THE DEATH-SHOT
With wild surprise,
As if to marble struck devoid of sense. —Thomson.
Amaz’d,
Astonished stood, and blank, while horror chill
Ran through his veins. —Milton.
Arrison was thunderstruck by the sudden apparition of Uncle Lawrence.
His first movement was to start back, as if he saw a spirit; for the old
man was the last person he had expected to confront him. But in a moment
he recovered his usual presence of mind. When he perceived that he was
opposed by veritable flesh and blood, and that too in the person of one
he hated for his goodness, he secretly exulted; for having no suspicion
that Uncle Lawrence had friends at hand, he considered that his long
threatened vengeance was certain.
Yet he was in no hurry to assail the old man. Aware that his followers
must be close behind him, and that a few moments at furthest would
enable them to arrive, he determined to keep the contest confined to
words, if possible, until they came up. Old as Uncle Lawrence was, he
bore a reputation for bravery, skill and strength, which made Arrison
quite willing to avoid a hand to hand struggle with the patriarch.
“You!” cried Arrison. “Take a word of advice then, old man, and
don’t mix yourself up with a business that’s none of your
concern.”
“But suppose I think it does consarn me,” coolly answered Uncle
Lawrence. “Miss Katie here is an old pet of mine, so stand aside and
let us pass.”
“Not so fast. Again, I say, go your ways and save your life.”
“I do not go without her. Stand aside, villain.”
“Never,” exclaimed Arrison, chafed at these words. “I warn you not
to try my patience too far.”
“I’m not afeerd of you, James Arrison,” answered the old man, in a
tone of contempt, “and you know it. Keep your warning for some one
else.”
“Will you go?”
“No!”
Scarcely had the veteran spoken, when the refugee pulled trigger. But,
quick as he had been, the old man was quicker. Resolving to save his
fire if possible, in order to be better prepared for self-defence, if
the refugees arrived before Major Gordon, he suddenly and dexterously
thrust forward the barrel of his piece in such a manner as to knock up
the gun of the outlaw. The movement was so swift that Arrison had time
neither to counteract it, nor to prevent his load from going off; and
the consequence was that his ball whistled harmlessly over Uncle
Lawrence’s head, burying itself in the tree against which Kate leaned,
a few inches above her. A savage oath broke from the refugee at this
failure, and his eyes flashed lightning as it were. He shortened his gun
instantly, as if to club it; then hesitated whether he had not better
throw it away and rush in on his antagonist; and finally stood
irresolute, his face purple with rage and baffled hate.
Had it suited Uncle Lawrence’s purpose that second would have been the
last of the ruffian’s existence. A younger man would have been unable,
in the sudden heat of the affray, to have restrained himself, even from
motives of the clearest policy. But the veteran was as cool and wary now
as when sitting by his own hearth. Nothing could induce him to waste his
fire; for, in that case, he might not have time to reload before the
other refugees came up.
“Throw down your gun,” he said, however. “You are at my mercy.”
What answer Arrison would have made, if no succor had arrived, we cannot
say. But, at this crisis, his sharpened ear heard the crackling of the
undergrowth, as his followers came running up at full speed, their pace
accelerated by the two shots which had been fired in such quick
succession; for though it has required a considerable time to describe
all this, the whole period between the death of the bloodhound and the
useless discharge of Arrison’s gun, had scarcely occupied more than a
minute.
Aware that an overwhelming force was now at hand, the outlaw sprang
forwards towards Kate, endeavoring to elude his antagonist, and crying
out,
“Shoot the old man; but spare the girl. Shoot quick!”
But he did not finish the sentence. Uncle Lawrence, who faced the
intruders, had the advantage of observing what Arrison could not; and
saw that the new comers, so far from being refugees entirely, were
partly Major Gordon and his follows.
In fact, the speed of the patriots had been also accelerated by the
shots; they had rushed forward at full run, fearing that Uncle Lawrence
was overpowered; and had arrived at the scene simultaneously with the
outlaws, the latter only discovering the presence of foes at the very
moment that Arrison cried out; for, on their part, they had been so
entirely absorbed in what was going on ahead, that they had neither
looked behind, nor heard the steps of their pursuers. Instead,
therefore, of being able to assist their leader, the outlaws found their
own hands full; for the patriots dashed upon them at once, like hunters
that have run down a wolf, which has long been the terror of the
district.
All this Uncle Lawrence took in with one rapid glance, and seeing that
the ruffian’s time had come, he leveled his gun at Arrison’s heart
and pulled the trigger, just as the wretch was darting past to lay his
sacrilegious hands on Kate.
“To die the death of a dog at last,” he mentally ejaculated. “I
knew it years ago.”
As he thus soliloquized, the burly person of the ruffian, spinning half
round, while the arms were suddenly thrown up, tumbled headlong to the
ground, where it fell directly across the body of the dead hound. Life
was gone, even before the form touched the earth.
Meantime the pursuers had closed with the refugees, discharging their
guns, each at an antagonist, and following this up by closing with such
as were either not injured, or only wounded. Some, dropping their
fire-arms, drew their swords, and engaged in a hand to hand conflict;
others clubbed their pieces, using them like maces; and some grappled
with the refugees to prevent the latter employing their guns, few of
which had been discharged in consequence of the surprise.
The onslaught had been so unexpected, and was kept up in so rapid a
manner, that the refugees did not hold out long. Two were killed at the
first assault; others soon lay on the ground desperately wounded; and
finally the survivors, seeing that all was over, broke desperately from
their antagonists, and rushing madly into the next thicket, disappeared
from sight. Only two succeeded, however, in making good their escape in
this way, and one of them at least was seriously wounded, for the bushes
were stained with blood as he passed.
The victory was complete, and, owing to the surprise, comparatively
without cost. The patriots did not lose a man, and had but two seriously
wounded, the rest receiving only slight scratches, scarcely requiring
surgical aid. As one of the conquerors was accustomed to say, in
rehearsing the transaction afterwards,—he was an inveterate
duck-shooter whose language always drew its metaphors from his favorite
pursuit— “We stole up onparceived, you understand, and killed and
wounded five, whom we got, besides two that scattered that we didn’t
get.”
Uncle Lawrence had not joined in the fray after his decisive shot. In
fact, the conflict was over before he could have taken any further part
in it, even if he had wished; but knowing that a chance shot might
strike Kate, he chivalrously threw himself before her; and thus
protected her at the risk of his own life.
Major Gordon, ignorant whom he was assailing, had engaged Arrison’s
lieutenant. The latter had been the first to discover the pursuers, and
had turned immediately and fired at our hero; but in the hurry of the
act had fortunately missed his mark. The Major, having no gun, had
rushed in with his sword, and though incommoded by his wounded arm,
which he still carried in a sling, had run his antagonist through, after
an ineffectual attempt on the part of the refugee to avert the lunge.
Disregarding every other consideration, our hero had sprung to Kate’s
side immediately, which he attained just as the combat was finished, and
the last of the outlaws took to flight.
The cold formalities of conventional life were forgotten, in that moment
of joyous excitement, as if they had never existed. Even those
considerations of superior fortune and presumed difference of political
opinion, which had so tormented our hero before, were overlooked.
Clasping Kate’s hand, he pressed it with a fervor, which brought the
eloquent blood over her pallid countenance. On her part, the behavior of
Kate was equally impulsive. It is fair to presume that she did not know
what she was doing; for she returned the pressure almost convulsively.
Giving one long, grateful look, in which her whole soul went forth, as
her eyes met those of her lover, she essayed to speak. But though the
sweet lips half parted, no words followed, for a faintness suddenly
overcame her; and feeling everything swimming around, she involuntarily
staggered towards the Major for support, who clasped her in his arms
just as she was falling to the ground.
When next Kate opened her eyes, her head was lying against her lover’s
shoulder, while Uncle Lawrence, kneeling beside her as tenderly as one
of her own sex, was bathing her temples.
For an instant she did not recognize where she was. She even shuddered
at first, with a vague notion that she was still in the power of the
outlaws; but when she saw Major Gordon’s face, which was looking
anxiously down on her, she closed her eyes with a smile. If,
simultaneously, she nestled closer to that manly shoulder, it was only
for an instant; for, while she was still half unconscious of what she
did; for immediately after she opened her eyes again with a deep blush,
and made an effort to rise.
But Uncle Lawrence prevented this. He gently pressed her back, while
bathing her forehead, saying, soothingly,
“Hush, darling, and lie still a bit longer. You’ll be fainting right
off again, if you get up awhile yet: and you mustn’t think you hurt
the Major, for it’s the other arm that’s wounded.”
To his dying day, Major Gordon was accustomed to say that a sly look,
almost imperceptible, accompanied these last words. But, if so, Kate saw
nothing of this, having grown faint again, from the exertion she had
made. Her head now swam around to such a degree, that she was compelled,
at this crisis, to close her eyes, and even to repose once more on the
Major’s shoulder.
Strange to say, the turn of Uncle Lawrence came next. When Kate was, at
last, sufficiently restored to be able to sit up unsupported, she
observed a slight stream of blood trickling down the hand of the good
old man. With a faint scream she called Uncle Lawrence’s attention to
it, who, stripping up his sleeve, found, to his surprise, that a ball
had struck him just above the wrist; evidently one of those discharged
in the melee, and which would have hit Kate, if he had not interposed
his body, in the true spirit of ancient knighthood.
“It’s nothing, my child,” he said, as, indeed, Kate immediately
perceived.
But even while he spoke he fainted dead away, for Uncle Lawrence, brave
as he was, both morally and physically, had that strange peculiarity
common to some of the most courageous men that ever lived, to swoon at
sight of his own blood.
It was now Kate’s turn, and, weak as she was, she would allow no one
else to bathe the old man’s brow and bind up his wound. Uncle
Lawrence’s swoon soon passed away, however. When he opened his eyes,
it was with a smile of gratefulness inexpressibly sweet.
“The Lord bless you, darling,” he said, tenderly, as his gaze
lingered on Kate’s countenance. Then he added, looking around on the
anxious faces, “Pretty doings, to get sick in this way, like a
narvous, sterricky woman. You’d drum such a cowardly fellow out of the
army, Major—wouldn’t you?”
“If we had a few thousand heroes like you,” answered Major Gordon,
pressing his hand, while sudden tears dimmed his eyes, “we’d have
had our country free long ago.”