The Red Mist/Chapter 25
CHAPTER XXV
WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER
I MAY have staggered as I crossed the room, but I accomplished the feat unaided, each movement giving me renewed strength. The wooden bar fitted tightly into its grooves, and, once firmly in place, left us secure from any unexpected intrusion. My brain cleared, and my gaze wandered about the bare, squalid apartment, as I swiftly reviewed our dangerous position. Noreen had drawn away from the body of the dead man, and stood against the further log wall, with face hidden in her hands. Cowan lay at full length, one arm thrown across his eyes. It was hard for me to conceive that the man was actually dead, and I bent over him, touching his flesh with my fingers to assure myself. The ball had penetrated his abdomen, and how the fellow ever fought so fiercely after receiving that death wound I can never understand. I think that in his mad ferocity he was scarcely aware that he was hurt—his one overmastering desire being to kill me. I turned him partly over, and drew out from the inside pocket of his blouse a handful of papers concealed there. One was a buff packet, which had been roughly torn open, but which bore no inscription; the others ordinary appearing letters addressed to Cowan. The latter I barely glanced at, assuring myself they contained nothing of special interest, but examined the contents of the buff packet with care, convinced that this was the one taken from Major Harwood the night of his murder.
The packet contained several official papers, emanating from General Ramsay's headquarters. Two of these related to army operations in western Virginia, and the present distribution of troops, requesting the dispatch of another regiment of infantry to help free the country from guerrillas. There was also a personal letter from Ramsay to McClellan giving more intimate details, and a general review of the situation, but the principal paper was a carefully prepared list of irregulars operating throughout the mountain country, with names of the better known leaders, the estimated strength of each separate gang, the region in which they hid, and the side they espoused, if any. This had evidently been carefully prepared by some staff-officer, undoubtedly Major Harwood himself, as the letter referred to him as having been detailed to such duty, and was full and complete. I found therein this mention of the Cowans: "Father and two sons; probably control fifty or more men, with headquarters near Union in Green Briar Mountains; raid indiscriminately; have attacked our forage trains; refuse to cooperate, and continue to terrorize a large section; raided Lewisburg before it was occupied by troops, killing several, and looting the shops. Is considered the most dangerous gang operating in Green Briar and Monroe Counties; reports of atrocities received almost daily, many too hideous to repeat."
I glanced up at Noreen, and her eyes met mine inquiringly.
"Is this your father's handwriting?" I asked, holding the paper toward her.
"Yes; what is it? important?"
"Not very complimentary to Cowan here. A report to General Halleck, at Washington, of conditions in Western Virginia. I wonder how the old villain ever learned that such a paper was being forwarded?"
"It is not likely he did," she answered thoughtfully. "It may have been mere accident which put the document in his hands. See, here is a letter that father wrote," and she stooped and picked it up from the floor, uttering an exclamation of surprise. "Why, it—it is addressed to Ned Cowan at Union! What could he have possibly written this man about?"
"Let me see," and I took it from her hands. "We may find here an explanation of the whole affair."
It was a single sheet, very formal in expression, as though the writer merely performed a duty which he considered unpleasant, but necessary. He acknowledged receipt of a communication reaching him at Ramsay's headquarters, apparently an application for pardon, and a pledge to unite with the Federal forces, and stated that the writer would be at the Minor house near Hot Springs at a certain date, where he would be glad to confer further regarding the matter. He agreed to come unattended, and suggested that his visitor use the name of Taylor so as to prevent any suspicion. The closing paragraph referred to a former misunderstanding between them, and expressed a kindly desire to blot out all memory of what had occurred. My hands trembled as I read the lines, and the girl at my side cried softly, her eyes so filled with tears I doubt if she could distinguish the words. Scarcely aware of the action I held her with my arm, the letter crumpled between my fingers.
"It is all clear enough now, little girl," I whispered, my voice trembling from sympathy. "Your father met his death at the hands of a treacherous scoundrel. It was a plot carefully conceived, and now Cowan has paid the penalty. I am glad we have learned the truth; but Major Harwood would never wish you to mourn here in the midst of all this danger—you are listening?"
"Yes; I will do just as you say; but—but I cannot remain here in presence of this man's body. It—it will drive me insane."
"It will be best to go; safer, I think also, for Anse and his gang may return here. There would be no mercy shown us in such a case. Sit here a moment," and I forced her upon a stool with her back to the dead man, "while I search for food. I can trust you alone?"
Her hands clung to me, but she was no longer crying, although unshed tears dimmed her eyes.
"I—I thank God," she faltered, "that he sent you to me. I could not bear all this alone."
"I am glad you care to have me here," I answered eagerly. "I was half afraid you did not."
"Oh, but I do; I cannot tell you all it means. I—I think I have never felt more helpless, or—or discouraged."
"It is the strain of so much occurring at once, and you are worn out. We will get away from here, somewhere back into the hills where we can feel safe from discovery. Then we can rest all day, and you will be all right again. We need sleep and food."
I released her hands gently, and began a swift search of the cabin. It did not require long to explore the single room, and I found all we required in a big box beside the bunk. What I could conveniently transport was pressed into a clean bag, and I also took possession of a quilt to add to her comfort. I left Cowan lying just as he had fallen, seeing little use in attempting to conceal the body. Both of us were glad enough when we closed the door of the shack, and returned to our horses. We rode on steadily for an hour, only occasionally exchanging a word. The road was rough and mountainous, so rocky underfoot our horses left no trail. At last we came to a narrow ravine down which a brook plunged over a stony bed. There was no trail visible, but it was possible to advance some distance by keeping close to the bank. I dismounted, and, holding to the rein, led my horse carefully forward.
"Follow as closely as you can," I called back to her, "and keep at the rock edge so as to leave no trail."
For a hundred yards, or more, we experienced no difficulty, the stream turning to the right, and following the same direction as the pike we had deserted. The forest growth between, however, left the latter invisible. Then the stream veered suddenly to another point of compass, and the trees so obstructed the bank that I led the way down into the water. It must have been a mile above this point—a mile of hard, slow travel, the water to my knees, and the rocks below treacherous—when I ventured to climb the bank, and seek a suitable spot for our day camp. A safer place surely could not have been found. We were in a narrow defile, scarcely fifty feet across, and guarded on either side by high rock walls, precipitous, and exhibiting no sign of a trail. The woods were open, yet sufficiently thick to yield good cover from observation from above, and there was sufficient grass for the horses. I picketed these close to the stream, and spread blankets for the lady to lie on at the foot of the bluff, where she would be well screened by a thicket of underbrush. Then I came back to where she sat silently against the bole of a large tree, watching my movements.
"No doubt we are safe enough here," I said, opening the pack. "But I'll not risk a fire; you can eat, I suppose? "
"I hardly know," wearily. "Perhaps I can choke a little food down; but really I am not hungry. How far have we come?"
"As a mere guess I should say nearly ten miles since leaving the cabin. By the sun it must be nine o'clock. Eat what you can, and then lie down on the blankets and rest. We will not leave here until just before dark."
"And you?"
"Oh, I may doze later if there is no alarm; I shall never be far away."
She ate of the coarse food daintily, apparently without appetite, but I did full justice to the meal, satisfied, for the time being at least, that we were securely hidden. The horses munched at the sweet grass behind us, and a ray of sunshine found way through the leaves overhead, and lay in bar of gold across her hair. In spite of her long vigil the girl's face bore few marks of fatigue, and her eyes, occasionally lifted to meet mine, were not heavy with sleep. I endeavored to talk, to speak lightly on inconsequential topics, but her brief responses were not encouraging. There was a strange constraint between us, and, finally, hoping to make her feel more at ease, I ventured to broach the subject which I knew must be also uppermost in her mind.
"It is an odd situation in which we find ourselves," I began awkwardly, my eyes on the ground, "but I hope you—you will not feel embarrassed, or—or fail to have complete confidence in me. I—I have no wish to take any advantage; or—or assume any authority."
I stopped, unable to express the thing I desired to say, and the silence seemed long. I lifted my eyes, and she was looking at me.
"May I ask you one question?"
"A dozen."
"No, the one is all. You really believed those who attacked us were Cowan's men?"
"I had no other thought, Miss Noreen."
"Then your proposal was merely made in the hope of thus protecting me from insult?"
"That was my sole thought at the time," I replied soberly. "It was a desperate chance, yet the only one apparently left us. That is what I wanted to say, to explain," I went on hastily, before she could interrupt. "I realize the serious mistake made, and how embarrassing it must all be to you. But you must believe me a gentleman. I would never have spoken one word; never have made any claim upon you. Miss Noreen, I realize that I have no right."
"You may call me Noreen," she said simply. "We have been friends, and I think we will always be. I do trust you, and believe in you; only I wanted to understand fully your motive. I do not blame you, nor myself; we did what seemed best at the time, and—and now we must meet the issue as we best can. Perhaps I should not have said what I did back there in Lewisburg. I had no time in which to consider, and my only thought then was to justify my action in aiding your escape. My—my being your—your wife was the only excuse I could urge for such disloyalty. Surely you—you comprehended my purpose?"
"And appreciated the sacrifice."
"It—it was hardly that; no more than a swift impulse. I—I did not even grasp all that it might imply. I knew I must aid you; that I could do no less; but—but I did not realize then that such a choice meant that I must flee with you put myself in your protection. I—I intended to stay there—there in Lewisburg, and rely upon my friends to save me from punishment." She leaned across toward me, speaking rapidly. "I knew General Ramsay, and felt he would accept my word—the word of Major Harwood's daughter—and be just. But—but after we were free; after that soldier was left dead, I—I seemed to grasp the seriousness of my position, and—and became afraid. I—I wanted so to get away, I hardly knew my own mind. That was why I insisted on riding with you."
"And now you are sorry?"
"I—do not know," hesitatingly. "I cannot decide. Where do you take me?"
"Noreen," I said soberly, struggling to keep my hand from touching her own, where it rested on the grass, "it is too late now to go back; to think of going back. We cannot deny, or conceal, our marriage, since you have openly acknowledged it, and we have gone away together. There is only one straight path left for us now—across the mountains to old Virginia."
"I—I know—and then?"
"You must trust my honor, my discretion. We are friends, you say, and I mean to prove worthy. My orders will take me to Richmond; have you either friends, or relatives, there?"
"I am not sure, the war has made such changes—but I hardly think any in whom I could confide."
"Then we will find a way for you to join my mother; she is in North Carolina, out of the track of armies. You will consent to go to her?"
"If you think it best. I—I have never met your mother; perhaps—"
"You will be just as welcome; I will write her every detail, and she will be rejoiced to shelter you. The only trouble is the necessary delay involved by the war; the impossibility of your venturing to return to Green Briar until the conflict is over."
She was silent a long while, her eyes cast down, her breathing noticeably rapid. I waited, not knowing what else to add, and was about to propose her lying down, when she spoke suddenly:
"You mean our—our separation?"
"Certainly. That can be easily arranged as soon as the courts are again in session. Possibly the ceremony was not even legal without witnesses, but, under the circumstances, it had better be dissolved in court. Such action would remove all doubt from your mind."
"Yes—I suppose so; you—you make it very clear. And that would have to be done in Green Briar?—the—the action for divorce?"
"At Lewisburg; not necessarily, of course, but I supposed you would rather have the facts made known there, so that your friends can realize all the conditions—the cause, I mean. Possibly you may not need to do this."
"Not need! Why?"
"A soldier never knows what another minute means; I am a soldier."
"Oh! you should not say that!"
"It is part of the trade; I had no thought of hurting you, yet the bullet to set you free may be even now in a Federal cartridge box."
She did not look at me, or move, although I thought the hand resting on the grass trembled.
"I believe I will lie down," she said finally. "Is that the place you have chosen, beyond those trees?"
"Yes; let me help you up; the blankets are both yours. I shall not need any."
I stood and watched her move across through the mingled shade and sun, until her slender form finally disappeared behind the screen of undergrowth. Once she had glanced about, pausing as though some thought had occurred suddenly, but did not speak. I was left alone.