The Guns of Shiloh: A Story of the Great Western Campaign. Altsheler Joseph Alexander

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