"He is the Nameless One," said Persil Mandifer, and she could discern
the capital letters in the last two words he spoke.
"Look," said Larue, out of the corner of his weak mouth that was
nearest his father. "She thinks that she is getting ready to run."
"She will not run," assured Persil Mandifer. "She will sit and listen,
and watch what I have here in my hand." The object on the chain seemed
to be growing in size and clarity of outline. Enid felt that it might
not be a crucifix, after all.
"The Nameless One is also ageless," continued Persil Mandifer. "My
dear, I dislike telling you all about him, and it is not really
necessary. All you need know is that we--my fathers and I--have served
him here, and in Europe, since the days when France was Gaul. Yes, and
before that."
The swinging object really was increasing in her sight. And the basic
cross was no cross, but a three-armed thing like a capital T. Nor
was the body-like figure spiked to it; it seemed to twine and clamber
upon that T-shape, like a monkey on a bracket. Like a monkey, it was
grotesque, disproportionate, a mockery. That climbing creature was made
of gold, or of something gilded over. The T-shaped support was as black
and bright as jet.
[Illustration: "The swinging object was increasing in her sight."]
Enid thought that the golden creature was dull, as if tarnished, and
that it appeared to move; an effect created, perhaps, by the rhythmic
swinging on the chain.
"Our profits from the association have been great," Persil Mandifer
droned. "Yet we have given greatly. Four times in each hundred years
must a bride be offered."
Mist was gathering once more, in Enid's eyes and brain, a thicker mist
than the one that had come from the shock of hearing that she was an
adopted orphan. Yet through it all she saw the swinging device, the
monkey-like climber upon the T. And through it all she heard Mandifer's
voice:
"When my real daughter, the last female of my race, went to the
Nameless One, I wondered where our next bride would come from. And so,
twenty years ago, I took you from a foundling asylum at Nashville."
It was becoming plausible to her now. There was a power to be
worshipped, to be feared, to be fed with young women. She must go--no,
this sort of belief was wrong. It had no element of decency in it, it
was only beaten into her by the spell of the pendulum-swinging charm.
Yet she had heard certain directions, orders as to what to do.
"You will act in the manner I have described, and say the things I have
repeated, tonight at sundown," Mandifer informed her, as though from a
great distance. "You will surrender yourself to the Nameless One, as it
was ordained when first you came into my possession."
"No," she tried to say, but her lips would not even stir. Something had
crept into her, a will not her own, which was forcing her to accept
defeat. She knew she must go--where?
"To Fearful Rock," said the voice of Mandifer, as though he had heard
and answered the question she had not spoken. "Go there, to that house
where once my father lived and worshipped, that house which, upon the
occasion of his rather mysterious death, I left. It is now our place
of devotion and sacrifice. Go there, Enid, tonight at sundown, in the
manner I have prescribed...."
_2. The Cavalry Patrol_
Lieutenant Kane Lanark was one of those strange and vicious
heritage-anomalies of one of the most paradoxical of wars--a war
where a great Virginian was high in Northern command, and a great
Pennsylvanian stubbornly defended one of the South's principal
strongholds; where the two presidents were both born in Kentucky,
indeed within scant miles of each other; where father strove against
son, and brother against brother, even more frequently and tragically
than in all the jangly verses and fustian dramas of the day.
Lanark's birthplace was a Maryland farm, moderately prosperous. His
education had been completed at the Virginia Military Institute,
where he was one of a very few who were inspired by a quiet, bearded
professor of mathematics who later became the Stonewall of the
Confederacy, perhaps the continent's greatest tactician. The older
Lanark was strongly for state's rights and mildly for slavery, though
he possessed no Negro chattels. Kane, the younger of two sons, had
carried those same attitudes with him as much as seven miles past the
Kansas border, whither he had gone in 1861 to look for employment and
adventure.
At that lonely point he met with Southern guerrillas, certain
loose-shirted, weapon-laden gentry whose leader, a gaunt young man
with large, worried eyes, bore the craggy name of Quantrill and was to
be called by a later historian the bloodiest man in American history.
Young Kane Lanark, surrounded by sudden leveled guns, protested his
sympathy with the South by birth, education and personal preference.
Quantrill replied, rather sententiously, that while this might be true,
Lanark's horse and money-belt had a Yankee look to them, and would be
taken as prisoners of war.
After the guerrillas had galloped away, with a derisive laugh hanging
in the air behind them, Lanark trudged back to the border and a little
settlement, where he begged a ride by freight wagon to St. Joseph,
Missouri. There he enlisted with a Union cavalry regiment just then in
the forming, and his starkness of manner, with evidences about him of
military education and good sense, caused his fellow recruits to elect
him a sergeant.
Late that year, Lanark rode with a patrol through southern Missouri,
where fortune brought him and his comrades face to face with
Quantrill's guerrillas, the same that had plundered Lanark. The
lieutenant in charge of the Federal cavalry set a most hysterical
example for flight, and died of six Southern bullets placed accurately
between his shoulder blades; but Lanark, as ranking non-commissioned
officer, rallied the others, succeeded in withdrawing them in order
before the superior force. As he rode last of the retreat, he had the
fierce pleasure of engaging and sabering an over-zealous guerrilla, who
had caught up with him. The patrol rejoined its regiment with only two
lost, the colonel was pleased to voice congratulations and Sergeant
Lanark became Lieutenant Lanark, vice the slain officer.
In April of 1862, General Curtis, recently the victor in the
desperately fought battle of Pea Ridge, showed trust and understanding
when he gave Lieutenant Lanark a scouting party of twenty picked
riders, with orders to seek yet another encounter with the marauding
Quantrill. Few Union officers wanted anything to do with Quantrill,
but Lanark, remembering his harsh treatment at those avaricious hands,
yearned to kill the guerrilla chieftain with his own proper sword.
On the afternoon of April fifth, beneath a sun bright but none too
warm, the scouting patrol rode down a trail at the bottom of a great,
trough-like valley just south of the Missouri-Arkansas border. Two
pairs of men, those with the surest-footed mounts, acted as flanking
parties high on the opposite slopes, and a watchful corporal by the
name of Googan walked his horse well in advance of the main body. The
others rode two and two, with Lanark at the head and Sergeant Jager,
heavy-set and morosely keen of eye, at the rear.
A photograph survives of Lieutenant Kane Lanark as he appeared that
very spring--his breadth of shoulder and slimness of waist accentuated
by the snug blue cavalry jacket that terminated at his sword-belt, his
ruddy, beak-nosed face shaded by a wide black hat with a gold cord. He
wore a mustache, trim but not gay, and his long chin alone of all his
command went smooth-shaven. To these details be it added that he rode
his bay gelding easily, with a light, sure hand on the reins, and that
he had the air of one who knew his present business.
The valley opened at length upon a wide level platter of land among
high, pine-tufted hills. The flat expanse was no more than half
timbered, though clever enemies might advance unseen across it if they
exercised caution and foresight enough to slip from one belt or clump
of trees to the next. Almost at the center of the level, a good five
miles from where Lanark now halted his command stood a single great
chimney or finger of rock, its lean tip more than twice the height of
the tallest tree within view.
To this geologic curiosity the eyes of Lieutenant Lanark snapped at
once.
"Sergeant!" he called, and Jager sidled his horse close.
"We'll head for that rock, and stop there," Lanark announced. "It's
a natural watch-tower, and from the top of it we can see everything,
even better than we could if we rode clear across flat ground to those
hills. And if Quantrill is west of us, which I'm sure he is, I'd like
to see him coming a long way off, so as to know whether to fight or
run."
"I agree with you, sir," said Jager. He peered through narrow, puffy
lids at the pinnacle, and gnawed his shaggy lower lip. "I shall lift
up mine eyes unto the rocks, from whence cometh my help," he misquoted
reverently. The sergeant was full of garbled Scripture, and the men
called him "Bible" Jager behind that wide back of his. This did not
mean that he was soft, dreamy or easily fooled; Curtis had chosen him
as sagely as he had chosen Lanark.
* * * * *
Staying in the open as much as possible, the party advanced upon the
rock. They found it standing above a soft, grassy hollow, which in turn
ran eastward from the base of the rock to a considerable ravine, dark
and full of timber. As they spread out to the approach, they found
something else; a house stood in the hollow, shadowed by the great
pinnacle.
"It looks deserted, sir," volunteered Jager, at Lanark's bridle-elbow.
"No sign of life."
"Perhaps," said Lanark. "Deploy the men, and we'll close in from all
sides. Then you, with one man, enter the back door. I'll take another
and enter the front."
"Good, sir." The sergeant kneed his horse into a faster walk, passing
from one to another of the three corporals with muttered orders. Within
sixty seconds the patrol closed upon the house like a twenty-fingered
hand. Lanark saw that the building had once been pretentious--two
stories, stoutly made of good lumber that must have been carted from
a distance, with shuttered windows and a high peaked roof. Now it was
a paint-starved gray, with deep veins and traceries of dirty black
upon its clapboards. He dismounted before the piazza with its four
pillar-like posts, and threw his reins to a trooper.
"Suggs!" he called, and obediently his own personal orderly, a plump
blond youth, dropped out of the saddle. Together they walked up on
the resounding planks of the piazza. Lanark, his ungloved right hand
swinging free beside his holster, knocked at the heavy front door with
his left fist. There was no answer. He tried the knob, and after a
moment of shoving, the hinges creaked and the door went open.
They walked into a dark front hall, then into a parlor with dust upon
the rug and the fine furniture, and rectangles of pallor upon the walls
where pictures had once hung for years. They could hear echoes of their
every movement, as anyone will hear in a house to which he is not
accustomed. Beyond the parlor, they came to an ornate chandelier with
crystal pendants, and at the rear stood a sideboard of dark, hard wood.
Its drawers all hung half open, as if the silver and linen had been
hastily removed. Above it hung plate-racks, also empty.
Feet sounded in a room to the rear, and then Jager's voice, asking if
his lieutenant were inside. Lanark met him in the kitchen, conferred;
then together they mounted the stairs in the front hall.
Several musty bedrooms, darkened by closed shutters, occupied the
second floor. The beds had dirty mattresses, but no sheets or blankets.
"All clear in the house," pronounced Lanark. "Jager, go and detail a
squad to reconnoiter in that little ravine east of here--we want no
rebel sharpshooters sneaking up on us from that point. Then leave a
picket there, put a man on top of the rock, and guards at the front and
rear of this house. And have some of the others police up the house
itself. We may stay here for two days, even longer."
The sergeant saluted, then went to bellow his orders, and troopers
dashed hither and thither to obey. In a moment the sound of sweeping
arose from the parlor. Lanark, to whom it suggested spring cleaning,
sneezed at thought of the dust, then gave Suggs directions about the
care of his bay. Unbuckling his saber, he hung it upon the saddle, but
his revolver he retained. "You're in charge, Jager," he called, and
sauntered away toward the wooded cleft.
His legs needed the exercise; he could feel them straightening
by degrees after their long clamping to his saddle-flaps. He was
uncomfortably dusty, too, and there must be water at the bottom of the
ravine. Walking into the shade of the trees, he heard, or fancied he
heard, a trickling sound. The slope was steep here, and he walked fast
to maintain an easy balance upon it, for a minute and then two. There
was water ahead, all right, for it gleamed through the leafage. And
something else gleamed, something pink.
That pinkness was certainly flesh. His right hand dropped quickly to
his revolver-butt, and he moved forward carefully. Stooping, he took
advantage of the bushy cover, at the same time avoiding a touch that
might snap or rustle the foliage. He could hear a voice now, soft and
rhythmic. Lanark frowned. A woman's voice? His right hand still at his
weapon, his left caught and carefully drew down a spray of willow. He
gazed into an open space beyond.
It was a woman, all right, within twenty yards of him. She stood
ankle-deep in a swift, narrow rush of brook-water, and her fine body
was nude, every graceful curve of it, with a cascade of golden-brown
hair falling and floating about her shoulders. She seemed to be
praying, but her eyes were not lifted. They stared at a hand-mirror,
that she held up to catch the last flash of the setting sun.
_3. The Image in the Cellar_
Lanark, a young, serious-minded bachelor in an era when women swaddled
themselves inches deep in fabric, had never seen such a sight before;
and to his credit be it said that his first and strongest emotion was
proper embarrassment for the girl in the stream. He had a momentary
impulse to slip back and away. Then he remembered that he had ordered a
patrol to explore this place; it would be here within moments.
Therefore he stepped into the open, wondering at the time, as well as
later, if he did well.
"Miss," he said gently. "Miss, you'd better put on your things. My
men----"
She stared, squeaked in fear, dropped the mirror and stood motionless.
Then she seemed to gather herself for flight. Lanark realized that
the trees beyond her were thick and might hide enemies, that she was
probably a resident of this rebel-inclined region and might be a decoy
for such as himself. He whipped out his revolver, holding it at the
ready but not pointing it.
"Don't run," he warned her sharply. "Are those your clothes beside you?
Put them on at once."
She caught up a dress of flowered calico and fairly flung it on over
her head. His embarrassment subsided a little, and he came another
pace or two into the open. She was pushing her feet--very small
feet they were--into heelless shoes. Her hands quickly gathered up
some underthings and wadded them into a bundle. She gazed at him
apprehensively, questioningly. Her hastily-donned dress remained
unfastened at the throat, and he could see the panicky stir of her
heart in her half-bared bosom.
"I'm sorry," he went on, "but I think you'd better come up to the house
with me."
"House?" she repeated fearfully, and her dark, wide eyes turned to look
beyond him. Plainly she knew which house he meant. "You--live there?"
"I'm staying there at this time."
"You--came for me?" Apparently she had expected someone to come.
But instead of answering, he put a question of his own. "To whom were
you talking just now? I could hear you."
"I--I said the words. The words my faith----" She broke off,
wretchedly, and Lanark was forced to think how pretty she was in her
confusion. "The words that Persil Mandifer told me to say." Her eyes on
his, she continued softly: "I came to meet the Nameless One. Are you
the--Nameless One?"
[Illustration: "Are you the Nameless One?"]
"I am certainly not nameless," he replied. "I am Lieutenant Lanark, of
the Federal Army of the Frontier, at your service." He bowed slightly,
which made it more formal. "Now, come along with me."
He took her by the wrist, which shook in his big left hand. Together
they went back eastward through the ravine, in the direction of the
house.
Before they reached it, she told him her name, and that the big natural
pillar was called Fearful Rock. She also assured him that she knew
nothing of Quantrill and his guerrillas; and a fourth item of news
shook Lanark to his spurred heels, the first non-military matter that
had impressed him in more than a year.
An hour later, Lanark and Jager finished an interview with her in the
parlor. They called Suggs, who conducted the young woman up to one of
the bedrooms. Then lieutenant and sergeant faced each other. The light
was dim, but each saw bafflement and uneasiness in the face of the
other.
"Well?" challenged Lanark.
Jager produced a clasp-knife, opened it, and pared thoughtfully at
a thumbnail. "I'll take my oath," he ventured, "that this Miss Enid
Mandifer is telling the gospel truth."
"Truth!" exploded Lanark scornfully. "Mountain-folk ignorance, I call
it. Nobody believes in those devil-things these days."
"Oh, yes, somebody does," said Jager, mildly but definitely. "I do." He
put away his knife and fumbled within his blue army shirt. "Look here,
Lieutenant."
It was a small book he held out, little more than a pamphlet in size
and thickness. On its cover of gray paper appeared the smudged woodcut
of an owl against a full moon, and the title:
John George Hohman's
POW-WOWS
or
LONG LOST FRIEND
"I got it when I was a young lad in Pennsylvania," explained Jager,
almost reverently. "Lots of Pennsylvania people carry this book, as I
do." He opened the little volume, and read from the back of the title
page:
"'Whosoever carries this book with him is safe from all his enemies,
visible or invisible; and whoever has this book with him cannot die
without the holy corpse of Jesus Christ, nor drown in any water nor
burn up in any fire, nor can any unjust sentence be passed upon him.'"
* * * * *
Lanark put out his hand for the book, and Jager surrendered it,
somewhat hesitantly. "I've heard of supposed witches in Pennsylvania,"
said the officer. "Hexes, I believe they're called. Is this a witch
book?"
"No, sir. Nothing about black magic. See the cross on that page? It's a
protection against witches."
"I thought that only Catholics used the cross," said Lanark.
"No. Not only Catholics."
"Hmm." Lanark passed the thing back. "Superstition, I call it.
Nevertheless, you speak this much truth: that girl is in earnest, she
believes what she told us. Her father, or stepfather, or whoever he is,
sent her up here on some ridiculous errand--perhaps a dangerous one."
He paused. "Or I may be misjudging her. It may be a clever scheme,
Jager--a scheme to get a spy in among us."
The sergeant's big bearded head wagged negation. "No, sir. If she was
telling a lie, it'd be a more believable one, wouldn't it?" He opened
his talisman book again. "If the lieutenant please, there's a charm in
here, against being shot or stabbed. It might be a good thing, seeing
there's a war going on--perhaps the lieutenant would like me to copy it
out?"
"No, thanks." Lanark drew forth his own charm against evil and
nervousness, a leather case that contained cheroots. Jager, who had
convictions against the use of tobacco, turned away disapprovingly as
his superior bit off the end of a fragrant brown cylinder and kindled a
match.
"Let me look at that what-do-you-call-it book again," he requested, and
for a second time Jager passed the little volume over, then saluted and
retired.
Darkness was gathering early, what with the position of the house in
the grassy hollow, and the pinnacle of Fearful Rock standing between
it and the sinking sun to westward. Lanark called for Suggs to bring a
candle, and, when the orderly obeyed, directed him to take some kind of
supper upstairs to Enid Mandifer. Left alone, the young officer seated
himself in a newly dusted armchair of massive dark wood, emitted a
cloud of blue tobacco smoke, and opened the _Long Lost Friend_.
It had no publication date, but John George Hohman, the author, dated
his preface from Berks County, Pennsylvania, on July 31, 1819. In
the secondary preface filled with testimonials as to the success of
Hohman's miraculous cures, was included the pious ejaculation: "The
Lord bless the beginning and the end of this little work, and be with
us, that we may not misuse it, and thus commit a heavy sin!"
"Amen to that!" said Lanark to himself, quite soberly. Despite his
assured remarks to Jager, he was somewhat repelled and nervous because
of the things Enid Mandifer had told him.
Was there, then, potentiality for such supernatural evil in this
enlightened Nineteenth Century, even in the pages of the book he held?
He read further, and came upon a charm to be recited against violence
and danger, perhaps the very one Jager had offered to copy for him. It
began rather sonorously: "The peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with
me. Oh shot, stand still! In the name of the mighty prophets Agtion and
Elias, and do not kill me...."
Lanark remembered the name of Elias from his boyhood Sunday schooling,
but Agtion's identity, as a prophet or otherwise, escaped him. He
resolved to ask Jager; and, as though the thought had acted as a
summons, Jager came almost running into the room.
"Lieutenant, sir! Lieutenant!" he said hoarsely.
"Yes, Sergeant Jager?" Lanark rose, stared questioningly, and held out
the book. Jager took it automatically, and as automatically stowed it
inside his shirt.
"I can prove, sir, that there's a real devil here," he mouthed
unsteadily.
"What?" demanded Lanark. "Do you realize what you're saying, man?
Explain yourself."
"Come, sir," Jager almost pleaded, and led the way into the kitchen.
"It's down in the cellar."
From a little heap on a table he picked up a candle, and then opened a
door full of darkness.
The stairs to the cellar were shaky to Lanark's feet, and beneath
him was solid black shadow, smelling strongly of damp earth. Jager,
stamping heavily ahead, looked back and upward. That broad, bearded
face, that had not lost its full-blooded flush in the hottest fighting
at Pea Ridge, had grown so pallid as almost to give off sickly light.
Lanark began to wonder if all this theatrical approach would not make
the promised devil seem ridiculous, anti-climactic--the flutter of an
owl, the scamper of a rat, or something of that sort.
"You have the candle, sergeant," he reminded, and the echo of his voice
momentarily startled him. "Strike a match, will you?"
"Yes, sir." Jager had raised a knee to tighten his stripe-sided
trousers. A snapping scrape, a burst of flame, and the candle glow
illuminated them both. It revealed, too, the cellar, walled with stones
but floored with clay. As they finished the descent, Lanark could feel
the soft grittiness of that clay under his bootsoles. All around them
lay rubbish--boxes, casks, stacks of broken pots and dishes, bundles
of kindling.
"Here," Jager was saying, "here is what I found."
* * * * *
He walked around the foot of the stairs. Beneath the slope of the
flight lay a long, narrow case, made of plain, heavy boards. It was
unpainted and appeared ancient. As Jager lowered the light in his hand,
Lanark saw that the joinings were secured with huge nails, apparently
forged by hand. Such nails had been used in building the older sheds
on his father's Maryland estate. Now there was a creak of wooden
protest as Jager pried up the loosened lid of the coffin-like box.
Inside lay something long and ruddy. Lanark saw a head and shoulders,
and started violently. Jager spoke again:
"An image, sir. A heathen image." The light made grotesque the
sergeant's face, one heavy half fully illumined, the other secret and
lost in the black shadow. "Look at it."
Lanark, too, stooped for a closer examination. The form was of human
length, or rather more; but it was not finished, was neither divided
into legs below nor extended into arms at the roughly shaped shoulders.
The head, too, had been molded without features, though from either
side, where the ears should have been it sprouted up-curved horns like
a bison's. Lanark felt a chill creep upon him, whence he knew not.
"It's Satan's own image," Jager was mouthing deeply. "'Thou shalt not
make unto thee any graven image----'"
[Illustration: "It's Satan's own image," Jager was mouthing deeply.]
With one foot he turned the coffin-box upon its side. Lanark took a
quick stride backward, just in time to prevent the ruddy form from
dropping out upon his toes. A moment later, Jager had spurned the
thing. It broke, with a crashing sound like crockery, and two more
trampling kicks of the sergeant's heavy boots smashed it to bits.
"Stop!" cried Lanark, too late. "Why did you break it? I wanted to have
a good look at the thing."
"But it is not good for men to look upon the devil's works," responded
Jager, almost pontifically.
"Don't advise me, sergeant," said Lanark bleakly. "Remember that I am
your officer, and that I don't need instruction as to what I may look
at." He looked down at the fragments. "Hmm, the thing was hollow, and
quite brittle. It seems to have been stuffed with straw--no, excelsior.
Wood shavings, anyway." He investigated the fluffy inner mass with a
toe. "Hullo, there's something inside of the stuff."
"I wouldn't touch it, sir," warned Jager, but this time it was he who
spoke too late. Lanark's boot-toe had nudged the object into plain
sight, and Lanark had put down his gauntleted left hand and picked it
up.
"What is this?" he asked himself aloud. "Looks rather like some sort of
strong-box--foreign, I'd say, and quite cold. Come on, Jager, we'll go
upstairs."
In the kitchen, with a strong light from several candles, they
examined the find quite closely. It was a dark oblong, like a small
dispatch-case or, as Lanark had commented, a strong-box. Though as hard
as iron, it was not iron, nor any metal either of them had ever known.
"How does it open?" was Lanark's next question, turning the case over
in his hands. "It doesn't seem to have hinges on it. Is this the
lid--or this?"
"I couldn't say." Jager peered, his eyes growing narrow with
perplexity. "No hinges, as the lieutenant just said."
"None visible, nor yet a lock." Lanark thumped the box experimentally,
and proved it hollow. Then he lifted it close to his ear and shook
it. There was a faint rustle, as of papers loosely rolled or folded.
"Perhaps," the officer went on, "this separate slice isn't a lid at
all. There may be a spring to press, or something that slides back and
lets another plate come loose."
But Suggs was entering from the front of the house. "Lieutenant, sir!
Something's happened to Newton--he was watching on the rock. Will the
lieutenant come? And Sergeant Jager, too."
The suggestion of duty brought back the color and self-control that
Jager had lost. "What's happened to Newton?" he demanded at once, and
hurried away with Suggs.
Lanark waited in the kitchen for only a moment. He wanted to leave the
box, but did not want his troopers meddling with it. He spied, beside
the heavy iron stove, a fireplace, and in its side the metal door to
an old brick oven. He pulled that door open, thrust the box in, closed
the door again, and followed Suggs and Jager.
They had gone out upon the front porch. There, with Corporal Gray and a
blank-faced trooper on guard, lay the silent form of Newton, its face
covered with a newspaper.
Almost every man of the gathered patrol knew a corpse when he saw one,
and it took no second glance to know that Newton was quite dead.
_4. The Mandifers_
Jager, bending, lifted the newspaper and then dropped it back. He said
something that, for all his religiosity, might have been an oath.
"What's the matter, sergeant?" demanded Lanark.
Jager's brows were clamped in a tense frown, and his beard was actually
trembling. "His face, sir. It's terrible."
"A wound?" asked Lanark, and lifted the paper in turn. He, too,
let it fall back, and his exclamation of horror and amazement was
unquestionably profane.
"There ain't no wound on him, Lieutenant Lanark," offered Suggs,
pushing his wan, plump face to the forefront of the troopers. "We heard
Newton yell--heard him from the top of the rock yonder."
All eyes turned gingerly toward the promontory.
"That's right, sir," added Corporal Gray. "I'd just sent Newton up, to
relieve Josserand."
"You heard him yell," prompted Lanark. "Go on, what happened?"
"I hailed him back," said the corporal, "but he said nothing. So
I climbed up--that north side's the easiest to climb. Newton was
standing at the top, standing straight up with his carbine at the
ready. He must have been dead right then."
"You mean, he was struck somehow as you watched?"
Gray shook his head. "No, sir. I think he was dead as he stood up.
He didn't move or speak, and when I touched him he sort of coiled
down--like an empty coat falling off a clothes-line." Gray's hand made
a downward-floating gesture in illustration. "When I turned him over
I saw his face, all twisted and scared-looking, like--like what the
lieutenant has seen. And I sung out for Suggs and McSween to come up
and help me bring him down."