Читать книгу The Guns of Shiloh: A Story of the Great Western Campaign - Altsheler Joseph Alexander - Страница 4

The three halted their horses and stood for a minute or two on the very crest of the pass. The fierce wind out of the northwest blew directly in their faces and both riders and horses alike were covered with snow. But Dick felt a wonderful thrill as he gazed upon the vast white wilderness. East and west, north and south he saw the driving snow and the lofty peaks and ridges showing through it, white themselves. The towns below and the cabins that snuggled in the coves were completely hidden. They could see no sign of human life on slope or in valley.

“Looks as wild as the Rockies,” said the sergeant tersely.

“But you won’t find any Injuns here to ambush you,” said Red Blaze, “though I don’t make any guarantee against bushwhackers and guerillas, who’ll change sides as often as two or three times a day, if it will suit their convenience. They could hide in the woods along the road an’ pick us off as easy as I’d shoot a squirrel out of a tree. They’d like to have our arms an’ our big coats. I tell you what, friends, a mighty civil war like ours gives a tremenjeous opportunity to bad men. They’re all comin’ to the top. Every rascal in the mountains an’ in the lowlands, too, I guess, is out lookin’ for plunder an’ wuss.”

“You’re right, Red Blaze,” said the sergeant with emphasis, “an’ it won’t be stopped until the generals on both sides begin to hang an’ shoot the plunderers an’ murderers.”

“But they can’t ketch ‘em all,” said Red Blaze. “A Yankee general with a hundred thousand men will be out lookin’ for what? Not for a gang of robbers, not by a jugful. He’ll be lookin’ for a rebel general with another hundred thousand men, an’ the rebel general with a hundred thousand men will be lookin’ for that Yankee general with his hundred thousand. So there you are, an’ while they’re lookin’ for each other an’ then fightin’ each other to a standstill, the robbers will be plunderin’ an’ murderin’. But don’t you worry about bein’ ambushed. I was jest tellin’ you what might happen, but wouldn’t happen. We kin go down hill fast now, and we’ll soon be in Hubbard, which is the other side of all that fallin’ snow.”

The road down the mountain was also better than the one by which they had ascended, and as the horses with their calked shoes were swift of foot they made rapid progress. As they descended, the wind lowered fast and there was much less snow. Red Blaze said it was probably not snowing in the valley at all.

“See that shinin’ in the sun,” he said. “That’s the tin coverin’ on the steeple of the new church in Hubbard. The sun strikes squar’ly on it, an’ now I know I’m right ‘bout it not snowin’ down thar. Wait ‘til we turn ‘roun’ this big rock. Yes, thar’s Hubbard, layin’ out in the valley without a drop of snow on her. It looks good, don’t it, friends, with the smoke comin’ out of the chimneys. That little red house over thar is the railroad an’ telegraph station, an’ we’ll go straight for it, ‘cause we ain’t got no time to waste.”

They emerged into the valley and rode rapidly for the station. Farmers on the outskirts and villagers looked wonderingly at them, but they did not pause to answer questions. They galloped their tired mounts straight for the little red building, which was the station. Dick sprang first from his horse, and leaving it to stand at the door, ran inside. A telegraph instrument was clicking mournfully in the corner. A hot stove was in another corner, and sitting near it was a lad of about Dick’s age, clad in mountain jeans, and lounging in an old cane-bottomed chair. But Dick’s quick glance saw that the boy was bright of face and keen of eye. He promptly drew out his papers and said:

“I’m an aide from the Northern regiment of Colonel Newcomb at Townsville. Here are duplicate dispatches, one set for the President of the United States and the other for the Secretary of War. They tell of a successful fight that we had last night with Southern troops, presumably the cavalrymen of Turner Ashby. I wish you to send them at once.”

“He’s speakin’ the exact truth, Jim,” said Red Blaze, who had come in behind Dick, “an’ I’ve brought him an’ the sergeant here over the mountains to tell about it.”

The boy sprang to his instrument. But he stopped a moment to ask one question.

“Did you really beat ‘em off?” he asked as he looked up with shining eye.

“We certainly did,” replied Dick.

“I’ll send it faster than I ever sent anything before,” said the boy. “To think of me, Jim Johnson, sending a dispatch to Abraham Lincoln, telling of a victory!”

“I reckon you’re right, Jim, it’s your chance,” said Red Blaze.

Jim bent over the instrument which now began to click steadily and fast.

“You’re to wait for answers,” said Dick.

The boy nodded, but his shining eyes remained bent over the instrument. Dick went to the door, brushed off the snow, came back and sat down by the stove. Sergeant Whitley, who had tied the horses to hitching posts, came in, pulled up an empty box and sat down by him. Red Blaze slipped away unnoticed. But he came back very soon, and men and women came with him, bringing food and smoking coffee. There was enough for twenty.

Red Blaze had spread among the villagers, every one of whom he knew, the news that the Union arms had won a victory. Nor had it suffered anything in the telling. Colonel Newcomb’s regiment, by the most desperate feats of gallantry, had beaten off at least ten thousand Southerners, and the boy and the man in uniform, who were resting by the fire in the station, had been the greatest two heroes of a battle waged for a whole night.

Curious eyes gazed at Dick and the sergeant as they sat there by the stove. Dick himself, warm, relaxed, and the needs of his body satisfied, felt like going to sleep. But he watched the boy operator, who presently finished his two dispatches and then lifted his head for the first time.

“They’ve gone straight into Washington,” he said. “We ought to get an answer soon.”

“We’ll wait here for it,” said Dick.

The three messengers were now thoroughly warmed at the stove, they had eaten heartily of the best the village could furnish, and a great feeling of comfort pervaded them. While they were waiting for the reply that they hoped would come from Washington, Dick Mason and Sergeant Whitley went outside. No snow was falling in the valley, but off on the mountain crest they still saw the white veil, blown by the wind.

Red Blaze joined them and was everywhere their guide and herald. He ascribed to them such deeds of skill and valor that they were compelled to call him the best romancer they had met in a long time.

“I suppose that if Mr. Warner were here,” said the sergeant, “he would reduce these statements to mathematics, ten per cent fact an’ ninety per cent fancy.”

“Just about that,” said Dick.

Red Blaze came to them presently, bristling with news.

“A farmer from a hollow further to the west,” he said, “has just come in, an’ he says that a band of guerillas is ridin’ through the hills. ‘Bout twenty of them, he said, led by a big dark fellow, his face covered with black beard. They’ve been liftin’ hosses an’ takin’ other things, but they’re strangers in these parts. Tom Sykes, who was held up by them an’ robbed of his hoss, says that the rest of ‘em called their leader Skelly. Tom seemed to think that mebbe they came from somewhere in the Kentucky mountains. They called themselves a scoutin’ party of the Southern army.”

Dick started violently.

“Why, I know this man Skelly,” he said. “He lives in the mountains to the eastward of my home in Kentucky. He organized a band at the beginning of the war, but over there he said he was fightin’ for the North.”

“He’ll be fightin’ for his own hand,” said the sergeant sternly. “But he can’t play double all the time. That sort of thing will bring a man to the end of a rope, with clear air under his feet.”

“I’m glad you’ve told me this,” said Red Blaze. “Skelly might have come ridin’ in here, claimin’ that he an’ his men was Northern troops, an’ then when we wasn’t suspectin’ might have held up the whole town. I’ll warn ‘em. Thar ain’t a house here that hasn’t got two or three rifles an’ shotguns in it, an’ with the farmers from the valley joinin’ in Hubbard could wipe out the whole gang.”

“Tell them to be on guard all the time, Red Blaze,” said Whitley with strong emphasis. “In war you’ve got to watch, watch, watch. Always know what the other fellow is doin’, if you can.”

“Let’s go back to the station,” said Dick. “Maybe we’ll have an answer soon.”

They found the young operator hanging over his instrument, his eyes still shining. He had been in that position ever since they left him, and Dick knew that his eagerness to get an answer from Washington kept him there, mind and body waiting for the tick of the key.

Dick, the sergeant, and Red Blaze sat down by the stove again, and rested there quietly for a quarter of an hour. Red Blaze was thinking that it would be another cold ride back over the pass. The sergeant, although he was not sleepy, closed his eyes and saw again the vast rolling plains, the herds of buffalo spreading to the horizon, and the bands of Sioux and Cheyennes galloping down, their great war bonnets making splashes of color against the thin blue sky. Dick was thinking of Pendleton, the peaceful little town in Kentucky that was his home, and of his cousin, Harry Kenton. He did not know now where Harry was, and he did not even know whether he was dead or alive.

Dick sighed a little, and just at that moment the telegraph key began to click.

“The answer is coming!” exclaimed the young operator excitedly and then he bent closer over the key to take it. The three chairs straightened up, and they, too, bent toward the key. The boy wrote rapidly, but the clicking did not go on long. When it ceased he straightened up with his finished message in his hand. His face was flushed and his eyes still shining. He folded the paper and handed it to Dick.

“It’s for you, Mr. Mason,” he said.

Dick unfolded it and read aloud:

“Colonel John D. Newcomb:

“Congratulations on your success and fine management of your troops. Victory worth much to us. Read dispatch to regiment and continue westward to original destination.

A. LINCOLN.”

Dick’s face glowed, and the sergeant’s teeth came together with a little click of satisfaction.

“When I saw that it was to be read to the regiment I thought it no harm to read it to the rest of you,” said Dick, as he refolded the precious dispatch and put it in his safest pocket. “Now, sergeant, I think we ought to be off at full speed.”

“Not a minute to waste,” said Sergeant Whitley.

Their horses had been fed and were rested well. The three bade farewell to the young operator, then to almost all of Hubbard and proceeded in a trot for the pass. They did not speak until they were on the first slope, and then the sergeant, looking up at the heights, asked:

“Shall we have snow again on our return, Red Blaze? I hope not. It’s important for us to get back to Townsville without any waste of time.”

“I hate to bring bad news,” replied Red Blaze, “but we’ll shore have more snow. See them clouds, sailin’ up an’ always sailin’ up from the southwest, an’ see that white mist ‘roun’ the highest peaks. That’s snow, an’ it’ll hit the pass just as it did when we was comin’ over. But we’ve got this in favor of ourselves an’ our hosses now: The wind is on our backs.”

They rode hard now. Dick had received the precious message from the President, and it would be a proud moment for him when he put it in the hands of the colonel. He did not wish that moment to be delayed. Several times he patted the pocket in which the paper lay.

As they ascended, the wind increased in strength, but being on their backs now it seemed to help them along. They were soon high up on the slopes and then they naturally turned for a parting look at Hubbard in its valley, a twin to that of Townsville. It looked from afar neat and given up to peace, but Dick knew that it had been stirred deeply by the visit of his comrades and himself.

“It seems,” he said, “that the war would pass by these little mountain nests.”

“But it don’t,” said Red Blaze. “War, I guess, is like a mad an’ kickin’ mule, hoofs lashin’ out everywhar, an’ you can’t tell what they’re goin’ to hit. Boys, we’re makin’ good time. That wind on our backs fairly lifts us up the mountain side.”

Petty had all the easy familiarity of the backwoods. He treated the boy and man who rode with him as comrades of at least a year’s standing, and they felt in return that he was one of them, a man to be trusted. They retained all the buoyancy which the receipt of the dispatch had given them, and Dick, his heart beating high, scarcely felt the wind and cold.

“In another quarter of an hour we’ll be at the top,” said Petty. Then he added after a moment’s pause: “If I’m not mistook, we’ll have company. See that path, leadin’ out of the west, an’ runnin’ along the slope. It comes into the main road, two or three hundred yards further on, an’ I think I can see the top of a horseman’s head ridin’ in it. What do you say, sergeant?”

“I say that you are right, Red Blaze. I plainly see the head of a big man, wearing a fur cap, an’ there are others behind him, ridin’ in single file. What’s your opinion, Mr. Mason?”

“The same as yours and Red Blaze’s. I, too, can see the big man with the fur cap on his head and at least a dozen following behind. Do you think it likely, Red Blaze, that they’ll reach the main road before we pass the mouth of the path?”

A sudden thought had leaped up in Dick’s mind and it set his pulses to beating hard. He remembered some earlier words of Red Blaze’s.

“We’ll go by before they reach the main road,” replied Red Blaze, “unless they make their hosses travel a lot faster than they’re travelin’ now.”

“Then suppose we whip up a little,” said Dick.

Both Red Blaze and the sergeant gave him searching glances.

“Do you mean—” began Whitley.

“Yes, I mean it. I know it. The man in front wearing the fur cap is Bill Skelly. He and his men made an attack upon the home of my uncle, Colonel Kenton, who is a Southern leader in Kentucky. He and his band were Northerners there, but they will be Southerners here, if it suits their purpose.”

“An’ it will shorely suit their purpose to be Southerners now,” said Red Blaze. “We three are ridin’ mighty good hoss flesh. Me an’ the sergeant have good rifles an’ pistols, you have good pistols, an’ we all have good, big overcoats. This is a lonely mountain side with war flyin’ all about us. Easy’s the place an’ easy’s the deed. That is if we’d let ‘em, which we ain’t goin’ to do.”

“Not by a long shot,” said Sergeant Whitley, resting his rifle across the pommel of his saddle. “They’ve got to follow straight behind. The ground is too rough for them to ride around an’ flank us.”

Dick said nothing, but his gauntleted hand moved down to the butt of one of his pistols. His heart throbbed, but he preserved the appearance of coolness. He was fast becoming inured to danger. Owing to the slope they could not increase the speed of their horses greatly, but they were beyond the mouth of the path before they were seen by Skelly and his band. Then the big mountaineer uttered a great shout and began to wave his hand at them.

“The road curves here a little among the rocks,” said the sergeant, who unconsciously took command. “Suppose we stop, sheltered by the curve, and ask them what they want.”

“The very thing to do,” said Dick.

“Sass ‘em, sergeant! Sass ‘em!” said Red Blaze.

They drew their horses back partially in the shadow of the rocky curve, but the sergeant was a little further forward than the others. Dick saw Skelly and a score of men emerge into the road and come rapidly toward them. They were a wild-looking crew, mounted on tough mountain ponies, all of them carrying loot, and all armed heavily.

The sergeant threw up his rifle, and with a steady hand aimed straight at Skelly’s heart.

“Halt!” he cried sharply, “and tell me who you are!”

The whole crew seemed to reel back except Skelly, who, though stopping his horse, remained in the center of the road.

“What do you mean?” he cried. “We’re peaceful travelers. What business is it of yours who we are?”

“Judgin’ by your looks you’re not peaceful travelers at all. Besides these ain’t peaceful times an’ we take the right to demand who you are. If you come on another foot, I shoot.”

The sergeant’s tones were sharp with resolve.

“Your name!” he continued.

“Ramsdell, David Ramsdell,” replied the leader of the band.

“That’s a lie,” said Sergeant Whitley. “Your name is Bill Skelly, an’ you’re a mountaineer from Eastern Kentucky, claimin’ to belong first to one side and then to the other as suits you.”

“Who says so?” exclaimed Skelly defiantly.

The sergeant beckoned Dick, who rode forward a little.

“I do,” said the boy in a loud, clear voice. “My name is Dick Mason, and I live at Pendleton in Kentucky. I saw you more than once before the war, and I know that you tried to burn down the house of Colonel Kenton there, and kill him and his friends. I’m on the other side, but I’m not for such things as that.”

Skelly distinctly saw Dick sitting on his horse in the pass, and he knew him well. Rage tore at his heart. Although on “the other side” this boy, too, was a lowlander and in a way a member of that vile Kenton brood. He hated him, too, because he belonged to those who had more of prosperity and education than himself. But Skelly was a man of resource and not a coward.