The Red Mist. Randall Parrish

the night. A fusillade followed, and in the flare I caught grotesque glimpses of men leaping forward, and there was a confused yelling of voices, a din of noise.

      I was upon my knees, revolver in hand, but in the melee below could not distinguish friend from foe—alike they were a blur of figures, one instant visible, the next obscured. Yet there could be no doubt as to the final ending of the struggle. Taken by surprise, outnumbered, the little squad of troopers would be crushed, annihilated. Nor was there reason why I should sacrifice myself in their defense—a valueless sacrifice. My choice was instantly made, as there flashed to my mind what my fate would be if I ever fell into Cowan's hands attired in Federal uniform. On hands and knees I crept to the cleft in the rock wall, and began to clamber up over the irregular rocks. It was not likely any guards had been left behind when the mountaineers descended, and I must be beyond sound before the din of fighting ceased. It was a steep climb, dangerous no doubt in the dark, yet I was desperate enough to give this peril scarcely a thought. The shouts and yells, the cries for mercy, the sound of blows, grew fainter and finally ceased altogether. Leaning back, and ​looking down, I could perceive nothing in the black void. A voice shouted an order, but it sounded far off, and indistinct. I was in a narrow gully, the incline less steep than amid the rocks below, and could perceive the lighter canopy of the sky not far above me. As I crept out into the open space, someone touched match to a pile of dry limbs in the cove below, and the red flames leaped high, revealing the scene. I caught a glimpse of it—staring down as though I clung at the mouth of hell, seeing moving black figures, and the dark, motionless shadows of dead men. The one glimpse was enough, the fearful tragedy of it smiting me like a blow, and I turned and ran, stumbling over the rough ground, my only thought that of escape.

      There were stars in the sky, their dim light sufficient to yield some faint guidance. It occurred to me, even in the terror of my flight, that the attacking party doubtless had horses tethered somewhere to the left. Yet they would be under guard, and I dare not seek them. My course led me close beside the edge of the ridge; I could see the reflection of the fire below on the opposite hillside, but I soon left this behind, and plunged thankfully forward into the concealing shadow of a wood. Here the ground fell away to the banks of a shallow stream, and some instinct of woodcraft led me to wade down with its ​current for a considerable distance, until the icy water drove me to the bank once more. I was wet and cold, shivering with the chill of the air, although my cavalry boots had kept my feet dry. I knew I had covered several miles, and must be beyond pursuit and safe from discovery. The spot wherein I found myself was the dry bed of a creek, overhung by bushes, its rocks strewn with dry fragments of wood washed down by some past freshet. No longer obsessed by fear of being pursued, I gathered an armful and set them ablaze, lying as close as possible to the flame until the grateful warmth brought new courage and hope. I remained there until dawn, the first gray light giving assurance that my flight had been to the north along the foothills. From the ridge top a wide vista lay revealed of rough, seemingly uninhabited country, growing more distinct as the light strengthened. There was no house visible, no sign of any road; all about extended a rude mountain solitude, but to the northwest there was a perceptible break in the chain of hills, as though a pass led down into the concealed valley beyond. With this for guidance I plunged forward, eager to get out of that drear wilderness.

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      CHAPTER VII SHELTER FROM THE STORM

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      IT WAS a hard tramp, the notch in the hills farther away than I had reckoned upon, and the ground between extremely difficult to travel over. At times an impenetrable tangle of brush turned me aside, and I was obliged to skirt numerous ravines which were impassable. Yet I held stubbornly to the course, seeing no other way out from the tangle, and stumbled steadily forward, my body aching from fatigue, and growing weak from hunger. It was considerably after the noon hour before I came upon the first sign of human life—an old logging road. Weed overgrown, and evidently long abandoned, it was nevertheless a most welcome discovery, and I limped on between its ruts, animated by new hope. The weather had turned colder, and there were whirling flakes of snow in the air. The direction I traveled compelled me to face the storm, and the wind whipped my face cruelly. An hour more of struggle brought me suddenly on a dismal shack of logs in the midst of a small clearing. I hesitated at the edge of ​the wood, peering through the snow. The scene was a desolate one, the clearing overgrown with weeds, the hut barely fit for habitation. Yet the very desperation of my situation compelled me to chance its occupancy, and I pushed a way forward through the weeds, discovering no path, until I attained the door. It was closed, but unfastened, and, revolver in hand, I opened it softly and stepped within. There was but one room, and that bare, except for an empty box or two, and a few discarded garments hanging from pegs against the wall. A gun with broken lock stood in one corner beside an axe, and a rudely constructed fireplace occupied one end. There was no other entrance, and the single window was securely closed. The light streaming in through the door revealed these details, and that the room was unoccupied. Yet someone had been there, and not so very long ago, for there were scraps of food on one of the overturned boxes, and a faint, barely perceptible curl of smoke arose from the black ashes on the hearth.

      Whoever the former occupant might be, or where he had gone, was of small moment to me just then. It was enough to be assured that he had departed. The sight of those food fragments renewed my consciousness of hunger, revived my sense of chilly discomfort. I glanced without into the storm and ​closed the door, changing the interior into twilight gloom. Using the axe I soon had a cheerful fire going, and as the warmth of the flame became perceptible, began eager search for something to eat. I almost despaired of success in this effort, but by chance pushing aside one of the garments on the side wall, discovered a haversack in which remained some hard bread and a bit of home-smoked bacon. Unappetizing as these appeared, I sat down before the fire and ate heartily. I dared not sleep, and indeed felt little inclination to do so, my mind busy with recollections of the night's adventures, and planning my future course of action. I thought of Fox, and his men, wondering who among them all had fallen during the fight, and what might be the fate of the others. It was Cowan, no doubt, and his mountaineers, who had attacked, and there would be little mercy shown. This hut likely was the abode of one of the gang, and I gazed about in renewed disgust. It would be well for me to be away before the owner returned, yet I lingered, seduced by the warmth of the fire, and dreading the storm without. The fellow would not come back probably until the snow ceased. Nor did I in the least know where I was to go—except that I must push along to the north, out of Cowan's country. Once in the neighborhood of Lewisburg, I would be on more familiar ​ground, and could proceed with the work assigned me. If there were Federal troops there I would boldly report the fate of Fox's detachment, proclaim my own purpose as a recruiting officer, and request protection. My papers, my intimacy with Captain Fox, and the knowledge throughout the district that a Lieutenant Raymond had been detailed to this service, would disarm all suspicion. And in my judgment Lewisburg was in that valley ahead—might indeed be visible at the other end of the gap.

      I got to my feet, somewhat reluctantly, and opened the door. The storm had ceased, but the ground was white, and the wind still whipped the snow viciously. There was no excuse, however, for not going forward, and closing the door securely behind me I ploughed through the tangle of weeds back to the road. A hundred yards below I came to a pike, along which a wagon had passed since the fall of snow. The vehicle had been drawn by mules, and their narrow hoof marks pointed to the valley. I followed cautiously, making no effort to overtake the outfit, and thus, just before sundown, emerged from the narrow gap and looked down into the broad valley of the Green Briar. It was a scene to linger in the memory, and at my first glance I knew where I was, recognizing the familiar objects outspread before me. The road led downward, turning and ​twisting as it sought the easier grades, and, no longer obscured by snow, the soil showed red and yellow. The wagon was already nearly to the bottom of the hill, distinguished by its spread of dirty canvas top. Other than this I could perceive no moving object, except what appeared to be either a body of horsemen, or bunch of cattle, far away to the left. Lewisburg lay beyond a spur of the hills, invisible from my position, although distant spirals of smoke indicated its