The Red Mist/Chapter 24
CHAPTER XXIV
THE FIGHT IN THE CABIN
FROM where we halted in uncertainty only one end of the cabin could be perceived through the intervening trees, and it appeared old, neglected, and partly demolished. But for the signs along the bank of the creek, showing the late passage of a man, I would have instantly jumped to the conclusion that the place had been long ago deserted and abandoned. Surely nothing about the shanty, or its immediate surroundings, indicated present occupancy. Yet with this memory in mind, when I finally advanced it was with caution, and a strange sense of expectation. Indeed, I avoided the open path entirely, pressing a way through the underbrush under the tree shadows, until I gained the edge of the little opening in which the hut stood. Noreen followed closely behind, treading almost in my footsteps, as noiseless as a fawn, her skirts held close about her limbs. At the edge of the woods, still dark with the lingering night shadows, we paused side by side, parting the leaves to stare wonderingly at the silent log walls. It was a one-roomed cabin, a mere shell, erected no doubt by some lonely squatter who had no desire to be discovered, and stood squarely against the steep side of the hill. Apparently there was no rear opening, and the single door in front was securely closed. The end toward us, however, contained a narrow window, unprotected even by glass, and its wooden shutter hung dejectedly on one hinge. No smoke arose above the tottering chimney, and the whole place appeared a deserted wreck.
"Wait here until I get a closer view," I whispered. "I shall be within sight all the time."
"Surely no one lives there."
"No; the place must have been deserted for years, but someone has been up this way within a few hours. It is best to be sure."
She stood motionless as I went crouching forward, keeping well to the front of the cabin until I was safely against the wall. Without venturing to try the door I raised myself cautiously on the end of a projecting log, and peered in through the slit of a window. As the only light reaching that interior found entrance through this narrow opening I found some difficulty at first in distinguishing objects within. I had to thrust my head well forward in order to see at all, and then, slowly as my eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, I picked out various objects. The cabin was not deserted in spite of its desolate outward appearance. It bore every evidence of late occupancy, although I could perceive no movement to indicate any human presence. I stared about the one room, which contained a rough table, two or three stools, and a bunk in the further corner. A bottle and two tin plates stood on the table, and the end of a ragged quilt dangled from the edge of the bunk nearly to the floor. Opposite me was an open fire-place, an iron kettle sitting in the ashes, while a short-barreled rifle stood upright in a corner. On one of the stools lay a broad-brimmed hat, and a pair of ragged corduroy pants hung on a wooden peg beside the door. The latter was unbarred, the heavy slab of wood leaning against the log wall. There was an opening above leading into the attic, but no ladder.
I grasped these details swiftly, but my gaze lingered on the bunk, uncertain as to whether or not it might be occupied. The shadows prevented my seeing distinctly, yet there was no movement, no sound of breathing, and I became convinced no form rested concealed under that edge of ragged quilt. There had certainly been a late occupant—perhaps during the past night. But, whoever the fellow might be—some hider-out probably—he had departed before daylight. He would likely be the same one who had knelt at the stream to drink. The unbarred door was proof enough that the cabin was now deserted, the only question arising in my mind being occasioned by the rifle standing in the corner. Why had that been left?
Still there was no denying the evidence of my own eyes, and here was shelter and food. If the fellow returned he was only one man, and not to be greatly feared. The lady must rest before we passed another night in the saddle, and the place looked fairly clean, and was safe enough from the prying eyes of any passers by along the pike. I stepped down from the support on which I stood, and motioned to her to join me. She emerged from out her leafy covert, and I waited, my eyes upon her, as she came swiftly forward. In spite of the lines of weariness in her face the light of the dawn revealed a beauty that caused my heart to throb. Her eyes silently questioned me, and I explained quickly what discovery I had made.
"But the man may return," she said doubtfully.
"Of course, although I imagine he has disappeared for the day. If he is hiding out he may not dare to remain here in daylight. Anyway you can rest safely, for I am not in need of any sleep. I napped in my cell yesterday, and just a short doze will serve me. But you are terribly tired—it is in your eyes."
"Yes," she confessed, "I must sleep somewhere."
"Then come; we'll find a bite to eat, and a place for you to lie down."
I opened the door noiselessly, although I took no special precaution, and held it wide, while she stepped across the threshold, and stood looking curiously about. Then I closed it behind us, and we were in a sort of twilight, amid which objects appeared rather indistinct.
"Ah," I said, "the fellow's cupboard must be over yonder. I hope he keeps it well stocked."
I stepped across in front of her, with no other thought than that of exploring the larder, when she gave vent to a startled cry, and I stopped suddenly, sweeping my eyes about to learn the cause of alarm. The ragged quilt was on the floor, and a man leaped across the room, and grasped the rifle in the corner. I saw the swift movement, realized the purpose, yet had scarcely time to draw a revolver from the belt, before he had hand on the weapon, and whirled savagely about facing us. For the instant the gloom disfigured his face—all I knew was that he was a big fellow, with ragged, untrimmed hair, and a scraggly beard. I stepped forward, and flung up my arm.
"Drop it!" I said shortly. "Lift that gun, and you're dead!"
At first I thought him crazy enough to take the 
A big fellow, with ragged, untrimmed hair, and a scraggly beard
"Well, I'll be damned!" he chortled, "you here?"
He threw back his head, and I recognized him—Jem Taylor, old Ned Cowan. I drew a quick breath, my teeth clinched, my arm steady. This encounter was going to prove no boy's play. But what was the man's game? Did he not know yet who I was? or what I knew about him? Before I could answer, his harsh voice spoke again.
"Put down yer pop-gun, boy, an' take it easy—the blame thing mout go off. I reckon as how we all hav'n't got nuthin' ter fight over, hav' we? How ther Sam Hill did yer ever git yere? "
"Now wait," I broke in coldly, determined to have a straight understanding. "I don't know what you are trying to pretend, but there is no friendship between us. You stand just where you are. I am not sure whether you know me, or not; but I know you, Ned Cowan I know what you did at Hot Springs, and how you took me along so as to make others believe I was guilty—"
"Shucks, lad; 'twas no more than a fair fight."
"It was cold-blooded murder, Cowan!" I exclaimed indignantly, "the culmination of a feud."
"Huh! who told yer that?"
I stepped aside, but still held him under the muzzle of my revolver. The change in posture brought the man face to face with Noreen; I saw him lean forward, and gaze at her; then recoil, as though he viewed a ghost. She never moved, never spoke.
"Good Lord!" he muttered. "Is that Harwood's girl?"
"Yes; now you know how I know, and that there is nothing but war between us. The lady is my wife."
His face was ashen gray, his thin lips set in a straight, hard line.
"Your wife! and you in that Yankee uniform! Who the hell are you? Why you are a blame liar! You told me you was a Confed, sergeant of artillery, and—your wife! Why, damn it, man, the major never even knew yer!"
"He failed to recognize me," I admitted. "But I'll tell you who I am, and how I came here. I am Thomas Wyatt, the son of Judge Wyatt, who used to hold court in Lewisburg. You ought to remember him, for you were before him twice—you and your son Anse; and I am, as I told you before, a sergeant of artillery in the Confederate service."
"Ther hell yer say."
"Why I am here is no business of yours," I went on coldly. "But I am the officer who escaped your gang in the mountains three nights ago; and I am the officer who was at the Harwood house when Anse, and his precious crew of cutthroats, broke in."
"The feller who did up Parson Nichols?"
"Yes."
"An' yer say yer married ter the girl? Who ever married yer?"
"Nichols did. He never told you that part of the story, I reckon? He thought it might prejudice Anse against him. Well, this is the way it was, Cowan. The lady realized that her choice lay between myself and Anse, and must have considered me the lesser of two evils."
"An'—an' Pop Nichols married yer, while—while Anse was a breakin' in?"
"Exactly—rather romantic, wasn't it?"
He burst into a harsh laugh, not altogether pleasant.
"Romantic—hell! But it wus som' joke on Anse. Why he's out huntin' after her now—"
He stopped, cursing fiercely to himself; but I saw fit to follow the lead given.
"So that is what he is up to? He and his outfit passed us just this side of Benton's ford. And they were bound for Lewisburg, you say?"
"Thar, or tharabouts."
"But, man, there were only thirty-five men I counted, and there are five hundred Yanks in the town."
His eyes shifted their gaze from the face of the girl to mine. They were narrow cat eyes, cruel and cunning.
"I reckon I ain't seen ol' Harwood's gal afore in maybe five year," he said slowly, "but she has sure growed up fine. Anse took after marryin' her furst jist ter spite Harwood, but since he seed her a while back he's sorter took a notion thet he wants her hisself. I reckon I don't blame him. Thet's why he wouldn't wait, but set out ternight. No, I don't reckon, young fellar, it's no particular risk. Yer a sojer an' don't jest understand how we fight out yere in the mountings. We jest strike quick, an' then git away. 'Tain't so much of a trick Anse is a playing at over at Lewisburg. Sure thar's five hundred Yanks thar; an' if thar wus five thousand it wouldn't make no great difference the way the guard is sot. The whol' blame caboodle is camped in the courthouse yard, an' the only picket is at the main ford o' the Green Briar. Yer never saw nobody, did yer, gittin' out yere?"
"No," I admitted, realizing his intimate knowledge. "The camp is poorly protected."
"I reckon it is, and Anse knows that just as well as you do. An' he knows the gal yere had a room at ther hotel. Thar is where he went, aimin' fer ter raid the shebang just afore daylight." He laughed again mirthlessly. "By God, but Anse will be some mad when he finds out whut has happened. I reckon he'll 'bout cut yer heart out."
"He will have to get me first."
"Oh, don't yer ever worry none 'bout thet, young fellar. Anse will sure git yer; he knows every bridle-path 'cross these mountings, an' I wouldn't give a continental damn fer no chance you've got fer ter git away. He's a tiger cat on a trail, Anse is—an' besides the blame fool wants the gal. He ain't no Cowan if he lets you beat him outer her." He glanced quickly across my shoulder toward the door. Perhaps she moved; perhaps it was all imagination, but I thought I heard a noise, and wheeled partly around, my eyes for an instant deserting old Cowan's face. It was his once chance, and he took it. I sensed the spring, even as Noreen's cry of warning broke the silence, but not in time to escape the grip of the old man's iron fingers. His body crashed against me with such force that I staggered and fell; one hand closed like a vise on my throat, the other gripped the stock of my revolver, crushing my fingers lifeless. I struck against the edge of the table, struggling vainly to keep my feet. It went over with a crash, bearing us both along, old Ned atop, clutching fiercely to keep his hold, his eyes blazing madly down into mine. As we struck I wrenched my hand free, and pulled the trigger. The shot seemed to blaze across my own breast, burning like fire, and, the next instant, the man's knee crushed my wrist to the floor, and the revolver fell from my benumbed fingers.
I seem to recall little of what followed; only a confused recollection of desperate struggling amid the legs of the overturned table; of oaths, blows; of eyes glaring revengefully into mine. I could not break his death grip on my throat, nor throw off the weight of his big body. I did get my hands free, and one leg curved under me. With this as a lever I twisted partly aside, driving my fist twice into the fellow's face, and twining fingers into his coarse hair. But I could not breathe; he was choking the life out of me; everything grew red—I saw the girl's frightened face through a red haze, which turned black almost at the instant. I was blind, and fought blindly. I seemed to lose all knowledge, all consciousness, under the merciless throttling of those hard fingers. Then suddenly they relaxed—I caught a quick, reviving breath, another. Every nerve in me throbbed; I could see again, hear, feel. That was Noreen's face I looked into—ay, and the girl was actually dragging the fellow off me! I took another breath, a long one, moving so that the inert body rolled over on its side; then I rose up, supporting myself on one arm, and stared about, sobbing in the first effort to regain control. What had happened? how had I been saved? I was too much confused to think, or reason. I had been within an ace of death, and realized some miracle alone had saved me. I trembled so with weakness that I sank helplessly back to the floor, my eyes closing. Then her hands touched me; I felt my head lifted into her lap, her fingers stroked my face, and pressed back my hair. Again I forced my eyes open, and looked at her.
"Noreen!" the name choked in my throat, yet must have been uttered.
"Yes; it is all right now—Cowan is dead."
"Dead! You—you killed him?"
"No; it must have been your shot. I had no chance; you—you two fought like mad men—then—then he just let go of you, and fell back. I was afraid to come—I thought at first he had killed you."
"My shot! why the revolver just went off," I muttered, scarcely comprehending. "See! the bullet burned me across the chest, and there is blood there. And you say it struck him? Lord! I never knew. Help me to sit up, Noreen."
With the aid of her arms I found support against the table, my senses coming back with change of posture, the air inhaled by my lungs bringing a corresponding strength. I could speak without pain, and my breathing grew more natural. The blue coat I wore showed clearly the mark of the bullet, and blood discolored the burned cloth. I ran my hand within, touching the flesh.
"A mere scratch," I said lightly, "requiring a little water. Don't cry, Noreen; there is no harm done; I'll be all right in a minute. Are you sure Cowan is dead?"
"Yes; he—he hasn't moved since; but—but I didn't kill him."
"Of course not, and I'm glad I did. That is part of my trade, and I'll not lose any sleep over it. Ah! I can get up alone, and the first thing I am going to do is to bar that door."