It was past noon when Belinda left the raft, carrying a large basket
containing her husband’s clothes and such other articles as there might
be pressing need of for him or herself. She hoped to make arrangements
for storing their goods in some safe place, and to return in the course
of the afternoon with a conveyance for them, and some one to assist in
their removal.
She had not gone far when she met a farmer driving leisurely along the
road.
“Good-day,” he called to her. “If I was goin’ your way I’d give ye a
lift; that basket looks heavy; but I’m comin’ from the town and you a
goin’ toward it. Good deal of excitement there to-day. Did ye hear the
news?”
“What news?” she asked, her heart leaping into her mouth.
“Why, that they’ve nabbed the murderer; leastways, the scoundrel that
attackted that old man on the raft and left him fer dead. They’ve took
him to Prairieville to the jail. He’d ought to be strung right up, I
say; fer I’ve not the least doubt that he’s at the head o’ the gang o’
burglars that’s been robbin’ here and there till nobody in this whole
region of country knows when he and his family and goods is safe.”
He had reined in his horses, and she had set down her basket for a
moment’s rest while listening to what he had to say.
“But don’t you think everybody’d ought to have a fair trial?” she
asked, with some hesitation.
“That’s so, when there’s any doubt o’ their guilt and any chance o’
their gettin’ their deserts; which, howsomever, there ain’t in this
instance, seein’ that the law’s so that they can’t nohow mete out to
the murderers the measure they’ve meted to their victims; and that
ain’t accordin’ to Scriptur’, nohow you kin fix it,” he said, flecking
a fly off his horse’s back with the lash of his whip. “There’s some
folks that talk as if ’twas worse than hangin’ to be shut up in State’s
prison fer life,” he went on, “but I always notice that them that’s in
favor of the criminal is pretty generally o’ the opinion that they’ve
gained a good deal fer him when they get a death sentence commuted to
that; because, you see, there’s always a chance o’ some governor that
wants to secure the votes o’ that class pard’nin’ him out.”
“Yes; but it’s an awful thing to put a man to death, because if you
find out afterward that he was innocent, you can’t make it up to him
nohow at all,” she said, taking up her basket; and with a parting nod
she went on her way.
On entering the town, she at once perceived evidences of unusual
excitement among the inhabitants: men were grouped together on the
sidewalks and about the store doors, neighbor-women talking across
fences or leaning out of windows, discussing the all-absorbing topic of
the robbery and attempted murder of old Farmer Himes, and the arrest of
the supposed leader of the gang of burglars who had been for months
past the terror of Wild River Valley.
Occasionally Belinda heard her own name coupled with the remark that
the old man believed her to be in league with his would-be assassins,
the speaker or the one addressed sometimes adding that she, too, ought
to be arrested and put in prison for trial.
She hurried on her way, growing more and more frightened at every step,
till by the time she had gained the door of the tavern whither her
husband had been conveyed she was ready to drop with fatigue and alarm.
And the reception she met with there was not calculated to reassure
her; evidently every one regarded her with suspicion; and the landlord,
on learning who she was, coldly informed her that he had no room for
her; she would have to find accommodation elsewhere.
“Didn’t they bring my husband here? and isn’t he a lyin’ now in one o’
them bedrooms o’ yours?” she asked, trying to put on a bold, defiant
air.
“Yes; but what of that?”
“Why, I’ve come to nurse him; and of course I’ll share his room; so you
needn’t tell me you haven’t got one for me.”
“Not so fast, woman,” returned Mr. Strong. “The old man says you have
more love for O’Rourke than for him—in fact, he accuses you of
betraying him into the hands of his would-be assassins, and swears that
he will henceforward have nothing whatever to do with you—neither let
you nurse him nor pay any bills of your contracting. So, as I don’t
board folks for nothing, there’s no place for you here.”
She was opening her lips to offer her services as cook or chambermaid,
when a thought of the danger of arrest on suspicion of having been
accessory to the attempt on her husband’s life caused a sudden
abandonment of that idea.
“It’s a lie!” she cried, with a show of great indignation, “a wicked
lie that I had anything to do with them robbers tryin’ to git a holt o’
his money and kill him. If it hadn’t been fer me a runnin’ with all my
might fer help, he’d been a dead man hours ago, a bleedin’ there on the
raft, without a soul to do nothin’ fer him. But I’ll go and leave the
ongrateful old idyot to git along the best he kin without me.”
She stooped, and taking a small parcel from the basket which she had
set down on the floor beside her, “These is my clo’es; t’others is
hisn,” she said, and without so much as a parting salutation stalked
into the street and away faster than she had come, anger and the fear
of pursuit lending her strength.
She returned to the raft, but by a roundabout way, with the design of
throwing any possible pursuer off the scent. She reached it well-nigh
spent with exertion and the agitation of mind she had undergone for so
many hours; indeed, for many days and weeks she had been ill at ease,
torn by conflicting emotions—hatred of the man who tyrannized over
her, reproached by conscience for that and the guilty love indulged for
O’Rourke, tempted to abet him in his intended crime, yet at times
filled with horror at thought of the awful deed, and terror of the more
than possible consequences to him and herself.
Standing on the grassy bank below which the raft was moored, she sent a
hasty, searching glance around. There was neither sight nor sound of
pursuit, and leaping on board, she threw herself down on its floor and
lay there for some minutes, panting and trembling.
What should she do? where fly for refuge? there was no safety here;
people would presently be flocking to look upon the scene of the
attempted murder; she thought, as she lifted her head and glanced
about, that she perceived evidences that some had already been there;
doubtless news of Phelim’s arrest had called them in another direction,
but surely they would soon return, bringing others with them.
Some, if not all, believing the old man’s story, would hoot and jeer at
her, perhaps offer her personal violence—throw her into the river,
drag her ashore, and, maybe, hang her to the nearest tree; she had
heard of such things, had read in the newspapers of suspected criminals
being lynched by furious mobs, who utterly refused to listen to their
protestations of innocence.
It behooved her to fly instantly; but, ah! whither could she go? She
had neither relative nor friend. Phelim’s parents detested her on
account of her marriage to Himes; his associates would be very likely
to make away with her, should the chance offer, lest she should become
a witness against them. She had not been long in the neighborhood when
hired by Himes, and had always lived a lonely life on the farm.
Despair was taking possession of her when there came to her
recollection the fact that Phelim had told her of a little cave in the
rocky bank of the river only a short distance higher up the stream than
she now was.
He believed its existence to be known only to himself, and had given
her a very particular description of its location, remarking that she
might have occasion to conceal herself there in case suspicion should
arise of her complicity in his crime, or her presence be required as a
witness against him in court, should he be caught and brought to trial.
She had a horror of caves—their dampness and darkness, and the
possibility of reptiles and wild beasts harboring there—but such a
hiding-place seemed her last hope in this hour of fear and peril. She
remembered its existence with a thrill of something akin to joy, and
wondering that she could have forgotten it for even a moment, rose,
gathered together a few necessaries—some food, candles, a box of
matches, a few articles of clothing, and a blanket to lie upon—and set
out at once in search of the spot.
So well had Phelim described it that she found it with but little
difficulty, though the entrance was concealed from view by a thick
growth of bushes and creeping vines. It could be reached only by a very
steep climb up the almost perpendicular face of the high, rocky bank.
Her first ascent was made slowly and with much toil and fear of
falling, and when at last she had gained the rocky ledge in front of
the opening, pushed aside the overhanging vines, and looked within,
nothing but the blackness of darkness met her gaze, and she shrank back
with a shudder, in terror of all kinds of venomous and savage creatures.
But quickly she nerved herself to enter, struck a match, lighted a
candle, and sent a searching glance around from side to side and up
overhead. It was a small, irregularly shaped room, the ceiling barely
high enough to enable her to stand upright in it, the walls of solid
rock showing no crevice wherein beast or even snake could hide.
She drew a long breath of relief, stuck her candle in a little niche in
the wall, climbed down again to the base of the cliff, and gathering up
the articles she had brought, made the ascent a second time, and
deposited them in the cave.
She was compelled to refresh herself with rest and food before she
could attempt any further exertion; it was near sundown when she again
ventured to the vicinity of the raft, approaching with great caution
till, from the shelter of a clump of bushes, she could obtain a view of
it.
She had already heard the sound of human voices coming from that
direction, so was not surprised, though very much disturbed, at sight
of a crowd of men and boys, with here and there a woman or girl, upon
it and the adjacent bank.
They seemed to be making free with whatever was to be found on board,
and with a sigh and a muttered, “There won’t be nothin’ left o’ our
goods and things; they’ll carry ’em all off or break ’em up; and oh,
my, but won’t Himes be mad!” She dropped down upon the grass behind the
bushes, and there waited and watched for their departure.
But the last did not leave till the glow of the sunset had quite faded
from the sky, and night’s sable pall was slowly settling down over the
earth. It was already too dark to board the raft with safety; almost
too dark to make her way back to the cavern; but moving slowly and with
extreme caution she accomplished the task.
She passed a most uncomfortable night; the blanket spread upon the rock
made but a hard bed; the air of the cave was damp, close, and stifling;
a guilty conscience, remorse, and terror were but poor bedfellows.
The hours dragged wearily along, seeming as if they would never end;
again and again she pushed aside the overhanging vines and peered out
to see if the dawn had not come; and with the first streak of light in
the east she crept from her hiding-place and back to the raft.
She found it stripped of everything valuable. In fact, a part of the
crowd she had seen there the previous afternoon were men sent by Mr.
Himes to remove his goods and chattels to a place of safety.
Thus she was cut off from the supplies she had hoped to secure, and
starvation would soon be staring her in the face if she remained in
hiding, while to leave her retreat seemed too perilous a move to be
contemplated for a moment. Yet loathing and dreading its darkness and
closeness, she lingered where she was till the sun grew hot and she
thought she descried in the distance a man approaching from the
direction of the town. That sight sent her hurrying back to her poor
refuge in a panic of fear.