I
The girl was in the front room on the second floor, peering through the
blinds. It was the "best room." There was a very new rag carpet on the
floor. The edges of it had been dyed with alternate stripes of red and
green. Upon the wooden mantel there were two little puffy figures in
clay--a shepherd and a shepherdess probably. A triangle of pink and
white wool hung carefully over the edge of this shelf. Upon the bureau
there was nothing at all save a spread newspaper, with edges folded to
make it into a mat. The quilts and sheets had been removed from the bed
and were stacked upon a chair. The pillows and the great feather
mattress were muffled and tumbled until they resembled great dumplings.
The picture of a man terribly leaden in complexion hung in an oval
frame on one white wall and steadily confronted the bureau.
From between the slats of the blinds she had a view of the road as it
wended across the meadow to the woods, and again where it reappeared
crossing the hill, half a mile away. It lay yellow and warm in the
summer sunshine. From the long grasses of the meadow came the rhythmic
click of the insects. Occasional frogs in the hidden brook made a
peculiar chug-chug sound, as if somebody throttled them. The leaves of
the wood swung in gentle winds. Through the dark-green branches of the
pines that grew in the front yard could be seen the mountains, far to
the south-east, and inexpressibly blue.
Mary's eyes were fastened upon the little streak of road that appeared
on the distant hill. Her face was flushed with excitement, and the hand
which stretched in a strained pose on the sill trembled because of the
nervous shaking of the wrist. The pines whisked their green needles
with a soft, hissing sound against the house.
At last the girl turned from the window and went to the head of the
stairs. "Well, I just know they're coming, anyhow," she cried
argumentatively to the depths.
A voice from below called to her angrily: "They ain't. We've never seen
one yet. They never come into this neighbourhood. You just come down
here and 'tend to your work insteader watching for soldiers."
"Well, ma, I just know they're coming."
A voice retorted with the shrillness and mechanical violence of
occasional housewives. The girl swished her skirts defiantly and
returned to the window.
Upon the yellow streak of road that lay across the hillside there now
was a handful of black dots--horsemen. A cloud of dust floated away.
The girl flew to the head of the stairs and whirled down into the
kitchen.
"They're coming! They're coming!"
It was as if she had cried "Fire!" Her mother had been peeling potatoes
while seated comfortably at the table. She sprang to her feet. "No--it
can't be--how you know it's them--where?" The stubby knife fell from
her hand, and two or three curls of potato skin dropped from her apron
to the floor.
The girl turned and dashed upstairs. Her mother followed, gasping for
breath, and yet contriving to fill the air with questions, reproach,
and remonstrance. The girl was already at the window, eagerly pointing.
"There! There! See 'em! See 'em!"
Rushing to the window, the mother scanned for an instant the road on
the hill. She crouched back with a groan. "It's them, sure as the
world! It's them!" She waved her hands in despairing gestures.
The black dots vanished into the wood. The girl at the window was
quivering and her eyes were shining like water when the sun flashes.
"Hush! They're in the woods! They'll be here directly." She bent down
and intently watched the green archway whence the road emerged. "Hush!
I hear 'em coming," she swiftly whispered to her mother, for the elder
woman had dropped dolefully upon the mattress and was sobbing. And,
indeed, the girl could hear the quick, dull trample of horses. She
stepped aside with sudden apprehension, but she bent her head forward
in order to still scan the road.
"Here they are!"
There was something very theatrical in the sudden appearance of these
men to the eyes of the girl. It was as if a scene had been shifted. The
forest suddenly disclosed them--a dozen brown-faced troopers in
blue--galloping.
"Oh, look!" breathed the girl. Her mouth was puckered into an
expression of strange fascination, as if she had expected to see the
troopers change into demons and gloat at her. She was at last looking
upon those curious beings who rode down from the North--those men of
legend and colossal tale--they who were possessed of such marvellous
hallucinations.
The little troop rode in silence. At its head was a youthful fellow
with some dim yellow stripes upon his arm. In his right hand he held
his carbine, slanting upward, with the stock resting upon his knee. He
was absorbed in a scrutiny of the country before him.
At the heels of the sergeant the rest of the squad rode in thin column,
with creak of leather and tinkle of steel and tin. The girl scanned the
faces of the horsemen, seeming astonished vaguely to find them of the
type she knew.
The lad at the head of the troop comprehended the house and its
environments in two glances. He did not check the long, swinging stride
of his horse. The troopers glanced for a moment like casual tourists,
and then returned to their study of the region in front. The heavy
thudding of the hoofs became a small noise. The dust, hanging in
sheets, slowly sank.
The sobs of the woman on the bed took form in words which, while strong
in their note of calamity, yet expressed a querulous mental reaching
for some near thing to blame. "And it'll be lucky fer us if we ain't
both butchered in our sleep--plundering and running off horses--old
Santo's gone--you see if he ain't--plundering--"
"But, ma," said the girl, perplexed and terrified in the same moment,
"they've gone."
"Oh, but they'll come back!" cried the mother, without pausing her
wail. "They'll come back--trust them for that--running off horses. O
John, John! why did you, why did you?" She suddenly lifted herself and
sat rigid, staring at her daughter. "Mary," she said in tragic whisper,
"the kitchen door isn't locked!" Already she was bended forward to
listen, her mouth agape, her eyes fixed upon her daughter.
"Mother," faltered the girl.