The ten-foot drop to the ground jarred Tad from head to toe but did
not really hurt him. He was up in an instant, and without even a
backward glance at the house he made for the trees across the road. As
he started to run he tripped over something bulky in the grass and saw
with a shudder that it was the body of the man called Carson, still and
cold, a ray of moonlight falling on his white, upturned face. Tad sped
onward, cleared the road in a long leap, in order to leave no track
in the dust, and plunged into the brush on the farther side. The dark
wall of leaves closed behind him, and he knew that for the moment at
least he was beyond the outlaws’ reach, but he did not slacken speed.
Tumbling over fallen logs, diving headforemost through thickets,
dashing forward wherever an opening showed between the tree trunks, he
kept on. Weak as he was from scanty food and lack of sleep, he must
have traveled a good half mile through the woods before he fell, too
exhausted to pick himself up.
For a long time he lay there, panting, till the vast ache inside his
ribs grew less painful and finally departed. Then at last he rose on
wobbly legs and went forward. When he was a prisoner in the outlaws’
garret he had made no definite plans beyond escaping from the house.
But now he saw quite clearly that some sort of intelligent planning
would be necessary if he wanted to avoid getting lost or recaptured.
To reach the river was his first problem. If he could strike the bank
he was sure he could find Natchez, somewhere a few miles to the north.
So he went on, searching for a more open space where he might get his
bearings.
For what seemed like an age he plowed through dense timber, where
he could see only an occasional gleam of moonlight, much less a
recognizable star. But finally the trees opened out in front of him and
he found himself in the edge of a small clearing, full of stumps and
brush, but giving a clear view overhead. A few clouds still covered
part of the sky, but he made out the Dipper, and following the two
pointers, located the North Star. It was ahead of him and a little to
the right, so that he knew his general direction had been good. What he
wanted now was to bear toward the left, shaping a westerly course, and
so reach the river bluffs.
At the farther side of the clearing he struck into what seemed to be
a wood path leading westward. Rough as it was, he found he could walk
along it with much less difficulty than through the trackless brush,
and as long as it continued fairly straight he had no fear of losing
his direction.
For more than a mile he followed this trail, and came at length to a
narrow little valley where the path led off to the right along the
brink of the ravine. As he paused, undecided, a faint sound of water
came to him from somewhere below in the undergrowth. He had been
desperately thirsty for hours. In a moment he had scrambled down the
bank and was bending above a shallow little stream. Down he went on
hands and knees and drank his fill of the clear, cold water. And then,
just as he was getting to his feet, there came a sound that fairly
froze his heart with fear. Still far off, it was, but unmistakable--the
deep, bell-like baying of a hound.
Until that moment Tad had not thought of dogs. Yet it was natural
enough that Murrell should have them. In his trade of slave-stealing,
he must often find use for bloodhounds.
The muffled note rang out again. Was it nearer this time? On his
trail--_his_ trail! They were after him with dogs! For an instant Tad
felt the panic terror that makes the hunted rabbit run in circles. His
only impulse was to rush off blindly, somewhere--anywhere.
Then some measure of sense returned to him and he began thinking,
swiftly. Up to that point the scent would be fresh and strong, easily
followed. His pursuers would make far better time than he had made,
thrashing through the brush. From now on he must baffle them, or he was
lost.
The stream was hardly more than a rivulet, a few feet wide, but it
offered him his only chance to cover his scent. Plunging in, he found
it less than knee-deep, with a fairly smooth, sandy bottom. He followed
it downstream, wading fast, and keeping an eye on the direction it was
taking, when the leaves overhead permitted a view of the stars.
Once or twice he had to climb out to get around fallen trees, and this
gave him an idea. Wherever there was a likely opening on either bank,
leading away from the stream, he left the water, ran a few steps into
the woods and returned, as nearly as possible in the same tracks. Then
he waded on with all the speed he could muster.
Occasionally the wind bore to him the cry of the hound, sometimes
clearer, sometimes fainter, but always a sound that chilled his blood.
Tad had long since passed the winded stage. He went on steadily, his
breathing a succession of gasps that no longer seemed to hurt, a
deadness in his legs and a queer ringing in his ears. He had no idea
how long he had been running so, when suddenly the brook deepened and
his numbed senses were shocked wide awake by a plunge into cold water.
He realized, as he floundered up again, that the sky overhead was open.
He was standing up to his neck in a broad marshy pool that stretched
away to left and right for a long distance. Under the ghostly moon it
lay dark and mysterious, wholly silent except for the muffled plash of
a heron hunting frogs. Like every boy, Tad had a horror of swimming in
strange water at night. He stood there, shivering, trying to make up
his mind. The opposite bank was not so far away, but sluggish ponds ...
water moccasins....
The bay of the bloodhound came to him again, unexpectedly close this
time. He waited no longer but threw himself forward, swimming with
all his might. The pool was only thirty or forty yards across at this
place, and in a few strokes he was halfway over. Then a vicious cramp
caught at the big muscles in the back of his thigh--twisting him with
pain till he almost went under. He managed to straighten the leg and
struggled on, kicking only with the other, till he felt ooze under his
toes, and crawled out somehow through slimy reeds and lily-pads to the
soft black earth of the bank.
There for a while he lay, his exhaustion so complete that he scarcely
cared what happened. Both his legs were cruelly knotted with cramps,
and his whole body ached with weariness. Rest he must have if he were
ever to reach the river. He crept a little farther into the reeds
and lay on his back, staring up at the stars and listening to the
intermittent baying of the hound.
At last the cramps left him and he thought he had recovered his wind
sufficiently to go on. But just as he was rising to his knees there
came a thrashing in the underbrush near the mouth of the brook and he
heard men’s voices. A light breeze was blowing across the pond from
them to him so that he caught some of the words plainly.
“What’s the matter with ol’ Red-eye--lost the scent again?” came Bull
Whaley’s panting bass. And as if in answer the bloodhound spoke--a
full-throated, menacing challenge that fairly lifted the hair on Tad’s
head. Through the screening reeds he could see the beast on the other
side of the pool, gray and gigantic in the moonlight, its long ears
trailing the ground as it nosed here and there along the bank.
[Illustration: HE COULD SEE THE BEAST ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE POOL]
Behind, in the shadow, was the broad, squat figure of Whaley, and
another man whom Tad did not recognize was holding the hound’s leash.
A stream of profanity came from this second man. “Lost him!” he
growled. “Must have swum across. What d’ye say--want to send the dog
over?”
“No use,” returned the other. “The boy’s most likely a long ways off
by now. An’ even if Red-eye got over without bein’ bit by a snake, I
wouldn’t foller him. The nearest place to cross is Cordle’s Bridge, a
mile away. What I say is we’d best git back to the horses an’ make it
down to the river road in a hurry. We’d ought to head him off there,
sure.”
They stood there arguing for a while, then turned back into the woods,
dragging the huge, unwilling hound. And Tad, feeling that he had at
least a momentary respite from pursuit, started toward the setting moon
once more.
The rest had helped both his legs and his courage. Now that he knew how
the outlaws expected to capture him, he believed he had a chance to
outwit them, while if he had not overheard their plans, he might have
walked straight into their ambush on the river road.
The shore of the pond was fringed with a sparse growth of saplings and
brush, through which Tad made his way without much difficulty. Beyond
it he could catch glimpses of a broad open space, gleaming palely
in the moonlight. At first he thought it was water--a larger pond,
perhaps--and his heart sank at the idea of having to swim again. But
when he reached the edge of the trees he saw that what lay before him
was a great cotton field, white with opening bloom. Easily half a mile
wide, it stretched back to the north and east so far that his eyes lost
it in the moonlit haze.
Crossing the waist-high cotton was dangerous, Tad knew. He veered to
the left, skirting the end of the field, and at its farther corner
came on a well-defined path leading into the woods. It bore a little
north of west, in the direction he wished to follow, and he could see
from the grass and brush in the track that it was little used. After
a careful scrutiny of the cotton field for pursuers, he went forward
along the path as fast as his weary legs would carry him.
Once the whir of a rattler, behind him, made cold chills run down his
spine and gave speed to his feet. And half a mile farther on he was
frightened almost out of his wits when a partly-grown razor-back boar
leaped up, grunting, from its bed beside the path, and dashed off into
the woods.
When the moon set, Tad had no choice but to stay where he was and
rest. He tried to feel his way along in the inky dark, but after he had
stumbled against trees and nearly lost the path, he gave it up. There
were still two or three hours till dawn, and he was very tired. A few
yards off the path he found a place where he could sit, with his back
against a tree. And in thirty seconds he was asleep.
Fortunately the cramped position he was in woke him before daylight and
he staggered up, stiff and sore, but with his strength renewed. A faint
grayness was beginning to show through the trees, so that now he had no
trouble in following the path. He had a feeling that the river could
not be far off.
A moment later the cheerful blast of a steamboat whistle sounded, close
at hand. Tad’s heart pounded with joy, and he pushed forward almost at
a run. Within a hundred yards he came to a place where he could glimpse
the road, brown and dusty in the increasing light, bending south along
the crest of the bluff.
He abandoned the path and cut into the brush, striking northward with
the highway and the river below on his left. He was looking for a good
place to cross the road and make the descent of the bluff. Just as
he thought he had found such a spot, and was preparing to leave the
shelter of the undergrowth, his ears caught a faint clink of metal. He
crouched where he was, waiting. Soon the sound was repeated, and with
it he heard the musical jingle of a bridle chain. Then came a man’s
voice, muffled, quieting a restless horse, and a moment later he heard
the soft thud of hoofs on grass.
Three mounted men came down the road from Natchez, riding silently in
single file, their lathered horses at a walk. They were wrapped in
cloaks and their hats were pulled low over their faces, but Tad knew
them. The leader rode a big sorrel with three white legs.
Almost opposite Tad they pulled up and talked in low tones for a
minute. He could not hear their words, but their gestures were short
and angry. Hunched there in their saddles, they looked like ruffled
birds of prey.
The leader jerked his horse around, motioned to one of the riders to
stay where he was, and with the other at his heels, set off down the
road. The man who remained looked after them grouchily for a moment,
then swung down from his horse, pulled the reins over his arm, and sat
down with his back against a stump.
As quietly as he knew how, Tad crawled back a dozen yards or more into
the woods. When he was sure the rank growth screened him completely, he
got up and started northward again, fairly holding his breath in his
effort to make no noise.
After a while he knew he was out of earshot of the watcher by the road
and could move faster. The sun rose, bringing beauty to the woods. He
heard negroes singing, and soon a big mule-cart creaked by, with half a
dozen plantation hands on their way to the fields, and a white overseer
riding abreast. Birds made a background of music for all the other
sounds of the waking day.
Tad passed a bend in the road and worked himself down into the bushes
that fringed the ditch beside it. He looked long and listened carefully
in both directions. Then with his heart in his mouth, he made the
dash for the opposite side. Three seconds, and it was done. The brush
whipped shut behind him. He waited a little to see if any one was in
pursuit, then turned and pushed his way through the tangle of vines and
creepers that crowned the edge of the bluff.
There, a hundred feet and more below, was the vast, muddy tide of the
river that had made him feel so lonely and depressed three short weeks
ago. How he welcomed it now! Spread out in a great sunlit panorama, he
saw the little arks and keel-boats go gliding down, no bigger than
chips on the yellow flood. And those tiny black figures, like ants,
that worked at the sweeps or sat about the breakfast fires--those were
his friends. He belonged to their brotherhood now. Old Trader Magoon
and the jolly red-bearded captain from St. Louis, big, brave, awkward,
kind-hearted Abe, and even Allen, with his human failings--they would
all fight for him.
Something like a sob rose in his throat, and he had to choke it back.
What was the matter with him anyway? It must be hunger. He remembered
that he hadn’t eaten much for two days. Well, it was time he was moving.
With another look around, to make sure no one watched him from the
road, he started scrambling down the face of the bluff.