A TERRIBLE TREE.
Various and many were the threats of the settlers when Cato was not to
be found, but they were eclipsed by the settled determination of Walter
and Jeffries, who resolved to make him pay dearly for his fickleness
and desertion when they met him. And no wonder they were incensed at
his conduct. Aside from the delay, which might prove serious, and
which was provoking, the thought that this very moment Katie might be
suffering terrible evils, was one of anguish to the two who loved her
so fondly.
Of the two griefs, Walter’s was the greatest and hardest to bear.
While the father was stricken and stupefied by the blow, and was in a
semi-stupor, Walter was kept nervously strung to the highest tension by
a thousand surmises, suspicions and fears. He well knew, from personal
knowledge, Downing’s impulsive and evil character; he well knew, by his
actions the night before, that he was very hot-blooded, and plethoric
with sinful passions; and were Katie, as everybody strongly suspected,
in his power, the worst might happen.
It was also strongly suspected that this gay, handsome Danforth was
in league with a band of bandits. Although the country was new and
sparsely settled, although the squatters were generally poor and
without money of any kind, and so far from genuine civilization, one
would think a band of robbers was an absurdly superfluous thing. But
it was not so. Across Arkansas, and right on the brink of Shadow
Swamp, and bisecting Dead-Man’s Forest, ran what was then known as
the “Arkansas trail,” the great wilderness thoroughfare (?) from the
Mid-Western States to Mexico. It has long since been abandoned, and is
now almost unknown; but along its serpentine course many murders have
been committed, many robberies and dastardly deeds, of which the world
will never know.
Men laden with wealth--the hard-earned savings of many hard and
dangerous weeks’ work--men growing lighter-hearted and merrier at
every step, had left sunny Mexico with enough to enjoy forever, and
were nearing sweet home. Perhaps they had been harassed on the plains
by hostile savages; perchance they had suffered the direful pangs
of hunger and thirst in the wilderness, and had stared death in the
face and had warded him off many times; but of every ten who entered
Dead-Man’s Forest, within the confines of civilization, at least seven
_never came out on the other side_.
No wonder the existence of a robber band was suspected; no wonder
handsome Charles Danforth, doing nothing else than roaming in the
gloomy forest, was suspected of conspiring with it; and what wonder
that sweet Katie, who had rejected him the night before, should be in
his toils?
And as Walter thought of these dark things, his blood surged and he
felt the terrible pangs of the sickness of strength arising within him.
Fear rolled on fear, and festered and grew sore; and his pangs were not
a whit alleviated by the delay.
But it was of short duration. A hasty council was formed, questions
were made and answered, the elders gave their sage advice, and they
soon started off, with deadly rage hob-nobbing with fear.
Now Sol Jacobs was to be the bloodhound, _i. e._, the trailer. Once
he had been famous for his skill in the high and subtle art, but he
had not followed a trail for years. He was old, but still strong and
spirited, and in the shooting-matches always carried off the prize. His
old energy still remained staunch and his eyes were as keen as ever.
They started toward--where? They did not know. Then they went to the
border of the forest, and began to look for the trail, the party
dispersing for the purpose. They had not long to search, for they were
singularly fortunate. They had not been scattered above five minutes
when an exclamation was heard from Sol, who was bending and looking
intently at something, being only a few rods from the cabin of Hans
Winkler.
They hurried to the spot. Sol pointed to a set of tracks in some
moist ground. One was that of a small boot, neatly shaped; the other
that of a coarse shoe, large and flat. Both were pointing in the same
direction--toward the forest, and by them he judged the parties must
have been moving rapidly.
“Wal, boys,” said Sol, “ef I ain’t mistaken, hyar’s the trail.”
“How do yer know that?” inquired a suspicious settler. “It mout not be
the one we’re after.”
“Wal, but yer see it air!” returned Sol, a trifle nettled. “Bekase
why? why thar’s only one man in the settlement that wears such a boot,
and he is that Danforth. See, it’s trim and neat--a store boot. All
ye fellers wears coarse ones, or rather moccasins. Every feller hyar
knows that boot-mark, don’t yer? And then t’other; that thar is bigger
and flatter--more like some of yer all’s. I’m cussed ef I know who
it b’longs ter--darn me ef I hain’t. I don’t believe thar’s a man in
the whole settlement that’s got a shoe like that. Wal, it makes nary
difference--Danforth’s the man we’re after, and Danforth’s the man
we’ll find, whether he’s guilty or not guilty. Them yer sentiments,
boys?”
“You bet! Ay, ay! go on!” and many others were the exclamations by
which he was answered.
“Yer all hyar?” he asked, looking over his followers.
“All hyar!”
“How many air ye?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen brave, stout men. Wal, yer all ready? Come on! foller clost,
boys; keep yer eyes open, yer mouths shet, and don’t tramp on the
trail! Hyar we go after little Katie!”
He started off at a round pace with the most gigantic strides, bending
down to see the trail, and keeping his gun at a trail.
The others followed, observing his instructions, and fuming to recover
Katie. Hettie, from her position in the block-house, saw them emerge
from the forest, gather round Sol, and then start away rapidly and
disappear in the wood. She sighed.
“Ah!” she sorrowfully murmured, “my darling, I hope you will come to no
harm.”
Into the forest they plunged, just after midday, swiftly pursuing an
open trail. On they went, stealing under drooping trees, striking out
across a glade, slinking into a dense coppice, out again with a pause
and a listen, then on, following the plain trail. Never deviating,
never halting, always wary and watchful, they went on; and the ghostly
trees nodded, the sun shone redly down, and all was quiet in Dead-Man’s
Forest.
Hallo! who is talking? who is crying aloud when all should be still?
who speaks? Hallo!
A voice, borne by the wind, floated up and into the air, speaking only
a few, very few words; but they were full of strange meaning. The
pursuers did not hear it, neither did any one else--only the trees in
Dead-Man’s Forest. But it spoke, notwithstanding.
Cato was on his way to meet the party, and was running quite rapidly,
when he entered a small glade, one of the many that embellished the
gloomy old wood. He drew back out of sight, directly, and ensconced
himself under a bush.
What had he seen?--nothing. Had he heard any noise to alarm him?--no.
Had he received any warning about this particular spot?--no. Then why
did he fear to emerge into the glade? Why did he hide under the bush?
He could not tell. The moment he had set his foot into the glade a
large tree in the center of it attracted his attention; a feeling of
fear came over him. Nay, more--a feeling of positive terror. He was
absolutely afraid to enter it.
Now, there was nothing remarkable about that tree--it was a common oak,
rather devoid of foliage. No man could hide in its top--a coon would
have been discovered by a greenhorn if he had trusted to its shelter.
Its trunk was of the size of a man’s body, not large enough to shelter
a large man; no one could hide behind it without rolling himself into
a ball. Neither had the tree that awkward appendage of a rope hanging
pendent from a dead limb--nor the more awkward habit of staring a man
in the face as some trees do, as if they were saying:
“Avoid me! this is a weird, ghostly spot!”
It was a common tree--nothing more.
He watched it awhile uneasily, then softly arose, and intending to
skulk around the glade, started stealthily on. But before he had half
completed the circuit, a faint voice, seemingly from a great distance,
said:
“Stop!”
He did so, in a cold sweat, and shaking from head to foot. His eyes
were fixed on the tree as if fascinated. What _was_ the matter with the
tree?
His limbs refused to move as he essayed to flee. His eyes rolled in
their sockets and icy sweat poured from him. Was he under a strange
influence?
With a superhuman effort he gathered strength, and wrenching his eyes
from the tree, started off on a dead run.
“Stop!”
He did so, nearly ready to faint with terror. Half fainting, his
ignorant, superstitious mind conjured up myriads of ghastly, grotesque
and fantastic objects, which floated before his eyes. Imps rode
fantastic steeds snorting fire, blue as--as alcohol; blue serpents
entwined their horrible folds before him; pale specters with awful
pale-blue countenances, grimly grinned at him; a conflagration of lurid
blue raged and roared around him; new, strange, and terrible animals,
charged and recharged upon him, never striking, but coming fearfully
near; and above all, there stood the tree, now blue as all the rest;
blue, blue, blue.
A clamor, as if of ten thousand giants harshly wrangling, surged in his
ears, rivaling the throb of his heart. A fever took possession of him
and made his torment, if possible, worse. He strove to flee--he could
not. He strained to shriek, but strove in vain--he was a lost man.
And now a dog, invisible, drew near. He could hear him come slowly on,
panting. He remembered the day was hot--so undoubtedly was the dog.
Dogs always pant and loll when heated; hear him pant, pant, pant.
He sunk to the ground in despair and he could see the tree burning,
now, with a blue fire which waved fantastically. By degrees the
flames communicated with other trees; more demons appeared; terrific
giants drew near and scowled down upon him; and still nearer drew the
dog--pant, pant, pant.
“Help! help!” he shrieked in agony. “Help!” But the wind still moaned,
the fire waved and augmented, the tree loomed up, and the dog drew
nearer--pant, pant.
Was it resurrection day? was Dead-Man’s Forest giving up its dead? were
the ghostly victims, long since immortal, crowding around about him,
demanding his blood?
“Help! help!”
The dog drew nearer, and he could feel his hot breath upon his face and
hear the dreadful pant. Oh, God! would no one come?
He started half-way up, all on fire. Was not that an answering halloo?
or was it the voice which spoke so strangely in the forest?
He had not much time to spare--the horrible dog came nearer with his
hot and craving pant--pant, pant. Once more he screamed for help until
his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth.
“Help! help!”
Ha! that was surely an answer--a halloo. And voices too--voices he
knew. Footsteps hurriedly approached, the fires suddenly ceased, and
he could hear the dog panting far away. Some one’s hand was laid on
his head, a rough voice sounded, confused sounds rung in his ears, and
Cato, the Creeper, was unconscious.
When he awoke he was surrounded by a large party of men, who were
regarding him angrily and curiously. He did not recognize them, but,
remembering his recent peril, partially arose and looked in search of
the tree.
It was nowhere in sight. There was the glade and the towering sycamores
standing guard over it; there was the very bush he had concealed
himself under; but where was the tree?
“How d’ye feel?” asked one of the rough men, kneeling beside him.
“I dunno, mars’r,” he said, sinking down drowsily and closing his eyes.
“Feel better?”
“Whar’s de dog, mars’r?”
“What dog? thar ain’t no dog with us.”
“Are ye done shore, mars’r?”
“Sartin. Thar ain’t no dog hyar, is thar men?”
Several answered in the negative. Cato feebly raised himself on his
elbow and looked up.
He thought he recognized his questioner; he surely had seen him
somewhere. And the others too, their faces were familiar. Was he asleep
and dreaming? who were they?
“Whar am de fiah--am it all over?”
He heard a low voice remark: “What in thunder is he talkin’ ’bout?
darn me ef I don’t think he’s done gone mad.” Then it was raised
interrogatively.
“Thar ain’t b’en no dog nor no fire--leastways my peepers don’t see ary
sign of any.”
It was a new voice that spoke, and Cato knew it for the voice of Old
Sol. Rising on his knees he gazed around on his companions; they were
the settlers, gazing at him moodily. He started up and grasped the
veteran trailer by his horny hand.
“Golly, Mars’r Jacobs! Cato’s right grad ter see yer heah,” he said,
fervently. “Ye kim in der berry time. Cato war a’most gone, mars’r.”
“What was up?” asked the men, pressing about him. “Tell us! did you see
the gal?”
“No, mars’r, Cato done see’d nothin’ ob her,” he answered, mournfully.
“But de niggah see’d suthin’ berry much worse--he done see’d Obeah. Oh,
Mars’r Jacobs, it was ter’ble--ter’ble.”
“What was it? what was it?” were the impatient demands. Cato peered
round fearfully. He was really frightened, they could see, and as he
was by no means a coward, they knew that something had happened. Then
as if reassured by the presence of so many brave and strong men he told
his story. They listened with great attention, and when he was through,
many declared their opinion, in a few words.
“Snakes in his shoes--the tree-mens.”
(They all knew he drank immoderately.)
“No, sar, it wasn’t no tree-mens,” he protested, not yet recovered
from his fright. “It was too ter’ble--too hor’ble. Mars’r Jacobs, Cato
won’t be Creeper berry much longah. I done heerd de voice--fo’ shore I
heerd um. ‘Stop!’ it said; an’ for de life ob me dis niggah hadn’t de
strength ter move. Dat voice, mars’r, dat voice I heerd; and dis niggah
ain’t gwine ter tech whisky ag’in.”
“How did the voice sound? Was it like the one we heard a little while
ago?” asked Josh Dunbar.
“Jess the same, mars’r--jess percisely the same,” answered Cato.
“Ha!” cried Sol. “Hyar’s business! now, Martin, stay with Cato--he’s
too weak to follow. Stay hyar ontil we kim back. Come, boys, come;
hyar’s ter ketch that voice. It’s suthin’ ter do with leetle Katie,
sartin. Come on and cock the black feather!”
He struck on the trail, which had been abandoned at discovering Cato
insensible on the ground, and rapidly “loped” off, followed closely
by his little army, who were of various opinions regarding Cato’s
fright. Some declared with solemn faces and low tones that Dead-Man’s
Forest, always considered haunted, was surely so, and by a terrible
unknown, and that Cato had been under his influence; while others as
stoutly insisted it was the punishment which ungrateful liquor always
brings upon his subjects--the delirium tremens. Old Sol, on being
interrogated, only shook his head solemnly, and evaded the answer--he
had his opinion, but it was for himself alone.
If Walter had not been so grief-stricken and anxious, he would have
longed to find the owner of the voice (if there was one) and would have
done so if he had spent weeks in the task, for he had had a glimpse of
him once, but a very brief one; but he was now so troubled and frantic
he desired only to recover his lost treasure.
Away they went on the broad trail, fully satisfied that in reaching its
end not only Downing, but the voice would be found; and they wound in
and out among the trees in the grim old forest. They were within a mile
of the swamp when Eben, always keen as a ferret, suddenly halted, drew
his rifle to his shoulder and fired at some distant object.
“Missed, by thunder!” he angrily cried with a good old-fashioned oath.
“Bungler!”
“What was it, Eb?” inquired the men, peering cautiously around ready
for an attack.
“The durnedest looking chap I ever saw--a hunchback. He was peeking
from behind a tree.”
“Which one?”
“That big cottonwood. Whew; how he _did_ scamper.”
“Come on, boys!” shouted Sol, starting off in the direction indicated.
“Hyar’s suthin’ wrong. We ken easy find the trail ag’in.”
They followed pell-mell toward the cottonwood, but before they had gone
half the distance the same former voice, called out:
“Halloo-o-o!”
They halted short.
“Do-n’t fol-low me. Take the trail to Shadow Swamp. She is there.”
They looked in each other’s faces, uncertain what to do. Suddenly the
voice added:
“You can not catch me if you try. Go on to Shadow Swamp.”
When he heard this Sol slowly turned, and without looking back,
returned to the trail, followed by the bewildered men.
“It’s no use ter foller him, boys,” he said; “he speaks the truth. Le’s
find the trail and go on.”
They did, some grumbling, others alarmed, but all astonished and
bewildered, at Sol’s strange conduct. But the sage old veteran knew
what he was about.