SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT
One thing Hervey did bear in mind, and that was what Tom had told him
about how to distinguish a dark object in the dark. He would not
remember this twenty-four hours hence, but he remembered it then, and
that is saying much for him. He tried to improve upon the formula by
experimenting with his eyes cross-eyed, but it didn't work. Skirting the
lower western reach of the mountain and beyond, in the comparatively
flat country, he kept squinting away at old Crows Nest and its shadowy,
black mass guided him. "Slady's got the right dope on mountains," he
said to himself.
The race was about as Tom had said; four miles for the horses, against a
mile and a half for Hervey. Both routes were bad, Hervey's the worse of
the two. All things considered, hills, muddy roads, trackless woodland,
swampy areas, it should take the heavily loaded team a little over an
hour to reach the bridge. By Tom's calculation it must take Hervey at
least an hour and a half.
So there you are.
Going straight north, Hervey would have that dim black mass, hovering on
the verge of invisibility, to guide him. Traveling a little west of
north he might have reached the road at a nearer point. But here the
traveling was bad and the danger of getting lost greater. Tom had
weighed one thing against another and told Hervey to go straight north.
Hervey found the first half hour of his journey very difficult, picking
his way around the base of the mountain. Beyond the country was flat and
comparatively open, being mostly sparse woodland. The wind was very keen
here, since there was no mountain to break its force and the rain blew
in his face, almost blinding him.
Again and again he wiped his dripping face with his sleeve and plodded
on, picking out his beacon now and again in the darkness. It was
surprising how easy it was for him to do this by the little trick of
which Tom had told him. His eyes would just catch the mountain for a
second, then it would evaporate in the surrounding blackness, like
breath on a pane of glass.
Suddenly, something happened which quite unnerved him. He was hurrying
through a patch of woodland when, not more than ten feet ahead of him,
he was certain that he saw something dark glide from one tree to
another.
He stopped short, his heart in his mouth. The minutes, he knew, were
precious, but he could not move. The wind in the trees moaned like some
lost soul, and in his stark fear the beating of the drops on the leafy
carpet startled him. He heard these because he was standing still, and
the ceasing of his own footfalls emphasized the steady patter.
Somewhere, in all that stormy solitude and desolation, an uncanny owl
hooted its dismal song.
Hervey did not move.
It was not till he bethought him of those horses lumbering along the
road ever nearer and nearer to that trap of death that he got control of
himself and started off.
It was just the gloom of those dark woods, the play of some freakish and
deceptive shadow conjuring itself into a human presence, that he had
seen.... Who would be out in that lonely wood on such a night?
With a sudden, desperate impulse to challenge his fear and have done
with it, he stepped briskly toward the tree to glance about it and
dispel his illusion. If it was just some branch broken by the wind and
hanging loose....
He approached the trunk and edged around it. As he did so a form moved
around the trunk also. Hervey paused. The pounding of his heart seemed
louder than the noises of the storm. In his throat was a queer burning
sensation. He could not speak. He could not stir. The dark form moved
again, ever so little....