contend further, now held out his hand and she set her foot in his palm.
With a leap and a swift, lithe turn of one knee under the other she was
seated in his saddle as easily and firmly as if it had been her own, and
grasped the reins.
"Follow as quickly as you can," she called back over her shoulder. "I am
going to meet uncle Philip in the buffalo path beyond Anvil Rock."
And then the pony sprang away and was running into the falling night.
XIX
UNDER THE HUNTER'S MOON
It was not very dark, and all the cleared country rolling widely away
from Cedar House could be dimly seen. A gusty wind was driving wild
clouds across the stars, and tall cloud mountains rose on the north
covering the great comet; but higher in the dark blue dome of the
firmament the Hunter's Moon swung full and free, casting its wonderful
crystalline light over the darkened earth.
This most marvellous of crystal lamps always appears to be shining by
its own living radiance, and never to be beaming by the merely reflected
glory that gilds the lifeless Harvest Moon. The Hunter's Moon has indeed
no rival among all the lights which heaven lends to the world of night.
It is the whitest, the brightest, the most sparkling that ever falls on
the darkness, and it was in truth the hunter's very own. By its light he
could see how to go on with his hunt hours after the close of the short
November days, and far into the long November nights, and still find his
way home through the deep heart of the mighty wood.
So that even on this dreary November night, when its clearness was
dimmed by the flight of the wind-hunted clouds, it was able to lighten
in a measure the furthest and darkest reaches of this wild new world. It
touched the mystery of the burial mound; it lifted the misty winding
sheet spread by the swamp; it raised the pall laid along the horizon by
the sable tops of the cypress trees; it reached almost to the darkness
hanging over Duff's Fort--that awful and mysterious blackness--which the
noonday sun could never wholly remove.
But the girl's gaze was not following the moonbeams. Looking neither to
the one side nor the other, she gave a single glance ahead. This was
only to see that she was going straight toward Anvil Rock by the
shortest road. And the one look was enough for she knew that the great
shadowy mass glooming in the dark distance must be what she sought. And
then bending forward and low over the pony's neck, she sent him onward
by an unconscious movement of her own body. She had known how to ride
almost as long as she had known how to walk--the one was an easy and as
natural as the other. Instinctively she now bent still lower, and still
farther forward over the pony's neck, as a boy does in riding a race;
for she also was riding a great race, and for the greatest of stakes.
She did not stop to think how great the stake was; she had not yet
realized that it was the life of the man she loved; she had not yet
had time to face the truth, and to know that she loved Paul Colbert. She
only realized that she must reach Anvil Rock before Philip Alston could
pass it on his way to Cedar House, or turn into another path. Raising
her head, she flashed another look into the dark distance, where the
goal was and grew sick with fear, seeing how far off it was. And then
rallying, she began to use her voice as well as the reins, to urge the
pony to greater speed.
[Illustration: "For she also was riding a great race."]
"That's it! Good boy. But faster--faster!"
Thus crying she silently prayed that Philip Alston might be within
hearing of the sound of her voice. She never doubted that he would come
at her first cry. It never once crossed her mind that he could hesitate
to do what she wished in this. He had never in all her life refused her
anything, and she knew of no reason to fear refusal now. The only fear
that she felt was the dread of reaching Anvil Rock too late. She tried
to still the quivering of her nerves by reminding herself that he nearly
always came to Cedar House at this hour, if he had not been there
earlier in the day. But she could not help remembering that there were
times when he did not come. If he should not be on the way now, if she
should fail to meet him, if he should be still at his far-off home, or
have gone elsewhere--But she threw the paralyzing thought from her and
suddenly began to strike the pony again and again, with her soft little
open hands.
"Faster! You must go faster--you must! Surely you can. Please! It isn't
very far. We must be almost there!"
It would have been hard to tell whether the short, sharp strokes were
blows or caresses, and they ceased almost as abruptly as they had begun.
She was now nearly lying across his straining shoulders, and her soft,
bare arms were around his rough, shaggy neck. She did not know what she
was doing, the boy had taught her to ride so--barebacked in the
fields--when she was a child. And she did not know that the pony's mane
was wet with her tears. There was no sound of weeping or faltering in
the tone with which she urged him on. That rang clear and strong with
the invincible courage and strength which love's miracle gives to the
most timid and the weakest.
She was not holding to the saddle, but was clinging to it as
unconsciously as the mist clung to her skirts. Her long black hair,
fallen away from its fastenings, streamed in the wind; but she gave it
no heed except to toss it out of her eyes so that she might see the
pony's head, and try to look beyond toward Anvil Rock. How far off it
still seemed! Would she never reach it? The night seemed to be growing
darker, and she could not make out the mass glooming through the
darkness as she had seen it at first. But she was not afraid of the
growing blackness. This timid, gentle girl, who had hitherto been afraid
of her own shadow, was now suddenly lost to all sense of fear. She
thought nothing of the wild darkness into which she was thus flying
blindly and alone. She had forgotten the terror of the time, and the
dangers of the wilderness. She was oblivious of the utter silence, which
wrapped the region in awful mystery. She heard nothing but the rush of
the pony's running feet, and felt nothing but the leaping of her own
heart. Her only thought was to reach the goal in time; her only fear was
that she might fail.
Her ceaseless cry was goading the brave little beast like a spur. He
still leapt in response to it; but his every sinew was already strained
to breaking, and he was nearing the end of his endurance. The night had
now become so dark that neither the pony nor the girl could see whither
they were speeding. And then suddenly the Hunter's Moon broke the frail
bars of its cloud prison, and was again free to cast its full splendor
over the blackness. Under this sudden burst of light, Anvil Rock leapt
out of the shadows--vague, black, huge, terrible--and she uttered a cry
startled and relieved at seeing it so near by, when she had thought it
much farther off. But as she looked again to make sure that it was real,
and not some delusion of the mist, the first pang of fear struck back
her leaping heart. She drew up the panting, staggering pony with a
convulsive clutch on the reins--and waited, trembling and scarcely
daring to breathe. Some large dark form moved among the shadows around
the base of Anvil Rock.
Another swirl of the shrieking wind sent the fugitive clouds flying
again across the white face of the moon. But only for an instant, and
once more the darkness fled before the light of the crystal lamp. Yet
its bright beams could not pierce the thick gloom which hung heaviest at
the foot of the dark mass. Something still stood there, large, shadowy,
and motionless. Ruth's trembling hand unconsciously went up and threw
back the wildly blown hair which obscured her vision. As the white
moonlight thus fell full on her face, the dark shape instantly sprang
out of the gloom, and she recognized Paul Colbert almost as soon as he
saw her.
Neither uttered a cry of surprise or even of relief, for neither felt
any strangeness in this most strange meeting. When two hearts and two
souls and two spirits have rushed together at the first meeting of the
eyes,--as these two had,--no separation of mere flesh and blood can ever
again really keep them apart. These two were now only facing outwardly
the images which they constantly bore within their breasts. He had been
thinking more of her through that wild ride than of the friend whose
life he was perilling his own to save. She had felt his presence at her
side with every step of the pony's flying feet; it was merely his body
which she was striving to find and shield from harm. So that when they
thus suddenly came face to face in the moonlight there was no need for a
cry or a word. He sprang from his horse and leapt to the pony's side;
and she--as silently and as naturally--held out her arms to meet his
embrace.
But they started apart before touching one another. The distant sound of
horses' beating hoofs came with a gust of wind. It was borne from the
direction of Duff's Fort, and out from among the dark trees there now
rushed into the misty moonlight a score or more of dim shapes, vague and
terrible as phantom horsemen. Nearer and nearer these came rushing
through the wavering mists, with scarcely a sound after that first
warning roar brought by the wind. Paul sprang to regain his horse, but
the animal was startled by the suddenness of the attempt, and frightened
by the rapid approach of the other horses, so that he jerked the bridle
from his master's grasp and reared beyond the reach of his hand. There
was no time to pursue the horse; worse still, there was no chance to
seize the rifle which hung from the pommel of the saddle. Paul had only
one other weapon, the long hunting-knife carried by all the men of the
wilderness. He drew this from his belt and it flashed in the moonlight
as he ran back to the pony's head and stood between Ruth and the dimly
visible danger which was rapidly approaching.
"They are coming the other way, too," she gasped. "I hear them behind
us."
He did not reply and could not turn. She said nothing more and began
sending up silent prayers. They could no longer see even dimly, for
thick clouds again covered the moon. But she heard a fearful clash in
the darkness, and then there followed those awful muffled sounds which
are heard when men close silently in mortal combat. There was no sharp
sound of firing--only the hideous thud of furious flesh against furious
flesh--the one sound that the bravest woman cannot hear in silence.
Ruth's cry for help pierced the very heavens. Again and again her
anguished appeal rang through the night. In the height of her frenzied
fear she heard the galloping of a horse and knew that it was coming
nearer. This must be Philip Alston. The flash of the thought brought a
gleam of hope and sent her louder cry farther into the darkness.
"Uncle Philip, for God's sake, come to me! Quick! quick! It's
Ruth--uncle Philip! Philip Alston!"
Instantly all was still. The invisible conflict which had been waging
with such fury so near by, now ceased as suddenly and as completely as
if it had been ended by an unseen lightning stroke. The assailants
silently drew back and stood motionless; but Ruth could not see what was
taking place, and this sudden, strange stillness falling upon utter
darkness filled her with greater terror. She thought that Paul had been
killed. Alive, he would not leave her alone like this. Not for an
instant would he forget her if he had strength to creep to her side. He
was dead. He would never let these torturing moments pass without
speaking to her if he had breath to speak.
"Uncle Philip! Philip Alston!" she cried again and again. "Don't you
know me? It's Ruth."
"Here, I'm coming!" a man's voice shouted out of the distance. "Where
are you? Speak again. Let me find you by the sound."
"They have killed him!" she shrieked. "I can't find him in the dark."
She was out of the saddle now, bending down and groping with her
shaking, tender little hands on the torn and trampled earth. A wilder
gust of wind brought the beat of rapidly retreating hoofs to her
strained ears. She sprang up with a new fear and cried it aloud high and
far above the shriek of the wind.
"They are taking him away! Will you never come? Is it you--uncle Philip?
Oh--why--don't you come to me? It's Ruth."
"It is I--Father Orin," said the priest near by.
She did not reply, nor even glance at him, although the cloud curtain
was now suddenly lifted again, and she could see clearly. She did not
notice that all the horsemen had vanished. She saw only the motionless
form of the man she loved lying some distance away. It was plain that he
had pressed the assassins as far from her as he could; that his
outstretched arms had fallen in some supreme effort. The hunting-knife
glittered in the moonlight at a distance from his hand. He must have
fought on with his bare hands after his only weapon had been struck from
his grasp. His eyes were closed, and his face was like the face of the
dead.
Ruth, dropping to the earth beside him, had taken his head on her lap
before the priest could come up and dismount. She did not reply, nor
even hear his alarmed questioning.
"See if he is living, Father," she said. "Here, put your hand on his
heart--here--where my hand is. Make haste. Why are you so slow?" Then
flashing round on him in her impetuous way: "Why don't you say that you
feel his heart beat? Of course you do! Of course he is alive. How could
he be dead--in a moment--a flash--like this! He is so young. He has only
begun to live. And so strong and brave. Oh, so brave, Father! Dear
Father Orin--if you could have seen how fearlessly he stood, between
them and me--waiting for them to come! Only one, too, against so many.
But I wasn't afraid while I could see him. No, not for a moment, even
against them all. And then when it was dark, and I couldn't see him, and
I could only hear--" she broke down, shuddering and weeping.
While she spoke the priest had been unfastening Paul's collar and was
trying to find the wound. The bosom of his shirt was already darkly dyed
with blood.
"He is alive; his heart is still beating," said Father Orin, huskily.
This daring, gifted young doctor had come to be like his own son in
their work together for the suffering. He turned back his coat and found
the deep knife-wound in his shoulder, and set about stanching the flow
of blood with the simple knowledge of surgery that the life of the
wilderness taught to all. But it was Ruth who thought of Paul's medical
case which always hung on his saddle. The horse was gone, but the case
was lying not far away, on the ground where it had fallen, and there
were bandages and lint in it, as she hoped there would be. But when they
had done all that they could, he still lay motionless and barely
breathing. She dropped down beside him in fresh alarm, and again took
his head on her lap. Father Orin stood up, looking helplessly through
the moonlight and murmuring something about getting the doctor back to
his cabin.
"We will take him to Cedar House," she said. "There is no one to nurse
him in his own cabin. Oh!" with a smothered scream. "They are coming
back!"
She could not suppress that one cry of fright which burst from her lips.
But there was only one, she stilled the others and tried at once to
control the trembling of her knees under his head. The dove will sit
still when a cruel hand comes close to her nest; but no living creature
has the courage of the gentlest woman when the man she loves is
helpless--through no lack of strength or courage in himself--and in
danger. The things which timid women have done then, stand among the
bravest that have ever been set down to the credit of humanity.
Believing that some hideous, unknown peril was sweeping upon them, this
mere slip of a girl now bent quietly over the prone head and spoke close
to the deaf ear without thinking whether or not it could hear.
"There, dear heart, there! Never mind. All is well. Lie still, or your
wound will bleed. We are here, Father Orin and I. We will take care of
you. Only lie still."
Two horsemen were now in sight and they were spurring straight toward
Anvil Rock. While they were yet a long way off, Ruth felt, rather than
saw, that one of them was David. She told the priest who it was, and
they both knew that only a friend could be coming with the boy. Her
whole form relaxed under the relief. If Paul could but open his eyes, if
his breath would but come a little more quickly, and a little less
faintly! Her tears were falling on his still, white face, now that there
was no further need for self-control, or courage. She steadied her
voice, and told the story as clearly as she could, when Father Orin
asked again how she came to be in such a place, and what it was that had
led to the wounding of Paul Colbert.
While she was speaking the horsemen reached them, and they saw that the
man with David was the attorney-general. He hurriedly knelt down by his
friend's side. He did not ask what had happened. He had already gathered
much of the truth from what the boy had told him. He knew that Paul
Colbert lay there, badly wounded, dying perhaps, in his place. He was
too much moved at first to speak.
"He knew that I was coming alone over this road to-night. He suspected a
plot to waylay me, too late to warn me. When he could not do that he
came to share the danger. It was like him," he said when he found voice.
He took the nerveless hand and held it a moment in silence, and then he
laid it gently down and stood up, looking about through the moonlight,
toward the cypress swamp and Duff's Fort.
"But why did the scoundrels run away before finishing their infamous
work? And where is the doctor's horse? Ah! They have stolen that, of
course. Which way did they go? Did you see or hear them, Father?"
"No; Toby and I were too far off," the priest replied. "We were coming
back from a sick call. It was too dark to see. The first and only sound
I heard was Ruth's voice, calling Philip Alston's name."
"Oh!--I begin to understand," said the attorney-general.
He stopped--remembering--and looked down at Ruth. She had not heard
what he said. She was bending closer to Paul's white face and listening
to his laboring breath.
"We must get him home as quickly as possible," the attorney-general went
on. "My duty at Duff's Fort must wait on this. And I am not sacrificing
the state to a friend, or to gratitude. It would be worse than useless
to go on to-night, now that our plans are betrayed. I am very anxious
about my men. They should be here before now. According to our plans,
they should have been within hearing of the first sound of trouble and
ready to come at once. I am afraid they, too, have fallen into a trap;
but I can't do anything now for them, and I must do my best for this
poor fellow, and quickly, too. Come, Father,--come, David,--let us
consult as to the best way to get him home."
The three men drew a little apart and stood talking together in a low
tone, so that Ruth was left for a moment alone with Paul.
"Dear heart!" she breathed, with her cheek against his. "Listen, love.
Can you hear what I say? Try. Try hard. For if you can hear, maybe my
heart will not break. Listen, then," as softly as if her spirit spoke to
his. "Listen. I am yours and you are mine. Can you hear--dear heart? If
you live or if you die--it is just the same--always--to me and to you.
We belong to one another forever."
XX
BALANCING LIFE AND DEATH
While they consulted, several of the attorney-general's men galloped up.
They had been delayed and sent astray by a false message purporting to
come from him. But they had met with no harm and were now in time to
help in lifting the wounded man's helpless weight into the priest's
saddle. This was the best plan that could be devised in haste, and
Father Orin hastily mounted behind the unconscious body, to hold it in
place. He being much the strongest among the men, the duty naturally
fell to him. It was also natural that the double burden should be laid
upon Toby, because the heaviest burdens of life are always laid upon
those who are readiest to bear them.
And Toby appeared to feel his responsibility, for, setting out at a
rapid pace, which seemed to show that he knew the need of haste, he yet
moved with so steady a step that Father Orin did not require the aid of
the other hands which were held out to help him. Nevertheless, every
hand was constantly in readiness, and all kept close together; so that
thus moving through the dim light, the shadowy mounted figures looked
like some fabulous monster of gigantic size and with many arms, all
extended toward a common burden. But the pony kept closest to Toby's
side and in the gloom that followed the going down of the Hunter's Moon,
a trembling little hand stole out now and then, to touch the still, cold
one which swung so pathetically over Father Orin's strong arm.
The stars were paling, and the dark east was growing wan, when Cedar
House rose at last out of the gray shadows. At the first glimpse of it
Ruth suddenly sent the pony forward and urging him to a run, left the
others far behind. Reaching the house, she leapt to the ground and ran
to the front door. It was deeply in shadow, but she did not need sight
to find the latch string, which she had played with as a child, and in
another instant she stood in the great dark room. It was deserted all
the household being asleep, and never dreaming that she also was not
safely in bed. The fire had been covered as it always was at night, but
it blazed when she stirred it, and by the light of the flame she found a
candle on the tall mantelpiece. Holding this to the blaze, it seemed to
her as if it would never catch the flame. When the wick caught she went
running up the stairs with the lighted candle in her hand, arousing the
sleeping household by repeated calls. She did not pause to answer the
alarmed cries that came in response. She heard a scream from Miss
Penelope's room, with, muffled sounds from the widow Broadnax's, and
the disapproving tones of William Pressley's voice. But she was utterly
heedless of everything, except the necessity of getting the room ready
in time, so that there should be no waiting before doing what might be
done. She quivered with terror to think how long the delay had been
already. The servants were too far away to be summoned quickly, so that
there was only herself to do what must be done, and she set about it in
desperate haste. Hers was the only chamber that could be given him.
Every room in Cedar House was occupied, and it was always her room which
was given to a guest, so that she often slept on a couch in Miss
Penelope's chamber. But she did not think of that; there was no thought
of herself, beyond wishing to give him her own room. Had there been ever
so many guest chambers, she would still have wished him to have hers.
But to get it ready in time! To make sure that there should be no
further waiting before doing all that human power could do. Even now it
might be too late. The wood fire had almost burned out, and to kindle a
blaze was the first thing to be done, so that she ran straight to the
hearth and dropped on her knees beside it. There was a little heap of
sticks in the chimney-corner, but her hands trembled so that she could
hardly put them on the dying coals. The breath that she coaxed the flame
with came in gasps, but a blaze quickly sprang up and leapt among the
sticks, and then she flew to prepare the bed. If she might only get it
ready before they came! The thought of that helpless head lying against
Father Orin's shoulder was like a stab at her heart.