CHAPTER XVI.
All through the long morning Winona patrolled her beat listening with anxious heart to the sounds of distant firing which the breeze brought to her ears from time to time. At noon one of Captain Brown’s daughters brought her coffee; it was the only break in her solitary vigil. She scanned the horizon with anxious eyes, but having no field-glass was unable to distinguish friend from foe among the figures scarcely discernible with the naked eye.
In the dim vistas of the woods it was cool and shady, but the sun beat down mercilessly upon the sides of the cliff, and as she watched the shifting rays she wondered how the battle went in sickening dread, and then rebuked her own impatience for news. As the hours wore on, the shadows began to lengthen; their long fingers crossed the hills pointing darkly toward the river. The girl was unhappy and fearful in her mind; yet she tried to comfort herself, but for a time her firm head played her false enough to picture flames leaping from the woods, from the low roofs of the huts amid the corn-stalks, and little children under merciless hoofs, and the awful tumult of flight for life. That was no more than they must expect if the Rangers won. “But they won’t win!” she thought, with a brave smile on her face and a heavy heart in her bosom.
Overcome at length by the restless fever within, she determined to risk all in an endeavor to obtain news of her friends—of Warren. She started toward the battle line about the time Judah met Thomson on another spur of the mountain. Reaching the stream Winona followed the bed for some distance in the shadow of the cliff.
Suddenly, far above her head, she heard the gunshot, the scream of agony tearing through space, at once an alarum and rallying cry; it meant to the lonely girl all the savagery of battle; it might mean havoc and despair. She covered her face with her hands a moment, removing them the next instant in time to see a falling body drop into the water almost at her feet. Terror rendered her motionless. The soft waves stole up and flung themselves over the quiet body huddled there breast high in the stream. Then a new thought came to her—“if it should be Warren!” Gathering herself up, she stumbled through the grass to the edge of the river, fell on her knees on the bank and surveyed the helpless shape lying there. A groan broke from the white lips. She nerved herself to move nearer. She took the unconscious head in both hands and turned the face toward herself and—looked into the sightless eyes of Thomson.
Her relief was so great that she sobbed aloud; then after giving broken thanks that it was not Warren, she rose from her knees and began to look about her for means to succor the man before her. He was her enemy, but the mother instinct that dwells in all good women, which can look on death, gave her calmness and strength to do, and the heart to forgive.
She turned to seek help and faced Judah coming out from the trees. “Oh, Judah, he is alive!” she exclaimed, pointing to the inanimate figure in the water. Judah gazed at her in surprise, then said:
“What! Not dead yet? I thought I had settled his case for all time. How came you here?”
“I came out to look for the wounded. Help me to carry this man to camp; surely you are satisfied now. You cannot shoot a dying man,” she said, sternly catching the ferocious light that still glimmered in his eyes as he lifted his gun to the hollow of his arm.
“I did it for you as much as for myself. Have you forgotten your father?” he added, reproachfully.
“I do not forget. God forbid! But you have done enough.”
“Not enough,” replied Judah. “He is the hater of my race. He is of those who enslave both body and soul and damn us with ignorance and vice and take our manhood. I made an oath; it was no idle threat.”
He poised his gun. Quick as a flash the girl threw herself before the unconscious Thomson. “You shall not! You make yourself as vile as the vilest of them—our enemies. Let the man die in peace. See, he is almost gone.”
“Yes, Judah, it is enough; she is right,” said Warren Maxwell’s voice as he joined the group by the stream. “Surely you must be sick of bloodshed. Have you not had enough?”
With a glad cry Winona was folded in her lover’s arms.
“Let it be as you wish,” said Judah after a short time, as he silently viewed the happiness of the lovers. Then he prepared to help Warren lift Thomson from the stream. They turned faint and sick at the sight of the man’s wounds. “His back is broken,” said Warren, in reply to Winona’s questioning eyes.
“It were more merciful to shoot him on the spot,” said Judah, but even he felt now the sheer human repulsion from such butchery master him, as they moved slowly and carefully up the steep ascent.
The Rangers were completely routed by the desperate valor of the Brown men. Incredible as it seemed, most of the enemy had been killed outright and a number of prisoners taken, who were to be tried by court-martial and shot, according to the rough justice of the times.
The anti-slavery men met with small loss, but among the wounded was Ebenezer Maybee. With the other wounded men he was carried back to camp; at sunrise the next morning he was aroused from his stupor by a volley of musketry. Steward was at his side. He asked what it meant.
“Well, partner, you know we won the fight,” said he. “Captain Brown is a shootin’ all the pris’ners; well, now, ain’t that tough fer a prefesser?”
“No, not all the prisoners,” replied the Parson. “The most of them have been begged off by young Maxwell. He’s the most softest hearted young feller I ever met for such a good shot.”
“This yer’s a good cause to go in, Parson.”
The Parson answered gruffly, in a choked voice: “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, partner; we’ll pull you through.”
Maybee’s face worked, and he planted a knowing wink in vacancy. “We’ve been partners fer a right smart spell, ain’t we, Parson?”
The Parson frowned hard to keep back the tears. “You’re a man to tie to, Maybee.”
“No, now,” sputtered Maybee, breaking down at last; “d— ye, Parson, don’t make a baby er me.” Then with a change of voice he asked, “What’s come o’ Thomson an’ the colonel?”
“Devil’s got the colonel and he’s waiting fer Thomson; we’ve got him with a broken back next door to this house. Judah did it. My! but that boy’s as ferocious as a tiger.”
Maybee nodded. “Well, he’s a good boy, is Jude; I’ve knowed him sense he was knee-high to a toad; been through a heap; don’ blame him fer bein’ ferocious. I ain’t sorry I jined the boys, Parson, fer all I got my ticket. It’s a good cause, Parson, a good cause, and you’ll see a heap o’ fun befo’ you’re through with it; wish’t I could be here to see it, too. You found your ol’ woman and the kids all safe, Parson?”
“I did,” replied the Parson, cordially.
“Jes’ break it gently to Ma’ Jane, partner, that I got my death in an hones’ fight, an’ tell her she’s all right, havin’ everything in her name an’ power of attorney to boot.”
“I will do so,” promised the Parson, solemnly.
One of the men came in with a message for the Parson. Thomson was conscious and going fast; he wanted the Parson and Winona.
Thomson still lived; none knew why; his stupor had left him conscious. Paralyzed in every limb, he could talk in a strong voice and was perfectly sane, and recognized those about him, but he was going fast.
“How long do you give me, doc?” he asked Warren, jokingly.
“Until it touches the heart,” replied Warren solemnly.
“Then it will be soon?” Warren nodded.
Thomson appeared to be thinking. “No,” he muttered finally with a sigh, “I got to own up. Colonel’s dead, ain’t he?” Warren bowed.
“Well, then, ’tain’t no use holdin’ out. Bring in the gal and Judah, an’ take down every word I say if you want the gal to have her own. You’re a lawyer, ain’t you? Sent out here on the Carlingford case, warn’t you? Never struck you that me and the Colonel knew where to find the man you was huntin’, did it?” His voice was spent, and Warren, his mind in a tumult, held a glass of liquor to the dying man’s lips, and then sent for Winona and Judah and Parson Steward. They came instantly, and with the transient vigor imparted by the liquor Thomson opened his eyes again and said, in a clear tone: “I’m here yet, Judah; I almost got the one chance you offered me, but it ain’t for long I’ll hender you; I’m goin’ fast.”
No one answered the wretch, baffled alike in base passion and violent deeds, but Parson Steward began a fervent prayer for the dying. Something of his awful need for such a petition must have filtered through the darkness of the sin-cursed heart and he presently comprehended dimly the great change before him. He whispered at the close:
“That’s all right, Parson. I know I deviled you an’ tried to kill you; I did the same to the nigger—an’ to Maxwell—but I done the girl worse ’n dirt. That’s me you described in your prayer—a devilish wicked cuss, but I warn’t always so, an’ d—— me ef I ain’t sorry! I’m goin’ to try to make the damage I’ve done, good—to the girl, anyhow.”
“Miserable sinners, miserable sinners, all of us. Madness is in our hearts while we live, and after that we go to the dead. God forgive us,” muttered the Parson, not noting the dying man’s profanity.
“Take down every word I say, Mr. Maxwell, an’ let me kiss the Book that it’s all true.”
The scene was intensely dramatic. Winona sat with clasped hands folded on her breast; she knew not what new turn of Fortune’s wheel awaited her. Judah’s dark, handsome face and stalwart form were in the background where he stood in a group formed by Captain Brown and his sons, who had been called to witness the confession.
As for Warren Maxwell, he felt the most intense excitement he had ever experienced in his life. His hands shook; he could scarcely hold the pen. Most of us creatures of flesh and blood know what that terrible feeling of suspense, of dread, with which we approach a crisis in our fate. It is indefinable, but comes alike to strong and weak, bold and timid. Such a crisis Maxwell felt was approaching in the fate of Winona and himself. There in we recognize the mesmeric force which holds mankind in an eternal brotherhood. Stronger than all in life, perhaps, is this mysterious force when a man feels that he has
“Set his life upon a cast,And must abide the hazard of the die.”
“Mr. Maxwell, you came to America to find the lost Captain Henry Carlingford, heir to the great Carlingford estates. You thought you were on a hopeless quest, did you not?” Warren nodded. It was noticeable that the man spoke in well-bred phrases, and had dropped his Southwestern accent. “You found the captain all right, but you never knew it. White Eagle was the man you wanted!”
There was a cry of astonishment from the listeners. Winona was in tears. Into Judah’s eyes there crept the old ferocious glitter as he said:
“And so you murdered him! I have suspected as much for two years.”
“No, no, Judah; I wasn’t in that. Titus did the killing.”
Now Warren lost sight of all personal interest in the case, seeing nothing but its legal aspect. He wrote rapidly, questioning the man closely.
“Why did Col. Titus commit this murder? How came you to know this?”
With great effort Thomson replied:
“Titus hated him because he stood between him and a vast fortune, and he was also jealous of his wife’s love for Henry Carlingford; he was her lover from childhood, and she loved him until death.”
“Then if you know this, I want you to tell me who killed young Lord George. Miss Venton was affianced to him. You can tell if you will, for Miss Venton married Colonel Titus.” Warren spoke sternly and solemnly.
Thomson muttered to himself and then was silent; all waited breathlessly in painful silence. Would he solve the riddle, and tell the story of the crime for which a guiltless man had been condemned by a jury of his peers years before?
“No, it won’t neither,” they heard him say, and then he spoke aloud: “Everything must be made clear?”
“Yes,” said Warren, “if you wish to help this poor girl whom you have wronged so cruelly.”
“It won’t be against you when you get on the other side, Thomson. Free your mind, my friend; it’ll do you good. Terrible, verily, sir, is the Lord our God, but full of mercy,” said Parson Steward.
“I’ll take your word for it, Parson, but I never was much on religion: perhaps I’d fared better if I had been. Well, then, I killed Lord George. I swore to bring disgrace upon the entire Carlingford family. And I have done it; I have had a rich revenge. I was Lord George’s valet; my sister, Miss Venton’s maid. Lord George could never resist a pretty face, and my sister was more than that. Miss Venton loved Captain Henry, and Lord George found her an indifferent woman. She but obeyed her father’s orders, and so Lord George made love to the maid, deceived her, and when he tired of his toy abandoned her to the usual fate of such women—the street. I found her when it was too late, and I swore revenge so long as one lived with a drop of the blood in his veins.
“One day the brothers quarrelled bitterly over Miss Venton; then was my chance. I shot Lord George in the back, and fled, knowing that suspicion would fall on Capt. Henry. It did; and two of my enemies were out of my way, for the Captain was tried and convicted and lived an outcast among savages for years; that was my little scheme for getting even. For the sake of his daughter Lillian, Colonel Titus killed White Eagle and held Winona as a slave, thus cutting off the last direct heir to Carlingford.”
The faint voice ceased. The narrative was finished with great difficulty; the man failed rapidly. With a great effort he added: “Will you call it square, young fellow?—you and Winona—and Judah? I’ve done you bad, but I’ve told the truth at last. Mr. Maxwell—you know the rest—I reckon you’ll marry the heiress—I’m glad.—Land in Canidy soon, boys; they’ll be after you inside a week—big Government force——.” Warren preserved his impassiveness by a struggle; the others followed the faint voice of the dying man with breathless attention; they felt that every word of this important confession was true.
Maxwell was filled with a hope that agitated him almost beyond control.
“Why, surely,” he said, at length, in a voice that trembled in spite of himself, as he rose and joined Winona and Judah at the bedside. “I’m awfully grateful to you for telling me this; it makes my work easy.”
“I sort o’ hated to tell, fer a fac’,” he said, falling back into his usual vernacular, “but I’m glad I done it.” His voice failed; a gray shadow crept over the white face; all was still.
“Let us pray,” and Parson Steward broke the silence. As they knelt about the bed, the crack of rifles broke in upon the fervent petition for mercy sent upwards by the man of God. It was the volley that carried death to the last of the captured Rangers. Guilty soul joined guilty soul in their flight to Eternity.
Ebenezer Maybee expressed no surprise when told of Thomson’s confession.
“These happenings ’min’ me o’ the words o’ the Psalmist that I’ve heard Parson quote so often: ‘Thy right hand shall teach thee terrible things.’”
“Amen,” said Steward. “But full of mercy, also, since they will deliver this poor girl from the hand of the spoiler.”
Many tears were shed over Maybee’s precarious condition, for he was dear to every soul in the camp. Winona and Judah established themselves as nurses at his bedside, bringing all their Indian knowledge of medicine to bear upon his case, and declaring that they would pull him through.
“My children,” he said, after musing a while on the exciting tale just told him, “I believe I can match that story o’ Thomson’s. I have a surprisin’ secret to unfol’ to you. It will make the whole business clear. White Eagle must a per-ceived his end, an’ he says to me, says he, jes’ about a month before his disease, he says, ‘Maybee, keep this here package if anything comes across me, ’tell my girl’s a re-sponsible age.’ After he was dead I said to myself—in the words of Scripter, ’a charge to keep I have’ an’ ’t ain’t safe to keep it; so I give the package to Ma’ Jane an’ she has it unto this day.”