CHAPTER XI
WHAT WE OVERHEARD
I COULD feel the trembling of her body, and for an instant my brain seemed to reel with dizziness. The danger confronting us was not so much mine as hers; my uniform might possibly save me, or, at least, prevent my suffering from anything more unpleasant than capture, but there was no such hope for the girl. These men were not soldiers but desperadoes, the scum of the hills, and they had come actuated by one object only—the possession of Major Harwood's daughter. What the real purpose of the Cowans might be I could not even conjecture, but this night raid was, beyond all doubt, a part of that same foul plot which had involved the cowardly murder of the father. That had been the work of the elder Cowan, and now had come the turn of the son. Here was the culmination of the feud between the two families, the blood-anger which had smouldered for years, finally to find fit expression in this outrage under the guise of war. With the Major dead, and his only child married to Anse Cowan—whether by force, or otherwise—the account would be closed. Once legally this villain's wife all her inheritance would be in his control. That must be the object, the vile, cowardly purpose, which had brought him, and his murderous crew to this lonely house through the storm. He expected to surprise the girl alone, and unprotected; in the canting preacher Nichols he had a tool fitted to do his bidding, yet even under such conditions he dare not venture on the deed unaccompanied. He had to bring a gang of cut-throats along with him—a dozen men to overcome the resistance of a frail girl. That very fact stamped him for what he was—a sneaking cur, afraid of his contemplated crime. True; yet this did not necessarily mean that he would prove any the less dangerous. His very sense of cowardice might render him the more desperate, while the number of his supporters, and their jeers at any failure on his part, would drive him to greater atrocity. All this flashed over me in the single moment we stood there, hesitating, confused, all our plans for escape instantly shattered. I had no thought but to fight—to fight desperately, protecting this girl's honor with my life. I knew of no escape, no means by which we might find a way out of the toils in which we were caught—we must meet them here at the stair head, in the dark, and defend ourselves to the last extremity. Death, even, was far preferable to falling alive into their hands. I felt instinctively that it would be her choice. She had uttered no sound, no cry after that first startled exclamation. Suddenly her hands grasped mine in which I gripped the revolver.
"Do not shoot—not yet!" she whispered, the sound of her words barely audible. "Wait; there is one chance still that we may deceive them."
"A way leading out? You mean a secret passage?"
"No, but a spot where we might hide, and be overlooked. I am sure none of these men know this house; Anse Cowan has never been inside of it, and most of the ruffians with him are from beyond the mountains. If they do not find us here when they search, they will believe we have escaped."
"They will discover the preacher," I protested, yet with a faint throb of hope. "He will be heard from presently, and they will learn the truth from him."
"All he knows—yes; but that is not much. He cannot be sure that we have not had time in which to get safely away. The two of us cannot defend both these stairs," she urged, "and our only hope is in hiding. Come now, while we have time—there they are, battering at the parlor door. They will be in the hall next, and it will be too late."
She drew me back, and I yielded to the grasp of her hand. The darkness was intense, but she moved swiftly and surely, as though knowing intimately every inch of the way; her fingers touching mine were warm and firm, no longer trembling. Action had brought back her courage, and I felt my own heart beat stronger in response. Anything was better than hopeless waiting—any chance, any desperate effort. The door in front crashed, and an oath rumbled upward; to the rear a light flashed, its reflection reddening the stair. Aided by its distant flicker we raced back down the upper hall to where it narrowed. A ladder stood there leading upward to a small scuttle above. Instantly my mind grasped her plan—the attic! If we could attain the attic unseen, drawing the ladder up after us and lowering the cover over the hole, our presence in the house might remain unsuspected. It was a low, flat roof; the space above must be small, and, unless the fellows knew of this ladder and opening, the place would probably never be observed in the course of their hasty search of the rooms. Even at the worst our opportunity for defense would be better up above than in that open hallway.
"I see what you mean," I said swiftly. "Go up first, Miss Noreen—hurry. Is the ladder fastened to the floor?"
"By a single small nail in each support; only enough to hold it firm. It was kept here in case of fire."
"Yes, I see; I can kick it loose easily. Don't delay; those fellows will be up the stairs in a moment more, and they are bringing a light with them. Here, let me help you."
She crept through the narrow scuttlehole, her supple, slender body rinding easy passage. With two blows of my boot I loosened the supports, freeing them from the floors, and mounted recklessly. Already men were on the stairs, the gleam of an approaching light reflecting along the side-walls. There was light flooring above, and sufficient space in which to move freely, although I could see nothing, not even the breathless girl at my side. Together we grasped the upper rungs, and drew up the ladder, sliding it in behind us on the floor. The scuttle cover was on hinges, and I clamped it down securely into place. Fortunately it slipped over the edge of the hole noiselessly, but the thin center board had warped slightly, leaving a little space, through which stole a tiny gleam of light, growing brighter as the searchers below advanced along the hall. It was no more than a narrow bar outlined on the roof overhead, and yielding us an indistinct glimpse of each other's faces, as we lay there pressed closely together in silent suspense. I stretched forward, endeavoring to peer down through the narrow crack, but was baffled by its smallness. Only the steadiness of the light, the voices, and the varied noises below, gave us information of what occurred. Yet these served to reveal clearly enough the progress of the searching party, and the conclusions to which they arrived. They possessed more than one lamp, because a light continued to burn steadily in the hall while the fellows were busily exploring the rooms on either side. We could distinguish the opening and closing of doors, and the sound of voices calling to others on the floor below. Once some fellow, apparently just beneath us, ripped out an oath.
"Well, by God, Jack, do you suppose Nichols has dared play such a durned trick on me and squealed to the girl?"
"Hanged if I know," was the sullen reply. "But it don't look like thar was a soul in the house."
"Yer right it don't, but I can't believe he ever had the nerve to do such a damn trick. I'll foller the cuss tew hell an' back if he has."
I felt her hand touch mine softly, and bent my head until her lips were at my ear.
"That was Anse Cowan," she whispered. "I recognize that voice. What do you suppose they will do now?"
The one fear in my heart was that in the fierce anger of disappointment they might fire the house, but I could not frighten her by giving utterance to the suspicion. My fingers tightened their grip; the men below had moved on, their voices grumbling along the hall.
"They will discover the preacher presently," I said, endeavoring to make my words as reassuring as possible. "I only wonder they have overlooked him so long; I supposed he would make an outcry."
"Perhaps he is afraid," she commented. "I have heard that Anse Cowan has a horrible temper, and when things go wrong acts like a crazed man—Nichols may dread facing his anger, and hope to escape discovery by remaining still."
"That may be true; the fellow is chicken-hearted enough from what I saw of him, but no less a villain. They will find him, however, for, from the sounds, they are prying into every nook and cranny. I heard them breaking down one door which must have been locked—there! they are battering in another now! They are old hands at this game, and this is not the first house they have looted. When they do find the preacher he will tell everything he knows, as fast as he can talk."
She drew in her breath sharply, and sat up. The movement was noiseless, but in the instant of intense silence which followed, we heard below us the sudden sound of struggle, a muffled voice calling for mercy, the shuffling of feet, and the noise of a body being hauled forward across the floor. Then someone ran along the hall, passing just beneath us.
"What have you found, Kelly?" It was Anse's voice roaring out the question. "Ah! the old fox dug out of his hole, hey! Now see here, you canting old Baptist hypocrite. What kind of a trick is it you are playing on me? Stand him up there boys, against that rail. Stop your howling, or I'll smash you one in the face. Where did you find the fool, Jack?"
"Locked in a closet yonder; looks like it might be the girl's room."
"Locked in?"
"He sure was, an' no key. We hed to bust in the door ter git at him."
"He had locked himself thar?"
"I reckon not; leastwise thar want no key thar, an' none in his pocket. The darn fool is too skeered ter talk yet."
"Well, I'll make him, er else thar'll be a dead preacher in 'bout a minute. I reckon as how I'll do as much skeering as anyone. Now, Nichols, ye see thet ! Whut the devil wus yer doing in thet closet?"
"They—they done put me thar, Anse."
"They! What do yer mean? Wus thar anyone yere along with ther girl?"
Nichols' voice sounded as though he was being choked, his reply being gasped out.
"Don't do thet, Anse—my God! I ain't done nothing fer yer ter be mad at—I—I just couldn't help bein' whar I wus—let me 'lone a minute, an' I'll tell yer all 'bout it."
"Go on, then—who wus yere beside the girl when yer cum?"
"A Yankee leftenant, a cavalryman I reckon from ther yaller stripes on his legs."
"A Yank! Did yer hear the fellar's name?"
"Damn if I'm sure; he's a right good sized man, an' not bad lookin'. Pears to me, now I think of it, she called him Raymond."
There was a gasping sound as though Anse's hand had closed again heavily on the fellow's throat.
"Raymond! I reckon yer lyin' ter me, Parson. Yer heard tell o' thet feller over in camp, an' ther name stuck. 'Twont be healthy fer yer ter play no game yere."
"I ain't, Anse. Quit a chokin' me. I never heard tell o' no Yank named Raymond afore. Be thar one 'round yere?"
"Wall, thar was, but I don't reckon thar is now," doubtfully. "Last I heerd tell o' him he wus over in Fayette a ridin' like hell fer Charleston. Monte's band picked him up, an' he didn't find this kentry none too healthy fer his line o' business, which was recruitin'—whut's that, Kelly?"
"Better let ther preacher tell his story, Anse. We're losin' a lot o' time; I reckon thar must a bin some kind o' male critter yere; 'taint likely ther girl locked him up alone, an' it don't make no odds whut the Yank's name wus, nohow."
"Go on, Nichols; whut happened? Tell us the whole ef it, but make it short."
The preacher drew in a long breath, evidently relieved to have the pressure of Anse's murderous fingers removed from his throat. He sputtered a bit as he began to speak, and there were muffled words we could not distinguish. Occasionally someone of his auditors interrupted with an oath, or exclamation. He spoke faster as he proceeded, as though feeling less fear, and eager to have the task over. Only once or twice did Cowan interject a brief question.
"I came yere as you told me to, but I must hev' rode faster then was expected, fer no one wus yere when I got ter the house. It was stormin' all ther way, an' I wus plum wet through, an' plastered ith mud. The hoss was fit ter drap, fer I thought maybe I'd be late, an' we'd cum a kitin'. Thar warn't nary light in ther shebang exceptin' upstairs on the west side, an' I reckoned as how thet mout likely be ther gal's room. I went clar 'round ter make sure, but thar warn't no other glimmer enywhere. Didn't strike me I had nuthin' ter be afeerd of, with nobody but the young gal et home. I reckoned as how she'd know me, and wouldn't likely make no fuss, afore I could explain how I cum thar, an' I sure wanted ter git inside outer thet cold rain. I didn't know how long it might be 'fore you fellers come. Wall, when I crept up on the front piazza, the furst thing I see was a winder smashed in, an' I got through thar, an' across the room to ther door leadin' inter the hall, afore I saw eny signs of enybody. Then I glimpsed a light in the room opposite, an' seed the gal sittin' in front o' ther fireplace. I didn't know thar wus a soul else in the house, an' thet fire looked so good, I just up an' stepped inter the room afore I thought. Then I see this yere Yank a sittin' at the table eatin'."
"He was in uniform?"
"Sure; wet and muddy as if he hedn't bin inside long either, an' he didn't leave me no time fer ter back out. He hed me covered almost 'fore I see him; but the gal jumped up an' told him who I wus, an' he put back the pistol, an' sat thar while she questioned me right smart."
"Well, what did you tell her?"
"Only 'bout her father being dead at furst. Thet I heerd about it at Lewisburg, an' hed felt it my duty ter bring her the news. I reckon if she hed bin thar alone we'd a got 'long fine tergether, but thet Yankee leftenant wus too smart ter be fooled so easy. I reckon he knew mor'n he let on, fer ther furst thing I knew he wus questionin' me like a blame lawyer, an' a shovin' his gun in my face fer ter make me answer."
"You damn coward! What did you tell?"
"Honest, Anse, I don't jest know; but I reckon I did spit it most out, fer he'd a killed me if I hadn't."
"Do you mean to say you told them I was comin' yere ternight, an' goin' fer ter make the girl marry me—you whinin' cur?"
"How could I help it, Anse? I reckon if thet feller hed a pistol et your head you'd a did some talkin'. Maybe he's a recruitin' officer, but he ain't no sorter man ter fool with onct he gits mad."
"Well, I'd sure like fer ter know who he is. He can't be ther feller what got away from Monte, fer he lit out fer Charleston. How did this yere feller git yere—on horseback?"
"I didn't git sight o' no hoss; thar wus only one four-legged critter in ther barn, an' I reckon as how the girl must hev' rode thet."
"Say, Anse," broke in the voice of Kelly, "I'll bet this Yank is the one thet wus with Fox, an' got away. He'd hed time 'nough fer ter git this fer on fut."
"But what does he call hisself Raymond fer?"
"Damn if I know—maybe he jest heerd tell of the other feller, an' thought as how he'd git 'long easier under thet name."
"Well, I reckon it won't make much difference whut the cuss' name is if ever I git my hands on him," growled Anse savagely. "Go on, Nichols; how did yer git locked up?"
"I thought as how thar wus a chance ter break away, an' ther Yank an' me we fit like a couple o' wild cats. I reckon maybe I'd a licked ther cuss, if the gal hadn't a stole up behin' an' hit me with some crockery. The next thing I know'd they'd dragged me up stairs yere, shoved me inter that thar closet, an' locked ther door."
"What became of them?"
"Skipped out, I reckon. I never seen nuthing more ov 'em."
Anse must have completely lost his temper, for there was the sound of a blow, and the noise of a falling body, feet shuffling as the others drew back. Then a moment of silence.
"Pick the ol' fool up," said a voice. "Throw him back into the room thar. Maybe he'll hev sum sense when he wakes up. Kelly, take Jim with yer, an' see if thet hoss is in ther stable yet. If them two left on fut, they ain't gone fur in this storm. Enyhow thar's one thing sure—they ain't a hidin' up yere. Cum on, boys, let's take a 'nother look 'round down below."
We heard their feet on the stairs, and the light, which had streamed up through the crack in the scuttle, faded away, leaving us in utter darkness.