clouds, lighted on their edges by the moon, added greatly to the beauty
of the night, and both the girls appreciated the sight. They walked
their horses and talked girlish nonsense. John had promised to take
Martha to the North the next winter, and she told Scylla some of the
wonderful things she had heard about the great cities and the curious
things to be seen up there.
Suddenly Scylla interrupted her with:
"Martha, I believe there's something the matter with Texas--he's
trembling all over."
"Oh, I guess not," said Martha; "he's just tired. Texas has had a
pretty hard day of it. But yet, he doesn't often get tired."
She rode up close to Scylla and put her hand on Texas's neck. It was wet
with sweat, although he had hardly gone faster than a walk since he had
left the ranch.
And, sure enough, he _was_ trembling slightly.
"There is something the matter with him, I know," said Scylla.
"Stop a minute and take my reins; I'll get off and see what it is," said
Martha. "You're right. Texas is trembling like a leaf. Perhaps we'd
better wait here for John."
There was an anxious little quaver in her voice as she dismounted and,
going in front of Texas, took his head between her hands. There was no
longer any doubt that the horse was sick, and very sick. His eyes closed
sleepily, and his head dropped low. Then he suddenly began to sway and
totter on his feet.
"Oh, Martha, I'm afraid!" cried Scylla.
Martha was badly frightened, too, but she acted instead of saying
anything. She rushed to Scylla's side and hastily unbuckled the straps
that held the weak little body in the saddle.
"Quick, jump into my arms!" she commanded as the last buckle fell
jinglingly downward and Texas gave another alarming sidewise lurch. With
more strength than she supposed she had, she half lifted, half pulled
Scylla out of the saddle and eased her, almost fainting, to the ground.
It was none too soon, for in an instant more Texas had fallen with a
groan and lay quiet on the prairie.
This lasted only for a few seconds; then with an unsteady stagger the
little horse scrambled to his feet. For another instant he stood quiet;
then he began to tremble again and looked around toward the girls. But
the pony's eyes had changed; they were wild and blood-shot. With a mad
snort he started off on a wild run into the gloom.
For a moment the girls were too surprised to speak. Scylla was
sobbing on the ground, and Martha stood by her. She had the reins
of Dan's bridle in her hand, and gazed dumfounded after the
rapidly-disappearing Texas. Finally she turned to her companion:
"Oh, Scylla," she said, "I'm so glad I got you off his back!"
"What do you think is the matter with him?" Scylla asked.
"I can't imagine, unless--yes, that's it--he's locoed! Oh, my poor
little Texas! My dear, gentle little pony! You ate that loco-weed Saylo
brought for the college professor!"
Now Martha was crying, too, for she knew that her pony was lost to her.
"They--they left it lying by the porch," she went on, "and--you ate it
while we were at supper. Oh, my little Texas!"
Martha had forgotten everything but her grief, but soon she remembered
that there was a storm coming and that Scylla must be taken home in some
way. At first she tried to lift her to Dan's high back, but she was not
strong enough. Then she thought of his education, and commanded him to
lie down. He was nervous and excited and did not, at first, obey her,
but finally she coaxed him into getting down on his knees. Then, with
great pains and trouble, she pulled and lifted Scylla into the saddle.
As Dan struggled to his feet again, it was hard work to keep the little
invalid from falling, but it was done. Then Martha led him slowly toward
the ranch. The exciting events that had just passed had made her
nervous, and for the first time in a long while she felt afraid.
"Oh, I wish John would hurry and catch up with us!" she exclaimed.
"Please don't fall, Scylla--hang on to the pommel tight."
Scylla, who had stopped crying, told Martha not to worry, that she would
not fall; and the slow journey over the prairie continued silently for a
minute or two. Every once in a while Martha turned back and looked
toward the flickering camp-fire of the cow-boys. An exclamation of
surprise was drawn from her when she failed to see it shining in the
distance, and she stopped. Then, faintly, she heard shouts and the
thumping of racing hoofs on the prairie.
"John is coming at last," she said.
But then she realized that more than one animal's hoofs were drumming
desperately on the turf. While she stood wondering if some of the
cow-boys were coming home with John, she heard the hoof-beats merge into
a steady roar. Even the shouts of the men which she had just heard were
drowned in this dull, threatening rumble. For just an instant she
thought it was thunder, and then her quick reasoning told her the truth.
The herd had stampeded!
That she and Scylla were directly in its path she was certain, for the
camp-fire had, a moment before, been between them and the herd and
was now invisible. It had either been trampled out or was hidden by the
advancing mass of cattle.
[Illustration: "JUST THEN ANOTHER FLASH CAME AND SHOWED A COW-BOY
LEANING FAR OVER THE NECK OF HIS PONY, RIDING FOR HIS LIFE."]
Martha well knew what it meant to be in the path of a stampede; but,
strangely enough, all her fear left her. She was puzzled, that was all.
Had she been alone, she could easily have escaped by jumping on Dan's
back and riding hard. Dan could have distanced the cattle, even when
they were stampeding. But now she had helpless Scylla to take care of.
The advancing thunder-clouds had wholly hidden the moon and put the
prairie in inky darkness. At first Martha thought of starting Dan away
with Scylla and trusting to Providence to keep the little invalid on his
back, while she remained to face the danger alone; then she thought of
trying to ride with her. But she knew Scylla could not possibly keep her
place in the saddle of the horse while he ran, even if she herself
should mount him too and try to hold Scylla on.
She stepped back to Scylla's side. There was a deathly doubt in her
heart as to whether she was doing the right thing; but she had made a
desperate resolve. Scylla had heard the thunder of the approaching herd
too, and was too frightened to speak. Martha held her arms up toward
her just as the first flash of lightning came.
"Come, Scylla," she said, "slide off into my arms. The herd has
stampeded and is coming toward us, but I will try to save us both."
Without a word Scylla did as she was told, and in a few seconds was half
kneeling, half lying on the ground.
Then Martha struck Dan as hard as she could with her flat hand.
"Hey up, Dan!" said she, "run! run! _You_ needn't stay here, too!"
The horse galloped off into the darkness.
Just then another lighting-flash came and showed a cow-boy leaning far
over the neck of his pony, riding for his life. He passed only a dozen
yards from them, but did not see them. Behind him Martha could dimly see
two or three other riders coming toward them at desperate speed, while
still beyond she caught a glimpse of the tossing horns and lurching
heads of the cattle.
Without a moment for thought, and as coolly as if she had nothing in the
world to fear, she bent over trembling Scylla, unfastened the waistband
of her dress-skirt and pulled it deftly from under her. Then she quickly
removed her own and took one of the bright-colored garments in each
hand.
Just then the storm broke furiously. The night was suddenly lighted by
lightning-flashes that followed one another so closely they seemed to
make one long, lasting flare. The cow-boys had all passed, and Martha
saw that the herd was scarcely two hundred yards away.
She stepped directly in front of Scylla's prostrate form and raised the
skirts.
"Scream, Scylla, scream!" she cried.
Then, while the driving rain fell in torrents, and the lightning made
the prairie as light as day, she stood straight up and waved those
skirts wildly about her head, and shouted at the top of her voice.
She was dimly conscious that her shouts shaped themselves into a prayer
that her brother was safe, and that the herd might divide and pass them.
Her face was as pale as paper. Her long hair was tossed about by the
wind, and by her own violent motions.
The foremost of the cattle was only a hundred yards away now. She could
see the lightning shining on his horns and in his red, rolling eyes. He
was coming straight toward her. Louder she shouted and more wildly she
swung the skirts. Would he crush her, or would he turn aside? She felt
an almost overpowering impulse to turn and run away, but that would mean
certain death. Her only hope was to keep her position firmly, and to
swing her skirts and scream. If the first steer swerved and passed her,
his followers might do so too.
He seemed of mammoth proportions as he lurched toward her. His head was
lowered, and his great hoofs pounded the ground like trip-hammers.
Closer! Closer! He was not twenty feet away. His big, crazy eyes seemed
to look straight into hers. Closer! Closer!--Then he changed his course
a trifle. In an instant he had passed her like a great fury. Others were
only a few feet behind him, and back of them was the compact mass of the
herd. She screamed louder and redoubled her waving. The thunder in the
heavens, and the thunder of the hoofs, drowned her voice so that she
could not even hear it herself. A dozen cattle passed her. Fifty cattle
passed her. She was in the midst of the herd which seemed to make a
solid, living wall on each side of her. The earth trembled beneath the
hammering of the hoofs. Her throat seemed ready to burst, and she was
certain that no sound came from her lips. It seemed a long time since
that first one had plunged toward her, but still the maddened beasts
advanced with lowered heads and lunging bodies. They did not seem to
turn aside, and each instant she expected to be struck down and trampled
under their feet. She could not even try to scream any longer, but still
she waved the skirts.
At last, slowly, she saw that the herd was thinning. Short gaps began to
appear between the animals. She knew that the herd had nearly passed.
Then the living walls on each side melted away behind her, and only
stragglers were left. Then these, too, were gone. The stampeding herd
had passed her, and she was still alive.
She turned dizzily toward Scylla.
The little invalid--the cripple--was standing straight up, close behind
her. For a second Martha doubted her eyes. The storm still raged, and
she thought it was a vagary of the lightning. She held her hands out,
though, and convinced herself that it was true. Scylla was standing on
her feet, for the first time in many years. The two girls threw their
arms around each other, and sank to their knees on the prairie. As they
said a prayer of thanks together, the uneven glare of the lightning,
which had kept up almost uninterruptedly ever since a few seconds before
the cattle reached them, died away. One or two feeble flashes followed,
and then the storm had passed.
Martha took Scylla's face between her hands and kissed her. Then she
said:
"Wasn't it awful?"
"Oh, Martha," Scylla answered, "I thought every second that we'd be
killed, but there you stood as brave as a lion, and waved those dresses
right in the faces of the cattle. You saved both our lives. I lay here
on the ground for a minute after you took my skirt, and then I got up."
"You _got up_, Scylla! How could you, all alone?"
"I don't know, Martha, but I felt as if I _must_. I tried to rise once,
and fell back. Then the cattle came and I tried again, and all the
weakness seemed to be gone, and I stood right up behind you and stayed
there while the herd went by. I don't feel as I used to--I feel as if
the paralysis had all gone. See, I can get up again,--don't help
me,--all alone."
And, sure enough, Scylla scrambled to her feet. She stood a little
unsteadily on them, but she stood. They were so glad it was true that
they did not try to understand it.
After Scylla's new-found strength had been rejoiced over for a moment,
they began to wonder how they could get home. They knew that they could
not walk--Martha was terribly tired, and Scylla, even if she could stand
up, was not equal to the long tramp back to the ranch, of course. They
were dripping wet. The elation that followed their escape, and the
discovery of Scylla's great good fortune, was followed by a nervous
breakdown on the part of both girls, and they cuddled in each other's
arms on the wet grass, sobbing and frightened, to wait for morning to
come.
Hardly half an hour had passed before they heard horses. Martha stood up
and saw the shadowy form of a rider away off to the right. She tried to
scream, but her overstrained voice was hoarse and husky. Scylla called
out as well as she could, but the horseman rode on. By and by they
changed their course, however, and came near enough for the girls to
make their presence known.
As the horses approached, Martha recognized in the foremost one the big
black form of Dan. Her brother John was on his back, and with him were
men from the ranch.
There were tears in the eyes of the big men as they lifted the girls in
their arms, and started home. They had not expected to find them alive.
Before they went to sleep, the thrilling story of Martha's bravery had
been fully told, and to it had been added the news of Scylla's strange
recovery.
The next day the doctor was called in to see about it. He gravely shook
his head, and said it was strange, but that such things had happened
before. The great mental excitement of the stampede had wrought what
seemed a miracle.
Her recovery after that was rapid. When John and Martha went North the
next winter, Scylla went with them, and was able to walk about almost as
easily as Martha herself.
A few days after the stampede, the bruised body of poor Texas was found
where he had been trampled to death by the herd. What was left of the
loco-weed that had wrought his ruin was burned, and the Northern college
professor is still without his specimens.
A DIVIDED DUTY
BY M. A. CASSIDY
The Magill residence was situated near the highways connecting Knoxville
and Chattanooga. Encamping armies had burned every splinter of fencing,
and so the cleared space was thrown into one great field, encircled by a
gigantic hedge of oak and pine. Near the center of the cleared land, on
a little eminence, was a farm-house. It was a long, one-story building,
running back some distance, its several additions having been
constructed as the family required more room. A little to the right, and
extending the full length of the house, was a row of negro cabins--there
being a passway between the two as wide as an ordinary road. The yard
sloped gently to the roadway and railroad; near the latter, another rise
began, which extended back to the woodland and commanded an extensive
view of the surrounding country.
One afternoon, early in the autumn of 1864, Mrs. Magill and her son
Harry, a comely lad of thirteen, sat on the front veranda, and talked of
what a happy reunion there would be when their loved ones should return
from the war. And on this glorious autumnal afternoon the hearts of the
widow and her son were happy in anticipation.
Mrs. Magill had two sons in the war. One wore the Blue, the other the
Gray. John, the eldest of three boys, had enlisted in Wheeler's
Confederate cavalry, in the second year of the war; and, a year later,
Thomas had joined the Federals under General Burnside at Knoxville. Both
were known as brave and dashing soldiers, and both had been promoted,
for gallantry, to captaincies. This family division was a source of
great grief to Mrs. Magill. Dearer to her than Union or Confederacy were
her children; and from their youth she had trained them in the ways of
peace. And now, in their manhood, two of them, under different flags,
were arrayed against each other in a deadly and unnatural strife. She
often heard from both her soldier boys, and their inquiries after the
welfare of each other were full of tenderness. Harry, as is usual with
younger brothers, fairly worshiped both of them. He was no less troubled
than his mother when they went away to fight on opposite sides. Their
contrary action left him in doubt as to which side he should take. Every
boy of his acquaintance was ardent in espousing one side or the other.
But what could he do, since he had a brother in each army? Should he
become a rebel, Thomas might be displeased; and he loved Tom too well to
willfully incur his displeasure. Should he decide to remain loyal to the
Union, John might resent it; and he could not think of offending one
whom he held in such high esteem. "What shall I do?" he asked himself a
great many times a day. The war spirit in him was becoming rampant, and
must have scope. He at length took the perplexing question to his
mother. She promptly advised him to remain neutral. But somehow Harry
got it into his head that neutrality was something very different from
manliness. So he made up his mind to be one thing or the other,
or--happy thought!--why not be both? And, after puzzling over the
question a long time, he settled on the novel idea of making himself
half "Rebel" and half "Yankee." In pursuance of this plan, he persuaded
his mother to make him a uniform, half of which should be blue, and the
other half gray. She made it of a Federal and a Confederate overcoat;
and Harry was a queer-looking little fellow as he went about the
country, clad in his blue-gray uniform, the U. S. A. buttons on one
side, and the C. S. A. on the other. The boys called him a "mongrel";
and neither the Federal nor Confederate commands of boy soldiery would
allow him in their ranks. This was a source of great mortification to
Harry; but he was seriously in earnest, and fully resolved to carry out
his campaign of impartial affection. His being cut by the other boys,
who could afford to take a decided stand because they did not have a
brother on each side, reduced him to the necessity of playing "war"
(about the only game indulged in by Southern boys at this time) alone.
When he put up his lines of corn-stalk soldiers, to play battle, it was
observed, by his mother, that both sides always won an equal number of
victories. Harry was not sure that the war could ever end at this rate
of even fighting; but arrayed as he was, in the colors of both armies,
his inclination was to be true to both. There were generally tears in
his mother's eyes, when she saw that two of the corn-stalk soldiers, the
tallest and straightest of them all, representing John and Thomas, were
always left standing, even after the most furious of contests, in which
all the others had fallen.
Harry had left off playing quite early, on the afternoon of which I
write, and had joined his mother on the veranda. They had not been long
together when something unusual attracted their attention.
A short distance down the railroad a body of cavalrymen had dismounted,
and soon they were as busy as ants, tearing up the track. One squad
preceded the others and loosened the rails by drawing the spikes; then
came another squad that placed the ties in great heaps; after this came
a third that kindled fires beneath them. The ties were rotten and dry,
and, in a very few moments, there were scores of bright, hot fires. Soon
the rails were at a red heat near the center, the ends being
comparatively cool. While in this state a number of men would take the
rails and bend them around telegraph poles or any solid objects that
were near. The soldiers twisted the rails into fantastic shapes; and
when they were through with their work of destruction, they seemed
perfectly satisfied that none of the old material could be used in
reconstructing the road. Harry and his mother had observed the
operations of these men with much interest for some time, when suddenly
they saw one of them mount his horse, and ride toward the house.
"He is a rebel!" exclaimed Harry, who stood watching the approaching
horseman.
"Surely you are mistaken, Harry. There can be no Confederates here,"
said Mrs. Magill, "the Federals are too near."
While yet the soldier was some distance from the house, the boy's face
lighted up with joy, as he exclaimed:
"Oh, mother, I do believe it's John!"
"John? Where is he?" asked his mother, running to where the boy stood.
"Why, there, on the horse! He's coming home! He's coming home!" And thus
exclaiming, Harry danced around the veranda like an Indian lad in a
first war-dance. Then he ran to meet his brother in gray. Mrs. Magill
was thrilled with sensations of joy and fear: joy, because she was
about to see again her eldest son, after a painful separation of two
years; fear, because of the nearness of the Federals. When within a
short distance of his brother, Harry stopped and waited there, prepared
to give the military salute due one of his brother's rank. But that
salute was never given; for almost at the same instant that Harry
stopped, Captain John Magill reined up his horse quite suddenly, drew a
pistol from its holster, and looked suspiciously toward a clump of trees
on the hill-top. Harry turned his eyes to learn what had startled his
brother. He beheld a score or more of men in blue uniforms, partly
concealed by the clump of trees; and it was evident that these were the
vanguard of a larger body of Federals. Captain John Magill wheeled as
suddenly as he had halted, and galloped back to the Confederates engaged
in demolishing the railroad. As fast as he could run, Harry followed.
Mrs. Magill comprehended the situation; and, spell-bound, she stood on
the veranda, with arms outstretched, a statue of anguish and expectancy.
When Captain John Magill reached his comrades, he gave the alarm, and
"there was mounting in hot haste." The two hundred raiders had time
only to form an irregular line of battle, when twice as many Federals
appeared on the hill-top. It was evident that there was going to be a
lively skirmish. Harry singled out John, who rode up and down the line
giving commands, and running to him, he clasped him around a leg with
both arms, enthusiastically exclaiming:
"Howdy, John! Don't you know me?"
The young captain looked down at the joy-beaming face of his little
brother, but, as he had never seen the little fellow in his fantastic
uniform, for a moment failed to recognize him.
A shade of disappointment flitted over Harry's face as he said:
"I am your little brother Harry; and I'm just as much Rebel as Yankee."
Captain John Magill laughed as he leaned over and grasped Harry's hand.
"Why, Harry! What on earth are you doing here? Get up behind me, and I
will gallop home with you before the firing begins," said John,
evidently alarmed for the boy's safety. Placing his foot on that of his
brother, Harry clambered up behind. By this time the lines were in range
of each other, and a lively fusillade at once began. Harry behaved
manfully under fire, and entreated his brother to allow him to stay
until the fight was over. But the elder brother was intent on taking him
to a place of safety, so putting spurs to his horse he rode swiftly
toward the house. His plan was to return the boy to his mother, and then
rejoin his comrades. But the Confederates did not know his intentions;
and seeing their Captain making his way rapidly to the rear, with this
strangely-clad boy behind him, they of course thought him retreating,
and they followed pell-mell.
Captain John Magill saw the effect of his movement, and, halting, made
an effort to rally his men. But the Confederates were thoroughly
stampeded, and they dashed madly away. The shouting Federals were now at
close range, and the bee-like song of the bullets could be heard on
every side. Hastily placing Harry in front of him, to shield him as much
as possible from the enemy's fire, he followed his men, now some
distance in advance. When they reached the house, Mrs. Magill stood pale
and motionless, expecting every moment to see her children fall.
Glancing back, Captain John Magill saw that a moment's delay would make
him a prisoner; so as he dashed past his mother he cried out, "Don't be
uneasy. I'll take care of Harry"; and then he was gone like the wind,
his pursuers not a hundred yards behind him. Then a complete change came
over Mrs. Magill. Impelled by the great love of a mother, she ran into
the yard, and stood calmly in the way of the advancing Federals, whose
course lay between the cabins and the house--as if to stop, with her
frail form, the impetuous charge.