THE TRAIL OF THE RAIDERS
Shocked and unmanned as I was at this discovery, to pause there staring
at those gruesome figures would have only brought fresh alarm to the
two watching my every movement from the edge of the clearing. Gripping
my nerves I advanced over the first body, watchful for any sign of the
presence of life within the cabin. There was none--the work of the
murder had been completed, and the perpetrators had fled. I saw the
entire interior at a glance, the few articles of rude, hand-made
furniture, several overturned, the fire yet smouldering on the hearth,
some broken crockery, and pewter dishes on the floor, and on every side
the evidences of a fierce, brutal struggle. The dead man, with ghastly
countenance upturned to the roof rafters, and the snowy beard, was
undoubtedly the negro helper, Amos Shrunk. Pete's description of the
appearance of the man left this identification beyond all dispute. He
had been stricken down by a savage blow, which had literally crushed in
one side of his head, but his dead hands yet gripped a rifle, as though
he had fallen fighting to the last.
The other man, the one lying across the threshold, had been shot,
although I did not ascertain this fact until after I turned the body
over sufficiently to reveal the face. This was disfigured by the wound
and covered with blood, so that the features could scarcely be seen,
yet I instantly recognized the fellow--Carver. Surprised out of all
control by this unexpected discovery, I steadied myself against the log
wall, fully aroused to the sinister meaning of his presence. To a
degree the complete significance of this tragedy instantly gripped my
mind. It this fellow Carver had been one of the assailants, then it
was absolutely certain that Kirby must have also been present--the
leader of the attack. This inevitably meant that both men had been
aboard the steamer, and later were put ashore at the mouth of the
Illinois. And now that I thought about it, why not? It was no
accident, and I wondered that the possibility had never occurred to me
before. The gambler naturally knew all the gossip of the river, and,
beyond question, he would be aware of the reported existence of this
underground station for runaway slaves. It was common talk as far down
as St. Louis, and his mind would instantly revert to the possibility
that the fleeing Rene might seek escape through the assistance of
Shrunk. The mysterious vanishing of the boat would serve to increase
that suspicion. Even if this had not occurred to him at first, the
steamer would have brought news that no keel-boat had been seen on the
lower river, while the captain of the _John B. Glover_, or someone else
on board, would have been sure to have mentioned the negro-helper and
suggest that he might have had a hand in the affair. To follow that
trail was, indeed, the most natural thing for Kirby to do.
And he had promptly accepted the chance; blindly, no doubt, and yet
guided by good fortune. He had not overtaken Rene, because she was not
yet there, but he had unexpectedly come upon the other fugitives, and,
even though the encounter had cost the life of his henchman, Carver, it
also resulted in the death of two men who had come between him and his
prey--the negro, and the abolitionist. The scene cleared in my brain
and became vivid and real. I could almost picture in detail each act
of the grim tragedy. The two revengeful trackers--if there were only
two engaged, for others might have been recruited on the steamer--must
have crept up to the hut in the night, or early morning. Possibly
Kirby had learned of some other means of approach from the direction of
the big river. Anyway, the fact that Shrunk had been trapped within
the cabin would indicate the final attack was a surprise. The negro
might have been asleep outside, and met his death in an attempt at
escape, but the old white man, finding flight impossible, had fought
desperately to the last and had killed one antagonist before receiving
his death blow. This was all plain enough, but what had become of
Kirby, of the two women--Eloise, and the quadroon mother?
I searched the cabin without uncovering the slightest trace of their
presence, or finding a single article which could be associated with
them. Kirby himself must have fled the scene of the tragedy
immediately--without even pausing long enough to turn his companion
over to ascertain the nature of his wound. Had something occurred to
frighten him? Had the fellow fled alone back to a waiting boat at the
shore, perchance seriously injured himself in the melee, or had he
secured the two women, and, reckless as to all else, driven them along
with him to some place of concealment until they could be transported
down the river? Nothing could answer these questions; no discovery
enabled me to lift the veil. Uncertain what to do, or how to act, I
could only return to the waiting girl and the negro to tell them what I
had found.
They listened as though scarcely comprehending, Sam uttering little
moans of horror, and appearing helpless from fright, but Rene quiet,
merely exhibiting her emotion in the whiteness of her face and
quickened breathing. Her eyes, wide-open, questioning, seemed to sense
my uncertainty. As I ended the tale and concluded with my theory as to
what had occurred following the deed of blood, her quick mind asserted
itself.
"But this must have happened very lately; the men were not long dead?"
"I cannot judge how long; their bodies were cold."
"Yet the fire still smouldered, you said. When do you think that
steamer could have landed here?"
"Why, perhaps early last evening."
"And it has not occurred to you that the boat might have waited here
while the man Kirby went ashore?"
"No; that could scarcely be true, if the steamer was transporting
troops; what was it you were thinking about?"
She buried her face in her hands; then lifted it once more to mine,
with a new conviction in her eyes.
"It is all dark, of course," she said slowly, "we can only guess at
what happened. But to me it seems impossible that the man Kirby could
have accomplished all this alone--without assistance. The boat we saw
at the landing was not his; it must have been Pete's, and there is no
evidence of any other trail leading here from the river. If, as you
imagine, he knew the captain of that steamer, and some of the other men
aboard were Missourians and defenders of slavery, he would have no
trouble in enlisting their help to recover his runaway slaves. They
would be only too glad to break up an abolitionist's nest. That is
what I believe has happened; they came ashore in a party, and the
steamer waited for them. Even if it was a troop boat, the captain
could easily make excuses for an hour's delay."
"And you think the prisoners were taken along? Yet Kirby would not
want to transport them up the river."
"As to that," she insisted, "he could not help himself. He needed to
get away quickly, and there were no other means available. He could
only hope to connect later with some craft south-bound on which to
return. There are keel-boats and barges always floating down stream
from the mines. He dare not remain here; that was why they were in
such haste; why, they did not even wait to bury the bodies."
"You may be right," I admitted, impressed, yet not wholly convinced.
"But what can we do?"
She looked at me reproachfully.
"You should not ask that of a girl."
The words stung me.
"No; this is my task. I was thoughtlessly cruel. Neither can we
remain here, only long enough to bury those bodies. It would be
inhuman not to do that. Sam, there is an old spade leaning against the
cabin wall--go over and get it."
"Ah ain't goin' fer ter tetch no daid man, sah."
"I'll attend to that; all you need do is dig. Over there at the edge
of the wood will answer, and we shall have to place all three in one
grave--we can do no more."
He started on his mission reluctantly enough, glancing constantly
backward over his shoulder to insure himself of our presence, and
carefully avoiding any approach to the open door.
"Am I to simply remain here?" the girl asked, as I took the first step
to follow him. "Can I not be of some help?"
"I think not; I can get along very nicely. It is not a pleasant sight
inside. Here is the best place for you, as it might not be safe for
you to go any further away. We do not know positively where those men
have gone. They might be hiding somewhere in the woods. You can turn
away and face the forest, so as to see nothing. We shall not be long."
"And--and," she faltered, "what will be done after that?"
"I will endeavor to think out some plan. I confess I do not yet know
what will be best. To remain here is, of course, impossible, while to
return down the river means certain capture. Perhaps you may be able
to suggest something."
Unpleasant as our task was, it proved to be less difficult of
accomplishment than I had anticipated. There were blankets in the
cabin bunks, and in these I wrapped the bodies. They were too heavy,
however, for me to transport alone, and it required some threatening to
induce Sam to give me the assistance necessary to deposit them in the
shallow grave. Only the fear that I would not have him with us longer
compelled his joining me. He was more frightened at the thought of
being left alone than of contact with the dead. In bearing Pete's body
from where it lay in the woods, we were compelled to pass by near where
Rene sat, but she kept her eyes averted, and I experienced no desire to
address her with empty words. Sam filled in the loose earth, rounding
it into form, and the two of us stood above the fresh mound, our bent
heads bared to the sunlight, while I endeavored to repeat brokenly a
few words of prayer. As I finally turned gladly away, it was to note
that the girl had risen to her feet and stood motionless, with face
toward us. Her attitude and expression is still in memory the one dear
remembrance of the scene. My inclination was to join her at once, but
I knew that the negro would never enter the cabin alone, and now our
first necessity was food. Of this I found a fair supply, and,
compelling him to assist me, we hastily prepared a warm meal over the
open fire. It was eaten without, no one of us desiring to remain in
the midst of that scene of death; and the very knowledge that the
dreaded burial was completed and that we were now free to depart,
brought to all of us a renewed courage.
The sun was high in the heavens by this time, the golden light
brightening the little clearing and dissipating the gloom of the
surrounding forest. All suspicion that the murderer, or murderers,
might still remain in the immediate neighborhood of their crime had
entirely deserted my mind. Where, and by what means, they had fled
could not be determined, but I felt assured they were no longer near
by, I had sought in vain for any other path than the one we had
followed from the mouth of the creek, while the suggestion which Rene
had advanced, that the steamer had tied up to the shore, permitting the
raiding party to land, grew more and more plausible to my mind. It
scarcely seemed probable that one man alone, or even two men, had
committed this crime, and the sole survivor disappear so completely
with the prisoners. I had turned each detail over and over in my
thought, while I worked, yet to but little purpose. The only present
solution of the problem seemed to be our return to that hidden basin
where our boat lay, and the remaining there in concealment until the
darkness of another night rendered it safe to once more venture upon.
the river. Perhaps during those intervening hours, we might, by
conferring together, decide our future course; some new thought might
guide us in the right direction, or some occurrence drive us into
definite action.
I spoke of this to her, as I finally approached where she rested on the
stump, eager and glad to escape from all memories of that somber cabin
I had just left. She stood before me, listening quietly, her eyes
lifting to my face, as though she sought to read there the exact
meaning of my words.
"You--you are no longer so confident," she said, "your plan has failed?"
"I am afraid it has," I admitted, "for it was based altogether on the
assistance of Amos Shrunk. He is no longer alive, and I do not know
where to turn for guidance. There would seem to be danger in every
direction; the only question is--in which way lies the least?"
"You begin to regret your attempt to aid me?"
"No," impulsively. "So far as that goes, I would do it all over again.
Your safety means more to me now than ever before--you must believe
that."
"Why should I? All I have brought you is trouble. I can read in your
face how discouraged you are. You must not think I do not understand.
I do understand--perfectly. I can see how all this has happened. You
cannot really care. What you have done has been only a response to
impulse; merely undertaken through a spirit of adventure. Then--then
why not let it end here, and--Sam and I can go on to--to whatever is
before us? It is nothing to you."
"You actually believe I would consent to that?" I asked, in startled
surprise at the vehemence of her words. "That I could prove such a
cur?"
"But why not? It would not be a cowardly act at all. I could not
blame you, for I have no claim on your service--never have had. You
have done a thousand times too much already; you have risked honor,
reputation, and neglected duty to aid my escape; and--and I am nothing
to you--can be nothing."
"Nothing to me!"
"Certainly not. Why speak like that? Have you forgotten again that I
am a slave--a negress? Think, Lieutenant Knox, what it would mean to
you to be caught in my company; to be overtaken while attempting to
assist me in escaping from my master. Now no one dreams of such a
thing, and no one ever need dream. You have had your adventure; let it
end here. I shall be grateful to you always, but--but I cannot bear to
drag you deeper into this mire."
"You order me to leave you?"
"I cannot order; I am a slave. My only privilege is to request, urge,
implore. I can merely insist that it will be best--best for us
both--for you to go. Surely you also must realize that this is true?"
"I do not know exactly what I realize," I said doubtfully. "Nothing
seems altogether clear in my mind. If I could leave you in safety, in
the care of friends, perhaps I should not hesitate--but now--"
"Am I any worse off than the others?" she interrupted. "I, at least,
have yet the chance of escape, while they remain helplessly in Kirby's
clutches. When--when I think of them, I no longer care about myself;
I--I feel almost responsible for their fate, and--and it would kill me
to know that I had dragged you down also. You have no right to
sacrifice yourself for such as I."
"You have been brooding over all this," I said gently, "sitting here
alone, and thinking while we worked. I am not going to answer you now.
There is no need. Nothing can be done until night, whatever we decide
upon. You will go back with us to the boat?"
"Yes; I simply cannot stay here," her eyes wandering toward the cabin.
I took the lead on the return, finding the path easy enough to follow
in the full light of day. The sincere honesty of her plea--the
knowledge that she actually meant it--only served to draw me closer, to
strengthen my determination not to desert. Her face was ever before me
as I advanced--a bravely pathetic face, wonderfully womanly in its
girlish contour--appealing to every impulse of my manhood. I admitted
the truth of what she said--it had been largely love of adventure, the
rash recklessness of youth, which had brought me here. But this was my
inspiration no longer. I had begun to realize that something deeper,
more worthy, now held me to the task. What this was I made no attempt
to analyze--possibly I did not dare--but, nevertheless, the mere
conception of deserting her in the midst of this wilderness was too
utterly repugnant for expression. No, not that; whatever happened, it
would never be that.
The last few rods of our journey lay through thick underbrush, and
beneath the spreading branches of interlacing trees. It was a gloomy,
primitive spot, where no evidence of man was apparent. Suddenly I
emerged upon the bank of the creek, with the rude log wharf directly
before me. I could hear in that silence the sound of those following,
as they continued to crunch a passage through the thicket, but I
stopped transfixed, staring at the water--nothing else greeted my eyes;
both the boats were gone.