All through the long morning Winona patrolled her beat listening with
anxious heart to the sounds of distant firing which the breeze brought
to her ears from time to time. At noon one of Captain Brown’s daughters
brought her coffee; it was the only break in her solitary vigil. She
scanned the horizon with anxious eyes, but having no field-glass was
unable to distinguish friend from foe among the figures scarcely
discernible with the naked eye.
In the dim vistas of the woods it was cool and shady, but the sun beat
down mercilessly upon the sides of the cliff, and as she watched the
shifting rays she wondered how the battle went in sickening dread,
and then rebuked her own impatience for news. As the hours wore on,
the shadows began to lengthen; their long fingers crossed the hills
pointing darkly toward the river. The girl was unhappy and fearful
in her mind; yet she tried to comfort herself, but for a time her
firm head played her false enough to picture flames leaping from the
woods, from the low roofs of the huts amid the corn-stalks, and little
children under merciless hoofs, and the awful tumult of flight for
life. That was no more than they must expect if the Rangers won. “But
they won’t win!” she thought, with a brave smile on her face and a
heavy heart in her bosom.
Overcome at length by the restless fever within, she determined to
risk all in an endeavor to obtain news of her friends--of Warren. She
started toward the battle line about the time Judah met Thomson on
another spur of the mountain. Reaching the stream Winona followed the
bed for some distance in the shadow of the cliff.
Suddenly, far above her head, she heard the gunshot, the scream of
agony tearing through space, at once an alarum and rallying cry; it
meant to the lonely girl all the savagery of battle; it might mean
havoc and despair. She covered her face with her hands a moment,
removing them the next instant in time to see a falling body drop
into the water almost at her feet. Terror rendered her motionless. The
soft waves stole up and flung themselves over the quiet body huddled
there breast high in the stream. Then a new thought came to her--“if it
should be Warren!” Gathering herself up, she stumbled through the grass
to the edge of the river, fell on her knees on the bank and surveyed
the helpless shape lying there. A groan broke from the white lips. She
nerved herself to move nearer. She took the unconscious head in both
hands and turned the face toward herself and--looked into the sightless
eyes of Thomson.
Her relief was so great that she sobbed aloud; then after giving broken
thanks that it was not Warren, she rose from her knees and began to
look about her for means to succor the man before her. He was her
enemy, but the mother instinct that dwells in all good women, which can
look on death, gave her calmness and strength to do, and the heart to
forgive.
She turned to seek help and faced Judah coming out from the trees. “Oh,
Judah, he is alive!” she exclaimed, pointing to the inanimate figure in
the water. Judah gazed at her in surprise, then said:
“What! Not dead yet? I thought I had settled his case for all time. How
came you here?”
“I came out to look for the wounded. Help me to carry this man to camp;
surely you are satisfied now. You cannot shoot a dying man,” she said,
sternly catching the ferocious light that still glimmered in his eyes
as he lifted his gun to the hollow of his arm.
“I did it for you as much as for myself. Have you forgotten your
father?” he added, reproachfully.
“I do not forget. God forbid! But you have done enough.”
“Not enough,” replied Judah. “He is the hater of my race. He is of
those who enslave both body and soul and damn us with ignorance and
vice and take our manhood. I made an oath; it was no idle threat.”
He poised his gun. Quick as a flash the girl threw herself before the
unconscious Thomson. “You shall not! You make yourself as vile as the
vilest of them--our enemies. Let the man die in peace. See, he is
almost gone.”
“Yes, Judah, it is enough; she is right,” said Warren Maxwell’s voice
as he joined the group by the stream. “Surely you must be sick of
bloodshed. Have you not had enough?”
With a glad cry Winona was folded in her lover’s arms.
“Let it be as you wish,” said Judah after a short time, as he silently
viewed the happiness of the lovers. Then he prepared to help Warren
lift Thomson from the stream. They turned faint and sick at the sight
of the man’s wounds. “His back is broken,” said Warren, in reply to
Winona’s questioning eyes.
“It were more merciful to shoot him on the spot,” said Judah, but even
he felt now the sheer human repulsion from such butchery master him, as
they moved slowly and carefully up the steep ascent.
The Rangers were completely routed by the desperate valor of the
Brown men. Incredible as it seemed, most of the enemy had been killed
outright and a number of prisoners taken, who were to be tried by
court-martial and shot, according to the rough justice of the times.
The anti-slavery men met with small loss, but among the wounded was
Ebenezer Maybee. With the other wounded men he was carried back to
camp; at sunrise the next morning he was aroused from his stupor by a
volley of musketry. Steward was at his side. He asked what it meant.
“Well, partner, you know we won the fight,” said he. “Captain Brown
is a shootin’ all the pris’ners; well, now, ain’t that tough fer a
prefesser?”
“No, not all the prisoners,” replied the Parson. “The most of them have
been begged off by young Maxwell. He’s the most softest hearted young
feller I ever met for such a good shot.”
“This yer’s a good cause to go in, Parson.”
The Parson answered gruffly, in a choked voice: “You ain’t goin’
nowhere, partner; we’ll pull you through.”
Maybee’s face worked, and he planted a knowing wink in vacancy. “We’ve
been partners fer a right smart spell, ain’t we, Parson?”
The Parson frowned hard to keep back the tears. “You’re a man to tie
to, Maybee.”
“No, now,” sputtered Maybee, breaking down at last; “d-- ye, Parson,
don’t make a baby er me.” Then with a change of voice he asked, “What’s
come o’ Thomson an’ the colonel?”
“Devil’s got the colonel and he’s waiting fer Thomson; we’ve got him
with a broken back next door to this house. Judah did it. My! but that
boy’s as ferocious as a tiger.”
Maybee nodded. “Well, he’s a good boy, is Jude; I’ve knowed him sense
he was knee-high to a toad; been through a heap; don’ blame him fer
bein’ ferocious. I ain’t sorry I jined the boys, Parson, fer all I got
my ticket. It’s a good cause, Parson, a good cause, and you’ll see a
heap o’ fun befo’ you’re through with it; wish’t I could be here to see
it, too. You found your ol’ woman and the kids all safe, Parson?”
“I did,” replied the Parson, cordially.
“Jes’ break it gently to Ma’ Jane, partner, that I got my death in an
hones’ fight, an’ tell her she’s all right, havin’ everything in her
name an’ power of attorney to boot.”
“I will do so,” promised the Parson, solemnly.
One of the men came in with a message for the Parson. Thomson was
conscious and going fast; he wanted the Parson and Winona.
Thomson still lived; none knew why; his stupor had left him conscious.
Paralyzed in every limb, he could talk in a strong voice and was
perfectly sane, and recognized those about him, but he was going fast.
“How long do you give me, doc?” he asked Warren, jokingly.
“Until it touches the heart,” replied Warren solemnly.
“Then it will be soon?” Warren nodded.
Thomson appeared to be thinking. “No,” he muttered finally with a sigh,
“I got to own up. Colonel’s dead, ain’t he?” Warren bowed.
“Well, then, ’tain’t no use holdin’ out. Bring in the gal and Judah,
an’ take down every word I say if you want the gal to have her own.
You’re a lawyer, ain’t you? Sent out here on the Carlingford case,
warn’t you? Never struck you that me and the Colonel knew where to find
the man you was huntin’, did it?” His voice was spent, and Warren, his
mind in a tumult, held a glass of liquor to the dying man’s lips, and
then sent for Winona and Judah and Parson Steward. They came instantly,
and with the transient vigor imparted by the liquor Thomson opened his
eyes again and said, in a clear tone: “I’m here yet, Judah; I almost
got the one chance you offered me, but it ain’t for long I’ll hender
you; I’m goin’ fast.”
No one answered the wretch, baffled alike in base passion and violent
deeds, but Parson Steward began a fervent prayer for the dying.
Something of his awful need for such a petition must have filtered
through the darkness of the sin-cursed heart and he presently
comprehended dimly the great change before him. He whispered at the
close:
“That’s all right, Parson. I know I deviled you an’ tried to kill you;
I did the same to the nigger--an’ to Maxwell--but I done the girl worse
’n dirt. That’s me you described in your prayer--a devilish wicked
cuss, but I warn’t always so, an’ d---- me ef I ain’t sorry! I’m goin’
to try to make the damage I’ve done, good--to the girl, anyhow.”
“Miserable sinners, miserable sinners, all of us. Madness is in our
hearts while we live, and after that we go to the dead. God forgive
us,” muttered the Parson, not noting the dying man’s profanity.
“Take down every word I say, Mr. Maxwell, an’ let me kiss the Book
that it’s all true.”
The scene was intensely dramatic. Winona sat with clasped hands
folded on her breast; she knew not what new turn of Fortune’s wheel
awaited her. Judah’s dark, handsome face and stalwart form were in the
background where he stood in a group formed by Captain Brown and his
sons, who had been called to witness the confession.
As for Warren Maxwell, he felt the most intense excitement he had ever
experienced in his life. His hands shook; he could scarcely hold the
pen. Most of us creatures of flesh and blood know what that terrible
feeling of suspense, of dread, with which we approach a crisis in our
fate. It is indefinable, but comes alike to strong and weak, bold and
timid. Such a crisis Maxwell felt was approaching in the fate of Winona
and himself. There in we recognize the mesmeric force which holds
mankind in an eternal brotherhood. Stronger than all in life, perhaps,
is this mysterious force when a man feels that he has
“Set his life upon a cast,
And must abide the hazard of the die.”
“Mr. Maxwell, you came to America to find the lost Captain Henry
Carlingford, heir to the great Carlingford estates. You thought
you were on a hopeless quest, did you not?” Warren nodded. It was
noticeable that the man spoke in well-bred phrases, and had dropped his
Southwestern accent. “You found the captain all right, but you never
knew it. White Eagle was the man you wanted!”
There was a cry of astonishment from the listeners. Winona was in
tears. Into Judah’s eyes there crept the old ferocious glitter as he
said:
“And so you murdered him! I have suspected as much for two years.”
“No, no, Judah; I wasn’t in that. Titus did the killing.”
Now Warren lost sight of all personal interest in the case, seeing
nothing but its legal aspect. He wrote rapidly, questioning the man
closely.
“Why did Col. Titus commit this murder? How came you to know this?”
With great effort Thomson replied:
“Titus hated him because he stood between him and a vast fortune, and
he was also jealous of his wife’s love for Henry Carlingford; he was
her lover from childhood, and she loved him until death.”
“Then if you know this, I want you to tell me who killed young Lord
George. Miss Venton was affianced to him. You can tell if you will, for
Miss Venton married Colonel Titus.” Warren spoke sternly and solemnly.
Thomson muttered to himself and then was silent; all waited
breathlessly in painful silence. Would he solve the riddle, and tell
the story of the crime for which a guiltless man had been condemned by
a jury of his peers years before?
“No, it won’t neither,” they heard him say, and then he spoke aloud:
“Everything must be made clear?”
“Yes,” said Warren, “if you wish to help this poor girl whom you have
wronged so cruelly.”
“It won’t be against you when you get on the other side, Thomson. Free
your mind, my friend; it’ll do you good. Terrible, verily, sir, is the
Lord our God, but full of mercy,” said Parson Steward.
“I’ll take your word for it, Parson, but I never was much on religion:
perhaps I’d fared better if I had been. Well, then, I killed Lord
George. I swore to bring disgrace upon the entire Carlingford family.
And I have done it; I have had a rich revenge. I was Lord George’s
valet; my sister, Miss Venton’s maid. Lord George could never resist
a pretty face, and my sister was more than that. Miss Venton loved
Captain Henry, and Lord George found her an indifferent woman. She but
obeyed her father’s orders, and so Lord George made love to the maid,
deceived her, and when he tired of his toy abandoned her to the usual
fate of such women--the street. I found her when it was too late, and
I swore revenge so long as one lived with a drop of the blood in his
veins.
“One day the brothers quarrelled bitterly over Miss Venton; then was
my chance. I shot Lord George in the back, and fled, knowing that
suspicion would fall on Capt. Henry. It did; and two of my enemies were
out of my way, for the Captain was tried and convicted and lived an
outcast among savages for years; that was my little scheme for getting
even. For the sake of his daughter Lillian, Colonel Titus killed White
Eagle and held Winona as a slave, thus cutting off the last direct heir
to Carlingford.”
The faint voice ceased. The narrative was finished with great
difficulty; the man failed rapidly. With a great effort he added:
“Will you call it square, young fellow?--you and Winona--and Judah?
I’ve done you bad, but I’ve told the truth at last. Mr. Maxwell--you
know the rest--I reckon you’ll marry the heiress--I’m glad.--Land in
Canidy soon, boys; they’ll be after you inside a week--big Government
force----.” Warren preserved his impassiveness by a struggle; the
others followed the faint voice of the dying man with breathless
attention; they felt that every word of this important confession was
true.
Maxwell was filled with a hope that agitated him almost beyond control.
“Why, surely,” he said, at length, in a voice that trembled in spite of
himself, as he rose and joined Winona and Judah at the bedside. “I’m
awfully grateful to you for telling me this; it makes my work easy.”
“I sort o’ hated to tell, fer a fac’,” he said, falling back into his
usual vernacular, “but I’m glad I done it.” His voice failed; a gray
shadow crept over the white face; all was still.
“Let us pray,” and Parson Steward broke the silence. As they knelt
about the bed, the crack of rifles broke in upon the fervent petition
for mercy sent upwards by the man of God. It was the volley that
carried death to the last of the captured Rangers. Guilty soul joined
guilty soul in their flight to Eternity.
Ebenezer Maybee expressed no surprise when told of Thomson’s confession.
“These happenings ’min’ me o’ the words o’ the Psalmist that I’ve
heard Parson quote so often: ‘Thy right hand shall teach thee terrible
things.’”
“Amen,” said Steward. “But full of mercy, also, since they will deliver
this poor girl from the hand of the spoiler.”
Many tears were shed over Maybee’s precarious condition, for he was
dear to every soul in the camp. Winona and Judah established themselves
as nurses at his bedside, bringing all their Indian knowledge of
medicine to bear upon his case, and declaring that they would pull him
through.
“My children,” he said, after musing a while on the exciting tale just
told him, “I believe I can match that story o’ Thomson’s. I have a
surprisin’ secret to unfol’ to you. It will make the whole business
clear. White Eagle must a per-ceived his end, an’ he says to me, says
he, jes’ about a month before his disease, he says, ‘Maybee, keep
this here package if anything comes across me, ’tell my girl’s a
re-sponsible age.’ After he was dead I said to myself--in the words of
Scripter, ’a charge to keep I have’ an’ ’t ain’t safe to keep it; so I
give the package to Ma’ Jane an’ she has it unto this day.”