A WAY TO THE RIVER
She waited in agony as he sighted carefully, striving to gauge the
distance. It seemed an interminable time before his finger pressed the
trigger. Then came the report, a flash of flame, and the powder smoke
blown back in her face. Half-blinded by the discharge, she yet saw
that black smudge leap upright; again the Henry blazed, and the dim
figure went down. There was a cry--a mad yell of rage--in which
scattered voices joined; spits of fire cleaving the darkness, the
barking of guns of different calibre. A bit of flying lead tore
through the leather back of the coach with an odd rip; another struck
the casing of the door, sending the wooden splinters flying like
arrows. Hawk-eyed, Hamlin fired twice more, aiming at the sparks,
grimly certain that a responding howl from the left evidenced a hit.
Then, as quickly, all was still, intensely black once more. The
Sergeant drew back from the window, leaning his gun against the casing.
"That will hold them for a while," he said cheerfully. "Two less out
there, I reckon, and the others won't get careless again right away.
Now is our time; are you ready?"
There was no response, the stillness so profound he could hear the
faint ticking of the girl's watch. He reached out, almost alarmed, and
touched her dress.
"What is the trouble?" he questioned anxiously. "Didn't you hear me
speak?"
He waited breathless, but there was no movement, no sound, and his
hand, trembling, in spite of his iron nerve, groped its way upward.
She was lying back against the opposite window, her head bent sideways.
"My God," he thought, "did those devils get her?"
He lifted her slight figure up on one arm, all else blotted out, all
other memory vanished through this instant dread. His cheek stung
where flying splinters had struck him, but that was nothing. She was
warm, her flesh was warm; then his searching fingers felt the moist
blood trickling down from the edge of her hair. He let out his breath
slowly, the sudden relief almost choking him. It was bad enough
surely, but not what he had first feared, not death. She had been
struck hard--a flying splinter of wood, perhaps, or a deflected
bullet--her hair matted with blood, yet it was no more than a flesh
wound, although leaving her unconscious. If he hesitated it was but
for an instant. The entire situation recurred to him in a flash; he
must change his plans, but dare waste no time. If they were to escape
it must be accomplished now, shadowed by darkness, while those savage
watchers were safely beyond sound. His lean jaws set with fierce
determination, and he grimly hitched his belt forward, one sinewy hand
fingering the revolver. He would have to trust to that weapon entirely
for defense; he could not carry both the rifle and the girl.
Moving slowly, cautiously, fearful lest some creaking of the old stage
might betray his motions to those keen ears below, he backed through
the open door. Once feeling the ground firm beneath his feet, and
making sure that both canteen and haversack were secure, he reached
back into the darkness, grasping the form of the unconscious girl. He
stood erect with her held securely in his arms, strands of hair blowing
against his cheek, listening intently, striving with keen eyes to
penetrate the black curtain. The wind was fortunate, blowing steadily
across the flat from the river, and they were surely invisible against
the background of the overhanging bluff. He did not even feel it
necessary to crouch low to avoid discovery. He knew that peril would
confront them later, when they ventured out into the open. How light
she seemed, as though he clasped a child. Bearing her was going to be
easier than he had supposed; the excitement yielded him a new measure
of strength, yet he went forward very slowly, feeling along, inch by
inch, planting his feet with exceeding care. The earth was hard-packed
and would leave little trail; there were no leaves, no dead grass to
rustle. Beyond the protection afforded by the stage he felt the full
sweep of the wind and permitted her head to rest lower on one arm so
that he could look about more clearly. She had not even moaned,
although he had felt her breath upon his face. Once he stumbled
slightly over some fallen earth, and farther along a foot slipped on a
treacherous stone, but the slight noise died unnoticed in the night.
It was farther to the gully than he had supposed; his heart was in his
throat fearing he had missed it, half-believing the depression failed
to extend to the base of the bluff. Then his foot, exploring blindly,
touched the edge of the bank. Carefully he laid his burden down,
placing his battered campaign hat beneath her head. He bent over her
again, assuring himself that she breathed regularly, and then crept
down alone into the shallow ravine.
His nerves were like steel now, his hand steady, his heart beating
without an accelerated throb. He knew the work, and rejoiced in it.
This was why he was a soldier. Silently, swiftly, he unbuckled his
belt, refastening it across the straps so as to hold canteen and
haversack noiseless, and then, revolver in hand, began creeping down
under cover of the low banks. He must explore the path first before
attempting to bear her along in his arms; must be sure the passage was
unguarded. After it swerved to the right there would be little danger,
but while it ran straight, some cautious savage might have chosen it to
skulk in. To deal with such he needed to be alone, and free.
He must have crawled thus for thirty yards, hands and knees aching
horribly, his eyes ever peering over the edge of the bank, his ears
tingling to the slightest noise. The tiny glow of the fire far away to
the left was alone visible in the intense blackness; the wind brought
to him no sound of movement. The stillness was profound, almost
uncanny; as he paused and listened he could distinguish the throb of
his heart. He was across the trail at last, for he had felt and traced
the ruts of wheels, and where the banks had been worked down almost to
a level with the prairie. He crossed this opening like a snake, and
then arose to his knees beyond, where the gully deepened. He remained
poised, motionless, scarcely daring to breathe. Surely that was
something else--that shapeless blotch of shadow, barely topping the
line of bank! Was it ten feet away? Or five? He could not tell. He
stared; there was no movement, and yet his eyes began to discern dimly
the outlines--the head and shoulders of a man! The Sergeant crept
forward--an inch, two inches, a foot. The figure did not stir. Now he
was sure the fellow's head was lying flat on the turf, oddly distorted
by a feathered war bonnet. The strange posture, the utter lack of
movement, seemed proof that the tired warrior had fallen asleep on
watch. Like a cat Hamlin crept up slowly toward him, poised for a
spring.
Some sense of the wild must have stirred the savage into
semi-consciousness. Suddenly he sat up, gripping the gun in his hands.
Yet even as his opening eyes saw dimly the Sergeant's menacing shadow,
before he could scream his alarm, or spring upright, the revolver butt
struck with dull thud, and he went tumbling backward into the ditch,
his cry of alarm ending in a hoarse croak. From somewhere, out of the
dense darkness in front a voice called, sharp and guttural, as if its
owner had been startled by the mysterious sound of the blow. It was
the language of the Arapahoes, and out of his vague memory of the
tongue, spurred to recollection by the swift emergency, Hamlin growled
a hoarse answer, hanging breathlessly above the motionless body until
the "ugh!" of the fellow's response proved him without suspicion. He
waited, counting the seconds, every muscle strained with expectancy,
listening. He had a feeling that some one was crawling over the short
grass, wiggling along like a snake, but the faint sound, if sound it
was, grew less distinct. Finally he lifted his head above the edge of
the bank, but saw nothing, not even a dim shadow.
"They are closing in, I reckon," he thought soberly, "and it is n't
likely there will be any more of these gentry as far back as this;
looks as though this gully turned west just beyond. Anyhow I 've got
to risk it."
He returned more rapidly, knowing the passage, yet with no less
caution, finding the unconscious girl lying exactly as he had left her.
As he clasped her form in his arms, her lips uttered some incoherent
words, but otherwise she gave no sign of life.
"Yes, yes," he whispered close to her ear, hoping thus to hold her
silent. "It is all right now; only keep still."
He could feel her breathing, and realized the danger of her return to
consciousness. If she should be frightened and cry out, their fate
would be sealed. Yet he must accept the chance, now that he knew the
way to be clear. He held her tightly in both arms, his revolver thrust
back into its holster. Bending as low as he could with his burden,
feeling carefully through the darkness before advancing a foot, he
moved steadily forward. Where the gully deepened their heads were at
the edge of the bank, but much of the way was exposed, except for the
dark shadows of the slope. Fortunately there were clouds to the west,
already obscuring that half of the sky, but to the east nothing was
visible against the faint luminousness of the sky-line. Once, far over
there to the left, a gun was fired, the flame splitting the night
asunder, and against the distant reflection a black figure rose up
between, only to be instantly snuffed out again. Hamlin put down his
uplifted foot, and waited, in tense, motionless silence, but nothing
happened, except the echo of a far-away voice.
A dozen feet farther, some four-footed animal suddenly leaped to the
edge of the bank, sniffed, and disappeared noiselessly. So taut were
his nerves strung that the Sergeant sank upon his knees, releasing one
hand to grip his revolver, before he realized the cause of alarm--some
prowling prairie wolf. Then, with teeth grimly locked, bending lower
and lower, he crept across the rutted trail, and past the dead body of
the Indian. Not until then did he dare to breathe naturally or to
stand upright; but now, the gully, bending to the right, led away from
danger, every step gained adding to their safety. He was confident
now, full of his old audacity, yet awake to every trick of plainscraft.
The girl's head rested against his shoulder, and he bent his cheek to
hers, feeling its warmth. The touch of his unshaven beard pricked her
into semi-consciousness, and she spoke so loud that it gave him a
thrill of apprehension. He dared not run in the darkness for fear of
stumbling, yet moved with greater swiftness, until the depression ended
at the river. Here, under the protection of the bank, Hamlin put down
his burden and stood erect, stretching his strained muscles and staring
back into the dark.
What now? Which way should they turn? He had accomplished all he had
planned for himself back there in the coach, but now he became aware of
other problems awaiting solution. In less than an hour it would be
daylight; he almost imagined it was lighter already over yonder in the
east. With the first dawn those watchful Indians, creeping cautiously
closer, would discover the stage deserted, and would be on their trail.
And they had left a trail easily followed. Perhaps the hard, dry
ground might confuse those savage trackers, but they would scour the
open country between bluff and river, and find the dead warrior in the
gully. That would tell the story. To go west, along the edge of the
river, wading in the water, would be useless precaution; such a trick
would be suspected at once, and there was no possibility of rescue from
that direction. They might as well walk open-eyed into a trap. There
was but one hope, one opportunity--to cross the stream before dawn came
and hide among those shifting sand-dunes of the opposite shore. Hamlin
thoroughly understood the risk involved, the treacherous nature of the
Arkansas, the possibility that both might be sucked down by engulfing
quicksand, yet even such a lonely death was preferable to Indian
torture.
The girl at his feet stirred and moaned. In another moment he had
filled his hat with water from the river, had lifted her head upon one
arm, and using the handkerchief from about his throat, was washing away
the blood that matted her hair. Now that his fingers felt the wound,
he realized the force of the blow stunning her, although its outward
manifestation was slight. Her figure trembled in his arms and her eyes
opened, gazing up wonderingly at the black outlines of his shadow.
Then she made an effort as though to draw away.
"Lie still a while yet, Miss McDonald," he said soothingly, "until you
regain your strength."
He heard the quick gasp of her breath, and felt the sudden relaxing of
her muscles.
"You!" she exclaimed in undisguised relief at recognition of the voice;
"is it really you? Where are we? What has happened?"
He told her rapidly, his face bent close, realizing that she was
clinging to him again as she had once before back in the stage. As he
ended, she lifted one hand to her wound.
"And I am not really hurt--not seriously?" her voice bewildered. "I--I
never realized I had been struck. And--and you carried me all that
way--" she shuddered, looking about into the black silence. "I--I can
hardly comprehend--yet. Please explain again; they are back there
watching for us still, believing we are in the coach; they will follow
our trail as soon as it becomes daylight. Why--why, the sky is
brighter over in the east already, is n't it? What was it you said we
must do?"
"Get across the river; once hidden in those sand-dunes over there we
'll be safe enough."
"Across the river," she repeated the words dully, sitting up to stare
out toward the water. Then her head sank into her hands. "Can we--can
we ever do that?"
Hamlin bent forward on his knees, striving with keen eyes, sharpened by
his night's experience, to learn more of what lay before them. The
movement, slight as it was, served to frighten her, and she grasped him
by the sleeve.
"Do not leave me; do not go away," she implored swiftly. "Whatever you
say is best, I will do."