It was to conceal the look in his eyes, and he hoped to look as though he acquiesced. He drew his saber, passed it to his left hand. Upon its tip he pressed his right forefinger. A spot of dull pain, and a drop of blood creeping forth, as had appeared on the wrist of the ensorcelled boy lying yonder among the Yankees in the street.
“That’ll be enough to sign with,” approved Teague.
He flattened out the book, exposing the rear flyleaf. Paradine extended his reddened forefinger. It stained the rough white paper.
“J for Joseph,” dictated Teague. “Yep, like that—”
Paradine galvanized into action. His bloody right hand seized the book, wrenching it from the trembling fingers. With the saber in his left hand, he struck.
A pretty stroke for even a practised swordsman; the honed edge of the steel found the shaggy side of Teague’s scrawny neck. Paradine felt bone impeding his powerful drawing slash. Then he felt it no longer. The neck had sliced in two, and for a moment Teague’s head hung free in the air, like a lantern on a wire.
The bright eyes fixed Paradine’s, the mouth fell open in the midst of the beard, trying to speak a word that would not come. Then it fell, bounced like a ball, and rolled away. The headless trunk stood on braced feet, crumpling slowly. Paradine stepped away from it, and it collapsed upon the steps of the house.
Again there was utter silence in the town and valley of Channow. The blue soldiers did not budge where they lay. Paradine knew that he alone moved and breathed and saw—no, not entirely alone. His horse was tethered at the end of the street.
He flung away his saber and ran, ashamed no more of his dread. Reaching the gray, he found his fingers shaky, but he wrenched loose the knotted reins. Flinging himself into the saddle, he rode away across the level and up the slope.
The pines sighed gently, and that sound gave him comfort after so much soundlessness.
He dismounted, his knees swaying as though their tendons had been cut, and studied the earth. Here were the footprints of Danger’s horse. Here also was a cleft stick, and in it a folded scrap of paper, a note. He lifted it, and read the penciled scrawl:
Dear frend Joe, you ant com back so I left
like you said to bring up the boys. I hope
your alright & if the Yankies have got you
well get you back.
L. Dauger.
His comrades were coming, then, with gun and sword. They expected to meet
