I could not see the mingled hate and horror glaring in the man's eyes, but there could be no doubt of his recognition. The acknowledgment found expression in a startled exclamation.
"By God!—you, here!"
That was all the time I gave him. With every pound of strength, with every ounce of dislike, I drove a clenched fist into that surprised face, and the fellow went down as though smitten by an axe. Even as he reeled, Rale leaped on me, cursing, failing to understand the cause, yet instinctively realizing the presence of an enemy. He caught me from behind, the very weight of his heavy body throwing me from balance, although I caught one of his arms, as he attempted to strike, and locked with him in desperate struggle. He was a much heavier and stronger man than I, accustomed to barroom fighting, reckless of method, caring for nothing except to get his man. His grip was at my throat, and, even as his fingers closed savagely, he struck me with one knee in the stomach, and drove an elbow straight into my face. The next instant we were locked together so closely any blow became impossible, youth and agility waging fierce battle against brutal strength. I think I was his match, yet this I never knew—for all my thought centered in an effort to keep his hands from reaching any weapon. Whatever happened to me, there must be no alarm, no noise sufficiently loud so as to attract the attention of sentries on guard. This affair must be fought out with bare knuckles and straining sinews—fought in silence to the end. I held him to me in a bear grip, but his overmastering strength bore me backward, my body bending beneath the strain until every muscle ached.
"Damn you—you sneakin' spy!" he hissed savagely, and his jaws snapped at me like a mad beast. "Let go! damn you—let go!"
Crazed by the pain, I swerved to one side, and half fell, my grip torn loose from about his arms, but as instantly closing again around his lower body. He strained, but failed to break my grasp, and I should have hurled him over the hip, but at that second Gaskins struck me, and I went tumbling down, with the saloon keeper falling flat on top of me, his pudgy fingers still clawing fiercely at my throat. It seemed as though consciousness left my brain, crushed into death by those gripping hands, and yet the spark of life remained, for I heard the ex-preacher utter a yelp, which ended in a moan, as a blow struck him; then Rale was jerked off me, and I sobbingly caught my breath, my throat free. Into my dazed mind there echoed the sound of a voice.
"Is thet 'nough, Jack?—then holler. Damn yer, yer try thet agin, an' I'll spill whut brains ye got all over this kintry. Yes, it's Tim Kennedy talkin', an' he's talkin' ter ye. Now yer lie whar yer are. Yer ain't killed, be ye, Knox?"
I managed to lift myself out of the dirt, still clutching for breath but with my mind clearing.
"No; I guess I'm all right, Tim," I said, panting out the words with an effort. "What's become of Kirby? Don't let him get away."
"I ain't likely to. He's a lyin' right whar yer dropped him. Holy Smoke! it sounded ter me like ye hit him with a pole-axe. I got his gun, an' thet's whut's makin' this skunk hold so blame still—oh, yes, I will, Jack Rale; I'm just a achin' fer ter let ye hav' it."
"And the other fellow? He hit me."
"My ol' frien', Gaskins; thet's him, all right." The deputy gave vent to a short, mirthless laugh. "Oh, I rapped him with the butt; had ter do it. He'd got hold ov a club somwhar, an' wus goin' ter give yer another. It will be a while, I reckon, 'fore he takes much interest. What'll I do with this red-headed gink?"
I succeeded in reaching my feet, and stood there a moment, gaining what view I could through the darkness. The short struggle, desperate as it had been, was not a noisy one, and I could hear nothing about us to indicate any alarm. No hurrying footsteps, no cries told of disturbance in any direction. Kirby rested exactly as he had fallen, and I stared down at the dim outlines of his distended body, unable to comprehend how my swift blow could have wrought such damage. I bent over him wonderingly, half believing he feigned unconsciousness. The fellow was alive, but his head lay upon a bit of jagged rock—this was what had caused serious injury, not the impact of my fist. Kennedy had one hard knee pressed into Rale's abdomen and the star-rays reflected back the steel glimmer of the pistol held threateningly before the man's eyes. The horses beyond stood motionless, and the two women in the saddles appeared like silent shadows. I stood up once more, peering through the darkness and listening. Whatever was to be done, I must decide, and quickly.
"Have Rale stand up, but keep him covered. Don't give him any chance to break away; now wait—-there is a lariat rope hanging to this saddle; I'll get it."
It was a strong cord and of good length, and we proceeded to bind the fellow securely in spite of his objections, I taking charge of the pistol, while Tim, who was more expert, did the job in a workmanlike manner. Rale ventured no resistance, although he made no effort to restrain his tongue.
"Thar ain't no use pullin' thet rope so tight, yer ol' fule. By God, but yer goin' ter pay fer all this. Maybe ye think ye kin git away in this kintry, but I'll show ye. Damn nice trick yer two played, wa'n't it? The lafe will be on 'tother side afore termorrer night. No, I won't shet up, an' ye can't make me—ye ain't done with this job yet. Curse ye, Tim Kennedy, let up on thet."
"Now gag him, Tim," I said quietly. "Yes, use the neckerchief. He can do more damage with his mouth than any other way. Good enough; you are an artist in your line; now help me drag him over here into the woods. He is a heavy one. That will do; all we can hope for is a few hours start."
"Is Kirby dead?"
"I'm afraid not, but he has got an ugly bump, and lost some blood, his head struck a rock when he fell. It will be a while, I imagine, before he wakes up. How about your man?"
He crossed over and bent down above the fellow, feeling with his hands in the darkness.
"I reckon he's a goner, Cap," he admitted, as though surprised. "Gosh, I must'r hit the cuss harder than I thought—fair caved in his hed, the pore devil. I reckon it's no great loss ter noboddy."
"But are you sure he is dead? That will put a different aspect on all this, Kennedy!" I exclaimed gravely, facing him as he arose to his feet. "That and the belief I now have that Kirby has already consummated his plan of marriage with Miss Beaucaire."
"You mean he has—"
"Yes, that he has forced the girl to assent to some form of ceremony, probably legal in this country. I overheard enough between him and Rale to suspect it, at least, and she is even now under the influence of some drug. She hasn't spoken, nor does she seem to know what is going on about her. They strapped her into the saddle."
"The hell they did."
"It has been a hellish affair all the way through, and the only way in which I can serve her, if this is so, is by getting her away—as far away as possible, and where this devil can never find her again. She's got to be saved not only from him, but also from the scandal of it."
He stood silent, little more than a shadow before me, his head bent, as though struggling with a new thought, a fresh understanding.
"I reckon I kin see thet, sir, now." His voice somehow contained a new note of respect, as though the truth had suddenly dawned upon him, "I didn't just get hold o' things rightly afore; why an army offercer like yer should be mixed up in this sorter job. But I reckon I do now—yer in love with her yerself; ain't thet it, sir?"
"Yes, Tim," I confessed frankly, and not at all sorry to make the avowal. "That is the truth. Now what would you do if you were in my place?"
"Just exactly whut yer doin', I reckon," he returned heartily. "Only maybe I'd kill thet dirty skunk afore I went away; damned if I wudn't."
I shook my head.
"No, not in cold-blood. I wouldn't have been sorry if he had died fighting, but murder is not my line. He deserves death, no doubt, but it is not possible for me to kill him lying there helpless. What bothers me most right now is your case."
"Mine? Lord, what's the matter with me?"
"Considerable, I should say. You cannot be left here alone to face the result of this night's work. If Gaskins is dead from the blow you struck him, these two fellows will swear your life away just for revenge. Even if you told the whole story, what chance would you have? That would only expose us, and still fail to clear you. It would merely be your word against theirs—you would have no witnesses, unless we were caught."
"I reckon thet's true; I wasn't thinkin' 'bout it."
"Then there is only the one road to take, Tim," I insisted. "We've got to strike the trail together."
"Whar?"
"I cannot answer that now; I haven't thought it out yet. We can talk that matter over as we ride. I have a map with me, which will help us decide the best course to choose. The first thing is to get out of this neighborhood beyond pursuit. If you only had a horse."
"Thar's two critters down in the crick bottom. I reckon thet Kirby an' Gaskins must'r tied 'em thar."
"Good; then you will go; you agree with me?"
"Thar ain't nuthin' else fer me ter do—hangin' ain't never bin no hobby o' mine. As I understand it, this Gaskins wus one o' these yere militia men. I reckon thet if these yere two bug's wus ter swear thet I killed him—as most likely they will—them boys wud string me up furst, an' find out fer sure afterwards. Thar ain't so damn much law up yere, an' thet's 'bout whut wud happen. So the sooner I leave these yere parts, the more likely I am ter live a while yet."
"Then let's start," decisively. "Pick up one of those horses down on the bottom, and turn the other one loose. I'll lead on down the trail and you can meet us at the ford—once across the creek we can decide which way to travel; there must be four hours of darkness yet."
I picked up the trailing rein of my horse and slipped my arm through it. Tim faded away in the gloom like a vanishing shadow. The young woman next me, strapped securely to her saddle, made no movement, exhibited no sign of interest; her head and body drooped, yet her hands grasped the pommel as though she still retained some dim conception of her situation. The face under her hood was bent forward and shaded and her eyes, although they seemed open, gave no heed to my presence. I touched her hands—thank God, they were moist and warm, but when I spoke her name it brought no response. The other horse, ridden by the mulatto girl, was forced in between us.
"Who are ye?" she questioned, wonderingly. "Ye just called her by name, an' ye must know her. Whut ye goin' fer ter do with us, sah?"
I looked up toward her face, without distinguishing its outlines. I felt this was no time to explain; that every moment lost was of value.
"Never mind now; I know who she is and that you are Elsie Clark. We are your friends."
"No he ain't—not thet other man; he ain't no friend o' mine. Ah tell ye. He's de one whut locked me up on de boat. Ah sure know'd his voice; he done locked me up, an' Ah's a free nigger."
"Forget that, Elsie; he's helping you now to get away. You do just what I tell you to and above all keep still. Miss Beaucaire was drugged, wasn't she?"
"Ah don't know, sah. She sure does act mighty queer, but Ah nebber see her take nuthin'. Ah nebber see nuthin' 'tall till dey took me outer de shack an' galivanted me up yere. Whar I heerd yer voice afore?"
"I haven't time to explain that; we are going now."
I started forward on foot, leading my horse, the others trailing after through the darkness. Knowing nothing of the way, I was thus better able to pick the path, yet I found this not difficult, as it was rather plainly outlined by the forest growth on either side. It led downward at a gentle slope, although the grade was sufficiently steep so as to force Eloise's body forward and compel me to support her as best I could with one arm. She still appeared to be staring directly ahead, with unseeing eyes, although her hands clung as tightly as ever to the saddle pommel. I clinched my teeth, half crazed at the sight of her condition, yet feeling utterly helpless to do more. I spoke to her again, but received no answer, not the slightest evidence that she even heard my voice or recognized her name.
The trail was clay with a few small stones embedded in it, and the horses made little noise in their descent, except once when Elsie's animal slipped and sent a loosened bit of rock rolling down to splash in some pool below. We came to the bank of the creek at last, a narrow stream, easily fordable, but with a rather steep shore line beyond, and waited there a moment until Tim emerged from out the black woods at our right and joined us. He was mounted, and, believing the time had arrived for more rapid movement, I also swung up into saddle and ranged the girl's horse beside mine.
"It looks to be open country beyond there," I said, pointing across, "what little I can see of it. You better ride the other side of Miss Beaucaire, Tim, and help me hold her up—the colored girl can trail behind. We'll jog the horses a bit."
They were not stock to be proud of, yet they did fairly well, Tim's mount evidently the best of the four. The going was decidedly better once we had topped the bank. The stars were bright enough overhead to render the well-marked trail easily visible, and this led directly southward, across a rolling plain. We may have ridden for two miles without a word, for, although I had no intention of proceeding far in this direction, I could discover no opportunity for changing our course, so as to baffle pursuit. That Kirby and Rale would endeavor to follow us at the earliest opportunity was most probable. They were neither of them the sort to accept defeat without a struggle, and, after the treatment they had received, the desire for revenge would be uppermost. Nor thus far would there be any difficulty in their picking up our trail, at least as far as the creek crossing, and this would assure them the direction we had chosen. Beyond the ford tracing our movements might prove more troublesome, as the short, wiry grass under foot, retained but slight imprint of unshod hoofs, the soil beneath being of a hard clay. Yet to strike directly out across the prairie would be a dangerous experiment.
Then suddenly, out of the mysterious darkness which closed us in, another grove loomed up immediately in our front, and the trail plunged sharply downward into the depths of a rugged ravine. I was obliged to dismount and feel my way cautiously to the bottom, delighted to discover there a smoothly flowing, narrow stream, running from the eastward between high banks, overhung by trees. It was a dismal, gloomy spot, a veritable cave of darkness, yet apparently the very place I had been seeking for our purpose. I could not even perceive the others, but the restless movement of their horses told me of their presence.
"Kennedy."
"Right yere, sir. Lord, but it's dark—found enything?"
"There is a creek here. I don't know where it flows from, but it seems to come out of the east. One thing is certain, we have got to get off this trail. If we can lead the horses up stream a way and then circle back it would keep those fellows guessing for a while. Come here and see what you think of the chance."
He was not to exceed two yards away from me, but came shuffling uncertainly forward, feeling gingerly for footing in the blackness along the rock-strewn bank. His outstretched hand touched me, startling us both, before we were aware of our close proximity.
"Hell, but I'm as blind as a bat," he laughed. "Is this the crick? How wide is it?"
"I just waded across; about five yards and not more than two feet deep."
"Maybe it's blocked up above."
"Of course, it might be, but it seems like a chance worth taking. We are sure to be caught if we hang to this trail."
"I reckon thet's so. Ye let me go ahead with the nigger gurl, an' then follow after us, leadin' Miss Beaucaire's boss. By jeminy crickets, 'tain't deep 'nough fer ter drown us enyway, an' I ain't much afeerd o' the dark. Thar's likely ter be sum place whar we kin get out up thar. Whar the hell are them hosses?"
We succeeded in locating the animals by feeling and I waited on the edge of the bank, the two reins wrapped about my arm, until I heard the others go splashing down into the water. Then I also groped my own way cautiously forward, the two horses trailing behind me, down the sharply shelving bank into the stream. Tim chose his course near to the opposite shore, and I followed his lead closely, guided largely by the splashing of Elsie's animal through the shallow water. Our movement was a very slow and cautious one, Kennedy halting frequently to assure himself that the passage ahead was safe. Fortunately the bottom was firm and the current not particularly strong, our greatest obstacle being the low-hanging branches which swept against us. Much of my time was expended in holding these back from contact with Eloise's face, our horses sedately plodding along behind their leaders.
I think we must have waded thus to exceed a mile when we came to a fork in the stream and plumped into a tangle of uprooted trees, which ended our further progress. Between the two branches, after a little search, we discovered a gravelly beach, on which the horses' hoofs would leave few permanent marks. Beyond this gravel we plunged into an open wood through whose intricacies we were compelled to grope blindly, Tim and I both afoot, and constantly calling to each other, so as not to become separated. I had lost all sense of direction, when this forest finally ended, and we again emerged upon open prairie, with a myriad of stars shining overhead.
The relief of thus being able to perceive each other and gain some view of our immediate surroundings, after that struggle through darkness, cannot be expressed in words. My first thought was for the girl, whose horse I had been leading, but her eyes were no longer open and staring vacantly forward; they were now tightly closed, and, to all appearances, she slept soundly in the saddle. In the first shock of so discovering her, I touched her flesh to assure myself that she was not dead, but the blood was flowing warm and life-like through her veins. She breathed so naturally I felt this slumber must be a symptom of recovery.
We were upon a rather narrow tongue of land, the two diverging forks of the stream closing us in. So, after a short conversation, we continued to ride straight forward, keeping rather close to the edge of the woods, so as to better conceal our passage. Our advance, while not rapid, was steady, and we must have covered several miles before the east began to show gray, the ghastly light of the new dawn revealing our tired faces. Ahead of us stretched an extensive swamp, with pools of stagnant water shimmering through lush grass and brown fringes of cat-tails bordering their edges. Seemingly our further advance was stopped, nor could we determine the end of the morass confronting us. Some distance out in this desolation, and only half revealed through the dim light, a somewhat higher bit of land, rocky on its exposed side, its crest crowned with trees, arose like an island. Tim stared across at it, shading his eyes with one hand.
"If we wus goin' ter stop enywhar, Cap," he said finally, "I reckon thar ain't no better place then thet, pervidin' we kin git thar."
I followed his gaze, and noticed that the mulatto girl also lifted her head to look.
"We certainly must rest," I confessed. "Miss Beaucaire seems to be sleeping, but I am sure is thoroughly exhausted. Do you see any way of getting across the swamp?"
He did not answer, but Elsie instantly pointed toward the left, crying out eagerly:
"Sure, Ah do. The lan' is higher 'long thar, sah—yer kin see shale rock."
"So you can; it almost looks like a dyke. Let's try it, Tim."
It was not exactly a pleasant passage, or a safe one, but the continual increase in light aided us in picking our way above the black water on either hand. I let my horse follow those in front as he pleased and held tightly to the bit of the one bearing Eloise. It had to be made in single file, and we encountered two serious breaches in the formation where the animals nearly lost their footing, the hind limbs of one, indeed, sliding into the muck, but finally reached the island end, clambering up through a fissure in the rock and emerging upon the higher, dry ground. The island thus attained proved a small one, not exceeding a hundred yards wide, rather sparsely covered with forest trees, the space between these, thick with undergrowth. What first attracted my gaze after penetrating the tree fringe was the glimpse of a small shack, built of poles, and thatched with coarse grass, which stood nearly in the center of the island. It was a rudely constructed, primitive affair, and to all appearances deserted. My first thought was that we had stumbled upon some Indian hut, but I felt it safer to explore its interior before permitting the others to venture closer.
"Hold the horses here, Tim; let me see what we have ahead first."
I approached the place from the rear, peering in through the narrow openings between the upright poles. The light was so poor I was not able to perceive much, but did succeed in fully convincing myself that the dismal shack was unoccupied. The door stood unlatched and I pushed it open. A single glance served to reveal everything the place contained. Without doubt it had been the late abode of Indians, who, in all probability had fled hastily to join Black Hawk in his foray up Rock River. There was no pretense at furniture of any description—nothing, indeed, but bare walls and trampled dirt floor, but what interested me most was a small bit of jerked deer meat which still hung against an upright and the rude stone fireplace in the center of the hut, with an opening above to carry away the smoke. I had found during the night a fair supply of hard bread in my saddle-bag, and now, with this additional gift of Providence, felt assured, at least, of one sufficient meal. I stood there for perhaps a minute, staring wonderingly about that gloomy interior, but making no further discoveries, then I returned without and called to the others.
"It is all right, Tim, there is no one here. An old Indian camp, with nothing but a junk of jerked deer meat left behind. Elsie, gather up some of that old wood yonder and build a fire. Kennedy and I will look after Miss Beaucaire."
It was bright day by this time, the red of the rising sun in the sky, and I could trace the radius of swamp land stretching about us on every hand, a grim, desolate scene even in the beauty of that clear dawn. We had been fortunate enough to approach the spot along the only available pathway which led to this little oasis, and a more secure hiding place it would be difficult to find. The tree growth and heavy underbrush completely concealed the miserable shack from view in every direction, and what faint trail we had left behind us since we took to the water of the creek would be extremely hard to follow. I felt almost at ease for the present and satisfied to rest here for several hours.
Tim assisted me in unstrapping Eloise, and lifting her from the saddle, and, as she made no effort to help herself, the two of us carried her to a warm, sunny spot beside the wall of the hut. Her cramped limbs refused to support her body, and her eyes, then open, yet retained that vacant look so noticeable from the first. The only change was in the puzzled way with which she stared into our faces, as though memory might be struggling back, and she was vaguely endeavoring to understand. Except for this pathetic look, she had never appeared more attractive to my eyes, with color in cheeks and lips. Her hood had fallen backward, revealing her glossy hair still smoothly brushed, while the brilliancy of the sunlight only made more manifest the delicate beauty of her features. Tim led the horses away and staked them out where they could crop the rich, dewy grass. After removing the saddles, he followed the mulatto girl into the hut, and I could hear the murmur of their voices. I endeavored to address Eloise, seeking thus to awaken her to some sense of my presence, but she merely smiled meaninglessly, leaned her head wearily back against the poles and closed her eyes.
It was a poor meal enough, although it sufficed to dull hunger, and yield us some strength. Eloise succeeded in choking down a few morsels, but drank thirstily. It was pitiful to watch her, and to mark the constant effort she was making to force the return of memory. Her eyes, dull, uncomprehending, wandered continually from face to face in our little group, but no flash of intelligence lighted up their depths. I had Elsie bathe her face with water and while, no doubt, this refreshed her somewhat, she only rested her head back on my coat, which I had folded for a pillow, and again closed her heavy eyes. The negress appeared so tired I bade her lie down and sleep, and soon after Tim also disappeared. I remained there alone, guarding the woman I loved.
I myself had reason enough to be weary, yet was not conscious of the slightest desire to rest. My mind did not crave sleep. That Eloise had been drugged for a purpose was now beyond controversy, but what the nature of that drug might be, and how it could be combated, were beyond my power to determine. Even if I knew, the only remedies at hand were water and fresh air. And how were we to escape, burdened by this helpless girl, from pursuit, which, perhaps, had already started from Yellow Banks? At all hazards I must now prevent this dazed, stupified woman from ever again falling into the power of Joe Kirby. That was the one fact I knew. I would rather kill her with my own hand, for I was convinced the fellow actually possessed a legal right, which I could not hope to overthrow. However it had been accomplished, through what villainy, made no odds—she was his wife, and could only be released through process of law. He could claim her, hold her in spite of me, in spite of herself. No influence I might bring to bear would save her now from this contamination. It would all be useless, a thing for laughter. Her signature—of which Kirby had boasted—and the certificate signed by the dead Gaskins, would offset any possible efforts I might put forth. There remained no hope except through flight; outdistancing our pursuers; finding a route to safety through the wilderness which they would never suspect.
Where could such a route be found? In which direction was it safest for us to turn? Surely not southward down the river seeking refuge at Fort Madison, nor in the opposite direction toward Fort Armstrong. I thought of both of these, but only to dismiss them from consideration. Had it not been for this marriage, either might have answered, but now they would prove no protection. Those men whom we were seeking to escape would remember these points at once, and suspect our fleeing to either one or the other. There was no power there able to protect her from the lawful authority of a husband; nor could she deny that authority, if he held in his hands the proof. No, I must find an unknown path, an untraveled trail. Our only hope lay in baffling pursuit, in getting far beyond Kirby's grip. For the moment I felt reasonably safe where we were—but only for the moment. We could rest on this isolated island, barely lifting itself above the swamp, and plan our future, but within the limits of another day, probably, those fellows would discover signs of our passage, faint as they were, and follow us. I dragged the map out from its silk wrapping and spread it forth on the ground between my knees. It was the latest government survey, given me when I first departed for the North, and I already knew every line and stream by heart. I bent over it in uncertainty, studying each feature, gradually determining the better course, weighing this consideration and that.
I became so interested in the problem as to entirely forget her presence, but, when I finally lifted my head, our eyes met, and I instantly read in the depths of hers the dawning of recognition. They were no longer dull, dead, emotionless, but aglow with returning life—puzzled, unassured, yet clearly conscious.
"Who are you?" she breathed incredulously, lifting herself upon one hand. "Oh, surely I know—Lieutenant Knox! Why, where am I? What has happened? Oh, God! you do not need to tell me that! But you; I cannot understand about you. They—they said you died."
"They must have said much to deceive you," and I bent forward to touch her hand. "See, I am very much alive. Let me tell you—that will be the quickest way to understand. In the first place I did not drown when the boat was smashed, but was rendered helpless and borne away on the water. I drifted through the darkness out into the Mississippi, and later became caught on a snag in the middle of that stream. TheAdventurerrescued me about daylight the next morning, and I was no sooner on board than I was told how the keel-boat had been run down below on the river during the night and that your party had all been saved—two white men and two negress slaves. Of course, I knew you must be one of them."
"Then—then we were actually together, on the same boat, all the way up here?"
"Yes; I tried hard to find where you were concealed on board, but failed. I might not have helped you, but I thought you would be glad to know I was alive. Kirby guarded you with great care from all observation. Do you know why?"
Her wide-opened eyes gazed into mine frankly, but her lips trembled.
"Yes," she answered, as though forcing herself to speak. "I do know now. I thought I knew then, but was mistaken. I supposed it might be because I looked so little like a negress, but now I realize it was his own conscience. He knew I was a white woman; he had become convinced that I was Eloise Beaucaire. Did you know that, also?"
"I learned the truth on the boat, from the same source where Kirby obtained his information. Elsie Clark told me."
"Elsie Clark! Who is she? How did she know?"
"A free negress, who had been employed by Amos Shrunk. She was the other prisoner on the keel-boat when you were captured, kept locked below in the cabin. Surely you knew there was another woman taken aboard theAdventurer?"
"Yes, but we never spoke; she was below, and they kept me on deck. How could she know who I was?"
"She did not. Only she was positive that you could not be Rene Beaucaire, because she knew that Rene, in company with her mother, had departed from Shrunk's cabin before those raiders came. The two had already started for Beardstown."
She sat upright, all lassitude gone from her body, leaning eagerly toward me, her eyes alight with interest.
"Gone! Rene escaped them!" she exclaimed, her voice choking, "Oh, tell me that again. Was the girl sure?"
"Quite sure; she had cooked them breakfast and talked with Rene afterwards. She saw and spoke with both the women before they left in a wagon. They were on the Underground, bound for Canada, and safety."
"Thank God! Oh, I thank God!" Her face sank until it was concealed within her hands. When it lifted again the eyes were brimming with tears.
"I am so glad—so glad," she said simply. "Now I am strong enough to hear the rest, Lieutenant Knox. You must tell me."
"There is not so much to tell, that I am cock-sure about." I began slowly. "Kirby had you securely hidden away somewhere on the second deck, while this Clark girl had been locked into a stateroom above. I possessed such a growth of beard and was altogether so disreputable looking as to be mistaken for a roustabout by the boat's officers, who set me at work to earn my passage. In this way I managed to talk with Elsie, but failed to locate your quarters. The only glimpse I gained of you was when you were being taken ashore. Then I followed, and a little later succeeded in getting you out of Kirby's hands. That is about all."
"Oh, no, it is not—you—you came too late."
"Too late! Perhaps I may know what you mean."
"Do you? Surely not to blame me! I—I wish to tell you, Lieutenant Knox, but—but I scarcely know how. It is all so dim, indistinct in my own mind—and yet I remember. I am trying so hard to recall how it all happened, but nothing remains clear in my mind. Have I been drugged?"
"Without question. We have been riding all night and you were strapped to your horse. Probably you have no recollection of this?"
She shook her head in bewilderment, gazing about as though noting the strange surroundings for the first time.
"No; the last I remember I was with Kirby and another man. He—he was dressed like a minister, but—but he was half drunk, and once he swore at me. The place where we were was a little shack in the side of a hill, with stone walls. Kirby took me there from the steamer, together with a man he called Rale—Jack Rale. They locked me in and left me alone until after dark. Then this other man, who dressed like a minister, came back with Kirby. They had food and something to drink with them, and lit a lamp, so that we could see. It was awfully dismal and dark in there." She pressed her hands to her head despairingly. "I can remember all this, but later it is not so clear; it fades out, like a dream."
"Try to tell me all you can," I urged. "They fed you?"
"Yes, I managed to eat a little, but I would not drink. They both became angry then and frightened me, but they did compel me to swallow some of the stuff. Then I became dazed and partially helpless. Oh, I cannot tell you; I do not really know myself—it seemed as though I had to do just what they told me; I had no will of my own, no power of resistance."
"You were married to Kirby."
"Oh, God!—was I? I wondered; I did not really know; truly I did not know. I seem to remember that I stood up, and then signed some paper, but nothing had any meaning to me. Is that true? Do you know that it is true?"
I grasped her hand and held it closely within my own.
"I am afraid it is true," I answered. "I know very little law, and it may be that such a ceremony is not legal. Yet I imagine those men were certain as to what they could do. Kirby had planned to marry you from the very first, as I explained to you before. He told me that on theWarriorthe night your father died."
"Yes, you said so; but I did not quite understand—he planned then—why?"
"Because he had heard of your beauty and that you were rich. Were these not reasons enough? But, after he had mistaken you for Rene, the only possible way in which he could hope to gain you was by force. Jack Rale suggested that to him and how it could be done. The other man was a friend of Rale's, a renegade preacher named Gaskins; he is dead."
"Dead! Killed?"
"Yes; we brought you away after a fight with those fellows. We left Rale bound and Kirby unconscious."
"Unconscious, hurt—but not dead?"
"He had a bad gash in his skull, but was alive."
Kennedy, puffing happily upon a pipe, came loitering about the corner of the hut and approached us. Eloise staggered to her feet, shrinking back against the wall of the shack, her eyes on his face.
"That man here!" she cried in terror. "That man? Why, he was at Beaucaire! He is the one to whom I claimed to be Rene."
Tim grinned at me, but did not appear particularly flattered at his reception.
"Not quite so fast, yung lady," he said, stuttering a bit and holding the pipe in his hand. "I reckon I wus thar all right, just as ye say, an' thet I did yer a mighty mean turn, but I ain't such a dern ornary cuss as ye think—am I, Cap?"
"No, you are not," I hastened to explain. "Miss Beaucaire does not understand, that is all. We have been talking together for some time, but I had forgotten to tell her that you were one of her rescuers. Kennedy here, merely supposed he was doing his duty, until he learned what Kirby contemplated. Then he refused to have any hand in it and the two quarreled. Shall I relate that part of the story?"
Her eyes softened, her lips almost smiling.
"Yes," she said. "I am glad to know; tell me all."
I described Tim's part in the whole tragedy swiftly, while he shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other and occasionally interjected some comment or correction. He was not wholly at ease in the role of hero, nor under the steadfast gaze of her eyes. As I stopped speaking she held out her hand frankly.
"Then I shall count you my friend now," she said simply. "And I am so delighted to understand everything. There are four of us here, counting the mulatto girl, and we are in hiding not far from Yellow Banks. You both think that Kirby and Rale must be hunting us already?"
"Probably; they are very certain not to be very far away. I was planning our course when I glanced up and caught your eyes watching me—"
"And I—I thought I saw a ghost," she interrupted. "And then, when, you actually spoke, I—I was so glad."
Tim's eyes fell upon the map, lying outspread on the ground.
"An' whut did ye think wus best, Cap?" he inquired gravely. "'Tain't likely we got all summer ter sit 'round yere an' talk in. I reckon we done rested 'bout long 'nough. 'Tain't such a bad place, but my notion is, we ought ter be joggin' 'long."
"Mine also. Come over here, both of you, and I'll give you my idea. I figured our chances in this way."
In a few words I explained my choice of route, pointing it out on the map and telling them briefly why I was afraid to seek refuge either at Fort Madison or Fort Armstrong, or, indeed, at any of the nearer settlements. Eloise said nothing, her gaze rising from the map to our faces as we debated the question, for Tim spoke his mind freely, his stubby forefinger tracing the course I had indicated.
"Thar's a trail south o' yere thet leads ter a town called Ottaway, an' thar's another trail north o' yere—Injun, I reckon—whut runs straight east. Whar we are is plum in atween the two ov 'em, but it looks like it might be gud travelin'. Enyhow, thar ain't no rivers er nuthin' so fer as I see. What's this Ottaway, enyhow?"
"There is a small settlement there and a blockhouse. Possibly there are other settlements between here and there, not on the map."
"How fer do yer make it—frum this place ter thar?"
"Well, here is probably the stream we waded up last night—see. I should say we must be about where I make this mark. To Ottawa? I will make a guess that it is a bit over a hundred miles, and from there to Chicago sixty or seventy more. Those last would be over a good trail."
"An' whar do yer reckon are them Injuns—the hostile ones; this yere bunch o' Black Hawk's?"
"Somewhere up Rock River, or along the Green Valley. I'll point it out to you—see; there is where Black Hawk had his village and his hunters ranged all over this country, down as far as the Illinois. Of course, I cannot tell where they are now, for that depends on how far the soldiers have driven them, but it would be my guess they will be somewhere in here—between Prophetstown and the Winnebago Swamp."
"Let's see; thet ain't so dern fer away either. I reckon this yere course ye've just picked out wudn't take us mor'n twenty mile er so away. 'Spose we'd run inter a raidin' party o' them red bucks. I ain't got much hair, but I kin use whut I hav' got."
"I am not sure, Tim, but I would even prefer that to being overtaken by Joe Kirby and the gang he'll probably have with him," I retorted, my gaze on the questioning face of the girl. "However, there is little chance of our encountering such a party. The soldiers are all coming up from the south and are bound to force Black Hawk's warriors to the other bank of the Rock. There will be nothing but barren country east of here. What do you say, Miss Eloise?"
Her eyes met mine bravely, without a shadow of doubt in them.
"I shall go wherever you say," she replied firmly, "I believe you will know best."
"Then I decide on this route. Once we get beyond the swamp, those fellows are going to have a hard task following us, unless they have an Indian trailer along with them. We have been here several hours; the horses must be rested. Let's eat what we can again and then start. We must find a way out of this labyrinth while we have daylight."
Kennedy stood up and stared about us at the desolate scene, the expression of his face proving his dissatisfaction with the prospect.
"O' course, I'm a goin' 'long with yer, Cap," he acknowledged, dryly. "I never wus no quitter, but this yere trip don't look so damned easy ter me, fer all thet. Howsumever I reckon we'll pull through som'how, on fut, er hossback. I'll wake up thet dark gurl an' then saddle the hosses."
I watched him round the corner of the cabin, not wholly at ease in my own mind, then gathered up the map and replaced it in my pocket, aware that Eloise had not moved from her position on the grass.
"Is he right?" she questioned, looking up at me. "Is there any real danger of Indians?"
"Some, perhaps; it is all Indian country, north and east of here—or has been. I am not denying that, but this danger does not compare, in my mind, with the peril which confronts us in every other direction. I am trying to choose the least. Our greatest difficulty will be the lack of food—we possess no guns with which to kill game, only pistols, and an exceedingly small stock of ammunition. That is what troubles Tim; that, and his eagerness to get back down the river. He fails to realize what it would mean to you to fall again into Kirby's hands."
"Do you realize?"
"Do I? It is the one memory which controls me. Tell me, am I not right? No, not about the route, but about the man. You despise the fellow; you are willing to face any hardship so as to escape him?"
"I would rather die than have him touch me. I never knew the meaning of hate before. Surely you cannot deem it possible that I could ever forgive?"
"No; that would be hard to conceive; and yet, I wished to hear the words from your own lips. Will you answer me one thing more—why did you first assume the character of Rene, and why did you repose such instant trust in me?"
She smiled rather wistfully, her long lashes concealing her eyes.
"I think I myself hardly knew," she admitted timidly. "It all happened, was born of impulse, rather than through any plan. Perhaps it was just the woman in me. After my father died, Delia thought it best to tell us the story of Rene's birth. This—this was such a terrible tale, and later we sought all through his private papers, hoping he had taken some action to set those two free. There was no proof that he had, no mention, indeed, except a memorandum of intention to refer the matter to Lawyer Haines at the Landing. This merely served to confirm what Delia had told us, and, as Haines had gone to St. Louis, we were unable to see him. We were all of us nearly crazed; I was even afraid Rene would throw herself into the river. So I suggested that we run away and drew money out of my private account for that purpose. My only thought was to take a steamer up the Ohio, to some place where we were not known, and begin life over again. Rene had been a sister to me always; we were playmates from childhood, and I had grown up loving and trusting Delia ever since I was a baby. No sacrifice was too great to prevent their being sold into slavery. Oh, you cannot understand—I had no mind left; only a blind impulse to save them."
I caught her hand in mine and held it firmly.
"Perhaps I do understand. It was my knowledge of this very condition which first brought me to you."
"You heard about us on the boat—theWarrior? Did father tell you?"
"No; it was Kirby. He was actually proud of what he had done—boasted to me of his success. I have never known a man so heartlessly conceited. Eloise, listen. You may have thought this was largely an accident. It was not; it was a deliberately planned, cold-blooded plot. I tell you that Joe Kirby is of the devil's own breed; he is not human. Rene's father told him first of the peculiar conditions at Beaucaire."
"Rene's father! Does—does he still live?"
"No; but he did live for years after he disappeared, supporting himself by gambling on the lower river. At one time he and Kirby were together. After he died Kirby investigated his story in St. Louis and found that it was true. Then he laid this plot to gain control of everything, including both of you girls—a plot surely hatched in hell."
"You know this to be true? How?"
"Partly, as I have said, from Kirby's own lips. In addition Jack Rale added what he knew—they are birds of a feather."
"But it seems so impossible, so like fiction. How could the man hope to succeed; to consummate such a crime? Besides, why should he desire us—Rene and I—whom he had never seen?"
"It can only be explained when you know the man. He had heard you described as a beautiful woman—that was enough for his type. He had convinced himself that Rene was a slave—his slave, once he had successfully played his trick. He knew you to be an heiress with a sum of money in your own right, which he could only hope to touch through marriage. The man dreamed of owning Beaucaire, of possessing all it contained. He was willing to risk everything to carry out his hell-born scheme, and to ruin everyone who interfered with him. I am telling you all this, Eloise, because it is now time you should know. Will you not tell me just how it all came to you?"
Her hands clung to me, as though she dare not let go; her eyes were filled with a mingling of wonderment and pain.
"Why, of course. We thought it best not to go until after we could see the lawyer. I could not believe my father had neglected to set those two free—he—he loved them both. Delia and Rene had gone down to the Landing that night to see if he had returned. We were both of us afraid to leave Rene alone—she was so despondent, so unstrung. It was dark and I was all alone in the house. Then these men came. They did not know me and I did not know them, but I was sure what they came for. I was terribly frightened, without an idea what to do—only I refused to talk. All I could do was to pray that the others might be warned and not return. They searched the house and then left this man Tim to guard me. He told me he was a deputy sheriff from St. Louis, and—and I encouraged him to explain all he knew about the case. Then I made up my mind what to do—I would pretend to be Rene, and let them carry me off instead of her."
"But did you not realize the danger to yourself?"
"No, I suppose I didn't; or rather I did not care. All I thought about was how to save her. These were law officers; they would take me to St. Louis before a court. Then I could make myself known and would be set free. They couldn't do anything else, could they? There was no law by which I could be held, but—but, don't you see? The delay might give Rene time to escape. That was not wrong, was it?"
"Wrong! It was one of the bravest things I ever heard of. And I know the rest—your encounter with Kirby in the library. I overheard all of that through the open window, and how you learned from him that certain legal papers would have to be served on Eloise Beaucaire before any of the slaves could be touched, or removed from the estate. That knowledge only brought you new courage to play out your part. But why did you trust me enough to go with me? And, after trusting me so fully, why did you refuse to tell me who you really were?"
Her eyes fell before mine, and her cheeks were flushed.
"I—I do not believe I can tell you that, Lieutenant. You—you see I am not even sure I know. At first, there in the library, I was compelled to choose instantly between you, and—and something infinitely worse. I—I supposed that man Kirby was dead; that—that you had killed him to save me. I—I looked into your face, and—and it was a man's face; you said you were an army officer. I—I had to believe and trust you. There was no other way. Please do not ask me to explain any more."
"I shall not—only just this. If you actually believed in me, trusted me, as you say, why should you still claim to be Rene; and continually remind me there was negro blood in your veins; that you were a negress and a slave?"
"You think that strange? I did trust you, Lieutenant Knox, and I trusted you more completely the longer we were together. But—but I did not wholly understand. You were endeavoring to rescue Rene from slavery. I could not conceive what interest you might feel if I should confess myself Eloise. You were strange to me; we were there alone with the negro, and—and somehow it seemed a protection to me to claim a drop of black blood. Twice I thought to tell you—the words were on my lips—but something stopped them. Possibly, just a little, I was afraid of you."
"Then—but not now?"
"No, not now—not even a little; you have proven yourself all I ever hoped you would be. I am glad—so glad—to say to you now, I am Eloise Beau—"
She stopped suddenly, the word half uttered, the smile fading from her lips. She withdrew her hands from my clasp and pressed them over her eyes.
"My God!" she burst forth. "But I am not! I am not! Why, I never felt the horror of it all before—I am not Eloise Beaucaire!"
A moment I stood motionless, seeming to hold my breath, my eyes open, struck silent by the intense bitterness of that cry. Then the reaction came, the knowledge that I must turn her thought elsewhere.
"Do not say that, or even think it," I urged, scarcely able to restrain myself from grasping her in my arms. "Even if it shall prove true—legally true—some way of escape will be found. The others are safe, and you are going to need all your courage. Pledge me to forget, to ignore this thing. I need you."
Her hands fell nerveless and her questioning eyes sought my face. They were tearless, unabashed.
"You are right, Lieutenant Knox," she said frankly. "I owe my loyalty now to you. I shall not yield again to despair; you may trust me—my friend."
The day was not yet ended when we finally retraced our way across the narrow dyke to the mainland, prepared to resume our journey. The passage was slow and dangerous, and we made it on foot, leading the horses. The woods were already beginning to darken as we forded the north branch of the creek, and came forth through a fringe of forest trees into a country of rolling hills and narrow valleys. The two girls were already mounted, and Tim and I were busily tightening the straps for a night's ride, when, from behind us, back in the direction of the peninsula we had just quitted, there sounded the sharp report of a rifle. We straightened up, startled, and our eyes met. There could be but one conclusion—our pursuers had found the trail.