Late in the afternoon, the news of the rout and the slaughter was
received at the Cranceford home. All day Wash Sanders and his men had
been sitting about, speculating, with but one stir of excitement, the
boom of Mayo's cannon. But this soon died away and they sat about,
swapping lies that were white with the mildew of time. But when news
came they sprang astir for now they knew that each man must look after
his own home, to protect it from fire. Some of them offered to remain,
but Mrs. Cranceford dismissed them, assuring them that her house, being
so public, was in no danger. So she was left, not alone, but with a
score of women and children.
Afar off the guns could be heard, not in volleys, but the slow and fatal
firing of men taking aim. The sun was nearly down when a man climbed
over the fence and cautiously walked toward the house. In his hand he
held a pine torch. Mrs. Cranceford grabbed a gun and ran out upon the
porch.
"What are you doing there?" she demanded.
Larnage, the Frenchman, looked up at her and politely bowed.
"What are you doing there?" she repeated.
"Ah, is it possible that Madam does not suspect?" he replied, slowly
turning his fire-brand, looking at the blaze as it licked the stewing
turpentine.
"Yes, I do suspect, you villain, and if you don't throw down that torch
this instant I'll blow your head off."
She brought the gun to her shoulder. He saw her close one eye, taking
aim, and he stepped back and let his torch fall to the ground. "It shall
be as Madam wishes," he said.
"Now you get out of this yard."
"Madam has but to command."
He passed through the gate and turned down the road; and upon him she
kept a steady eye. She saw him leave the road and go into the woods.
Not far away was a potato-house, built over a cellar. To this frail
structure he set fire. The dry timbers soon fell into the pit, and he
stood there as if to warm himself. Night was his time for real work and
he would wait. The sun was almost down. He turned away, and looking
along the road that wound through the woods, he saw old Gideon coming.
Quickly he hastened to the road-side and stood behind a tree, with a
knife in his hand. Gid came slowly along. And just as he came abreast
of the tree, his pop-eyes saw the fellow. He threw up his arm and caught
the knife on the barrel of his gun; then leaping, with the gun clubbed,
he struck at the Frenchman, but the fellow was too quick for him. "Oh,
if I only had a cartridge!" the old man said with a groan, running after
him. "I'd rather have a load of shot right now than a mortgage on
Jerusalem. But I'll follow you--I'll get you."
Larnage was running, looking back, expecting to be shot; and stubbing
his toe he fell--head-long into the potato-cellar, into the pit of
red-hot coals. Ashes and a black smoke arose, and with frightful cries
he scrambled out, and with his charred clothes falling off him, he ran
to the bayou and plunged headforemost into the water. Gid saw him sink
and rise; saw him sink again; and long he waited, but the man did not
rise again.
* * * * *
Down along the bayou where negro cabins were thickly set, fires were
springing up; and there, running from place to place, following white
men who bore torches, was Father Brennon.
"Don't burn this house!" he cried. "It belongs to the church."
"Damn the church!" a man replied.
"But this house belongs to an innocent man--he would not seek to kill
the whites--he's gone to the hills."
"I reckon you are right," said the man, and onward he ran, waving his
torch, the priest keeping close behind him.
* * * * *
From the woods the men were coming, and as Gid drew near to the
Cranceford house he saw Jim Taylor passing through the gate; and a few
moments later, turning a corner of the porch, he found the giant
standing there with his arm about--Louise.
"Ho, the young rabbit!" the old man cried.
"Frog," she laughed, running forward and giving him both her hands.
"Why, how did you get here?" he asked.
"I heard that the militia had been ordered home and I got here as soon
as I could. I have been home about two hours and mother and I--but where
is father?"
"Hasn't he come yet? Why, I thought he was here. We've all been
scattered since the last stand."
"I will go and look for him," said the giant, taking up his gun from
against the wall.
"I'm going with you," Louise declared. "Go on in the house, Uncle
Gideon, and don't tell mother where I'm gone. Now, you needn't say a
word--I'm going."
Down the road they went, and out into the woods. Far away they saw the
cabins blazing, on the banks of the bayou, and occasionally a gun was
heard, a dull bark, deep in the woods.
"You'd better go back," said Jim.
"No, I'm going with you. Oh, but this must have been an awful day--but
let us not talk about it now." And after a time she said: "And you
didn't suspect that I was doing newspaper work. They tell me that I did
it well, too."
"I read a story in a newspaper that reminded me of you," he said. "It
was called 'The Wing of a Bird.' It was beautiful."
"I didn't think so," she replied.
"Probably you didn't read it carefully," said he.
"I didn't read it carefully enough before I handed it in, I'm afraid,"
she replied.
"Oh, and did you write it?" He looked down at her and she nodded her
head. "Yes, and I find that I do better with stories than at anything
else," she said. "I have three accepted in the North and I have a book
under way. That was the trouble with me, Jim; I wanted to write and I
didn't know what ailed me, I was a crank."
"You are an angel."
He was leading her by the hand, and she looked up at him, but said
nothing.
Just in front of them they saw the dying glow of a cabin in coals. A
long clump of bushes hid the spot from view. They passed the bushes,
looking to the left, and suddenly the girl screamed. Not more than
twenty yards away stood the Major, with his back against a
tree--gripping the bent barrel of a gun; and ten feet from him stood
Mayo, slowly raising a pistol. She screamed and snatched the giant's gun
and fired it. Mayo wheeled about, dropped his pistol, clutched his bare
arm, and with the blood spouting up between his fingers he turned to
flee. Two white men sprang out in from of him, and the Major shouted:
"Don't kill him--he is to be hanged on the public square. I was trying
to take him alive--and had to knock down two of his men. Tie him."
He held out his arms to Louise, and with her head on his breast and with
mischief in her eyes, she looked up and said: "I have more than a
daughter's claim on you. I have the claim of gallantry and upon this I
base my plea."
He rebuked her with a hug and a kiss, saying not a word; but big Jim,
standing there, turned about, laughing.
"What are you snorting at, Goliath? Has a David at last sunk a joke into
your head? Come, let us go to the house."
"Father," said Louise, "I am going to show you how much I love you. And
oh, how I longed to rest in your arms the time you held them out to me,
in that desolate hall, the night of death; but I knew that if I yielded
I would go back to the nest with my wings untried. I had to go away. I
will tell you all about it, and I know that you will not be ashamed of
me."
Silently they took their way homeward, choosing a shorter route; and
coming upon an oozy place in the woods, Jim said to Louise: "I'm going
to carry you in my arms." He did not wait for her to protest, but
gathered her in his arms, and her head lay upon his shoulder.
"Do you want my love to build a mansion for your heart?" he whispered.
She put her arm about his neck.
They came out into the hard road, and still he carried her, with her
arms tight about his neck. The Major looked on with a sad smile, for the
sights of the day were still red before his eyes. But banteringly, he
said: "First time I ever saw this hard road so muddy."
Louise laughed, whispered to Jim and he eased her to the ground.
"Why, they've burnt Wash Sanders' house!" the Major cried. "See, over
there?"
They came opposite the place where the house had stood, and the Major
suddenly drawing back, said to Jim: "Lead her around that way. She
mustn't see this and she mustn't ask what it is."
Jim led her away, and the Major looked at Wash Sanders. Across a low
rail fence his body lay, his hands drooping to the ground, and in front
of him lay a gun that had fallen from his grasp; and a short distance
away the Major found a mulatto, lying dead beside the road.
At the Major's house the women were preparing supper. The hungry men,
some of them bleeding, had assembled in the yard. Darkness had fallen.
"Father," said Tom, coming forward, leading Sallie Pruitt by the hand,
"mother says that this girl shall live with us."
"Yes," said the old man, putting his hands on Sallie's cheeks and
kissing her. "Yes, my dear, you shall live with us." And turning to Low,
he said: "You are a brave man. My hand, sir." And Low, grasping the old
man's hand, replied: "I am an Englishman, and my father is a gentleman."
"Gid," said the Major, "my name is John, God bless you."
Down the road arose sharp words of command, and the burning top of a
tall pine snag threw its light upon bayonets in the highway. The
soldiers were come.
"I wonder what is to be the end of this day's beginning," said the
Englishman.
"God only knows," the Major replied.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's An Arkansas Planter, by Opie Percival Read