THE incidents of that ride do not remain with me in any special clearness of detail. In fact it was comparatively uneventful, the road apparently little used at any time, and now absolutely deserted except for our party. In all probability the fugitive had chosen it for this very reason, aware of its loneliness. Taylor also must have held in contempt any possible pursuit, as he made no attempt at concealing his trail. We followed as rapidly as the condition of our horses would warrant, but we were soon aware that the murderer was steadily increasing the distance between. The man evidently knew the country, and had friends. There were few houses visible, and these were completely deserted on our arrival, yet at some of them the fugitive must have found food, and at one a fresh mount. We marked where the old horse, with the broken shoe identifying it, had been led aside into the bushes, and then the hoof-prints of another animal, of longer stride, appeared in the dirt road. The trail of the discarded horse led along the bank of a rocky creek, and disappeared utterly within a deep ravine. The print of a bare foot seemed to tell the tale of a boy at the bridle rein.
We rode steadily, keeping well together, conscious that in all probability we were watched by hostile eyes, peering out from behind rock and thicket. The road became rougher, more difficult to travel. There were paths, dim, shadowed by brush, leading off occasionally on either side—possibly to some cabin, and little clearing, hidden and obscure. We foraged through deserted shacks, finding poor reward, yet managed to subsist, although with hunger unsatisfied. The men grumbled, and Fox swore, as all alike realized the uselessness of attempting to overhaul the fleeing man. The impotent pursuit was a joke to him, already safe in the foothills, and guarded from surprise. Long before night came the captain comprehended the fact that we were on a fool's errand; that his little squad was being lured deeper and deeper into a hostile country, but no opportunity to turn aside presented itself. To return would only bring us closer to the Confederate lines at Covington, and we found no road leading northward. Fox's field map pictured one, however, close at hand, and in the hope of attaining this before darkness finally set in, we pressed the wearied horses desperately. The night overtook us in midst of a mountain solitude. The scouts had discovered a spring at the bottom of a rocky hollow, and there Fox reluctantly ordered camp to be made, the horses finding scant pasturage beyond. The night was chill, but there was nothing to cook, and no fires were lighted, the men munching at whatever they had in their haversacks, and endeavoring to extract some warmth from their thin blankets. The grumbling and cursing soon ceased, however, and those not on duty slept fitfully. I made the round of the sentries with Fox, slipping and stumbling over the rough way, through the darkness, until we again found refuge beside the spring. The night was black and still. We could hear the restless movements of the horses, the mournful cry of some wild bird. The captain was but a dim shadow barely outlined in the gloom.
"This weird place gets on the nerves," he said, as if half ashamed of the confession. "Do you know, Raymond, I have felt for the last hour as if we were riding into some trap." He glanced nervously behind him. "I don't believe there has ever been a Federal detachment down as far as this before. We're in old Ned Cowan's country."
"Confederate?" I asked, interested at once by the name.
"Heaven knows! To the best of my belief the fellow doesn't give a whoop for either side. He's just a natural born devil, and this war gave him a chance to get the hell out of his system. If half the stories told about him are true he is a fiend for cruelty, ready enough to fight either side if they interfere; still, I guess, he calls himself a Reb."
"And his followers?"
"A motley crew of mountain men mostly, scattered all through here, together with a bunch of deserters and conscripts from both sides who have naturally drifted to him. Nobody knows how big a band he has, but it would take an army to run them out of these mountains. We had orders to do it—but piffle! Ramsay came down as far as Fayette Court House with a regiment of infantry, and a cavalry guard, and sent out a flag of truce asking the old devil to come in and talk with him. He actually did come; rode right up to headquarters, with a dozen of his ragged followers, heard what Ramsay had to say, and then simply told the general to go to hell, and rode off again."
"Were you there? did you see the men?"
"No, but the sergeant did; he was detailed at that time as headquarters' orderly."
"Yes," I said, determined on my course, "I was talking with Hayden during the noon halt. He described Cowan to me, and I believe he is the same man I encountered at Hot Springs, Captain Fox—the fellow Taylor we are in pursuit of."
The captain stared into the black night, silent for several minutes.
"I've been suspecting the same thing for the last three hours," he admitted at last slowly, "and that he hoped we would follow him. The fellow hasn't ridden fast, and has purposely left a plain trail. More than that he was expected along this road, and there were relays of horses waiting. He only changed once, but he was met by another party near that ruined mill. Ever since then I have felt that we were being watched by unseen eyes. Did you observe the curl of smoke to our right just before dark—how it rose and fell in rings?"
"I saw the smoke, yes—a thin spiral, but supposed it to be from the chimney of some mountain shack."
"Well, it was not. That was an outside fire, and the smoke was smothered, and then thrown up by blankets. That is their way of signaling. I tell you, Lieutenant, this murder of Harwood is more than an army matter. It was either the culmination of a feud—done for personal revenge; or else the Major had papers in his possession bearing on the situation here that could only be gained over his dead body. The man who killed him was old Ned Cowan."
"But Harwood must have known him," I protested.
"Of course he did; they were neighbors before the war, and met there by appointment. For all I know the Major may have had some confidential communication from the War Department. God knows, what it was. All I am sure about is that I would give a good deal to be out of this fix right now, and twenty miles to the north of here."
We sat there for half an hour, discussing the matter, and endeavoring to convince ourselves the danger was less than we imagined. There was nothing to be done but wait for daylight. We could not possibly proceed through that darkness, along the unknown mountain road. We would be safer where we were, quietly hidden away in this cleft of the rocks. Finally Fox crept forth again to make another round of the pickets, to assure himself they were alert, and I lay down in a little hollow, and rolled up in my blanket. Above me I could see but one star peering through a rift of cloud, and, except for the heavy breathing of the men, and their restless turning, there was scarcely a sound. Even the wind had ceased to rattle the dead leaves. The very silence seemed a pledge of safety, and, before the Captain returned, I had fallen asleep.
The chill of the night awoke me, cold and shivering. The wind had arisen, and swept down the funnel in which I lay, with an icy breath against which my single blanket afforded no protection. I must get back against the rock, wherever I could find shelter. Gripping the blanket in one hand, I crept quietly up the gully, possibly a distance of fifty feet before encountering the rock wall. I felt my way blindly, and groped about until I discovered a few tufts of grass on which to lie down, but these proved so scant as to yield little comfort, and I tossed about, every bone aching, unable to lose consciousness. There was no sign of dawn in the sky, nor could I see the face of my watch to determine the hour. The man who had been lying next me, however, was gone, and so there must have been a change of guard while I slept. I could distinguish, dimly outlined against the sky, the overhanging rock-wall which enclosed our camp, and the deeper shade of a cleft a yard or two to my left, where the dead trunk of a tree stood like a gaunt, ugly sentinel. Even as I lay staring the figure of a man slipped out from behind its protection, and, dropping on hands and knees, crept forward across the open space. Another and another followed, mere ghost-like shadows, scarcely appearing real. They were within two yards of me, but their appearance, their passing was so swift and silent, as to leave me dazed and mystified. For the instant I doubted my eyesight, imagined I dreamed. Then, before I could raise voice in alarm, a rifle spat viciously, the red flame