The Red Mist. Randall Parrish

along the curving road, the one nearest me in ruins, while a gaunt chimney beside a broad stream unbridged was all that remained of a former mill. Beyond this, in midst of a grove of noble trees, a large house, painted white, was the only conspicuous feature in the landscape. I recognized it at once as the residence of Major Harwood.

      My gaze rested upon it, as memory of the man, and his fate, surged freshly back into mind. The place had been spared destruction; it remained unchanged—but from that distance there was nothing to indicate that the house was still occupied. It had the appearance of desertion—no smoke showing above the broad chimney, no figures moving either about the main house, or the negro cabins at the rear. This condition was no particular surprise, for Harwood's daughter, scarcely more than a girl ​to my remembrance, would not likely remain there isolated and alone during such troublesome times, and the servants had doubtless long since disappeared in search of freedom. The young woman would doubtless be with friends, either in Lewisburg or Charleston; and that the mansion, thus deserted, still remained undestroyed was, after all, not so strange, for the Major's standing throughout that section would protect his property. He would retain friends on each side of the warring factions who would prevent wanton destruction. I moved on down the steep descent, losing sight of the house as the road twisted about the hill, although memory of it did not desert my mind. Some odd inclination seemed to impel me to turn aside and study the situation there more closely. Possibly some key to the mystery of Harwood's murder—some connection between him and old Ned Cowan—might be revealed in a search of the deserted home. Fox had said that his party halted at the house on their march east toward Hot Springs. Some scrap of paper might have been left behind in the hurry of departure, which would yield me a clue. If not this, then there might be other papers stored there relating to military affairs in this section of value to the Confederacy. Harwood was the undoubted leader of the Union sympathizers throughout the entire ​region; he would have lists of names, and memoranda of meetings, containing information which would help me greatly in my quest. An exploration could not be a matter of any great danger, and might yield me the very knowledge I sought.

      I had almost determined on this course when I came to the cross-road, which I knew ran directly in front of the house. It was already growing dark, clouds hanging low over the valley, and, as I paused irresolute, a cold drizzle set in, the north wind sweeping the dampness into my face. Determined by this I turned aside into the new road, and pressed forward, only anxious now to find shelter. The road twisted about along the bank of a small stream shadowed by trees on either side. I passed the ruins of the mill, but beyond the night closed about me so dark that objects became shapeless, and I even found difficulty in following the path, although it was seemingly a well traveled road. Only detached sections of rail fence remained standing, and I should have stumbled blindly past the very place I sought but for the high stone pillars which marked the place where the gate had once been. These guided me to the driveway, and I groped a passage through the grove of trees to the front steps.

      The great house loomed before me black and silent. If I had ever questioned its desertion its ​appearance lulled every such suspicion. Nor had it escaped unscathed from the despoilation of war. At a distance, gazing from the side of the mountain, I could perceive no change. But now, close at hand, even the intense darkness could not hide the scars left by vandals. The front steps were broken, splintered as if by an axe, and the supporting pillars of the wide veranda had been hacked and gashed. The door above was tightly closed, yet both the windows to the right were smashed in, sash and all, leaving a wide opening. I crept forward, and endeavored to peer through, but the darkness within was opaque. The only sound was the beating of rain on the roof overhead. Occasionally the swirl of the wind drove the cold drops against me where I crouched listening; I was wet through, chilled to the bone, my uniform clinging to me like soaked paper. At least the inside promised shelter from the storm, a chance for a fire, and possibly fragments of food. And I had nothing to fear but darkness.

      My revolver was under the flap of my cavalry jacket, dry and ready for use. I brought it forward, within easy grip, and stepped over the sill. My feet touched carpet, littered with broken glass, and I felt about cautiously, locating an overturned chair, and a cushioned settee, minus one leg. My recollection of the interior of the house was vague and ​indistinct—the remembrance only of one brief visit made there years before, a boy of ten with my father. I had never been in this room, which must be the parlor, but I knew a wide hallway led straight through from front door to back, bisected only by a broad stairway leading to the upper story. The library would be opposite directly across the hall, and the dining room behind that. I had been in both these apartments, and they had seemed to me then spacious and wonderful; quite the most remarkable rooms I had ever seen. I groped along the inside wall, seeking the door, making no particular effort to be noiseless, yet rendered cautious by fear of stumbling over misplaced furniture. The apartment was evidently in much disorder, glass crackling under my feet, and a breadth of thick carpet torn up, so that I tripped over it, and nearly fell. Yet I found the door at last, standing wide open, and emerged into the hall. The way was clearer here, and there came into my mind the recollection of a bracket lamp, on the wall at the foot of the stairs. Perhaps it was there still, and might contain oil. If this could be located, a light would be of great assistance, and could not add very much to my peril of discovery. No one would be abroad in this desolate country on such a night of storm, and the house was utterly abandoned. Besides, the heavy blinds at most of the windows were closed ​tightly. My remembrance of the position of the lamp was extremely vague, yet my fingers found it at last, and lifted it from the bracket. The globe contained oil, and, in another moment, the light revealed my immediate surroundings.

      Except for a broken stair rail the hall remained in good order, a storm-coat hanging beside the front door, and a serving table and low rocker occupying the recess behind the stairway. I could see nearly to the further end, where a bench stood against the wall with some garment flung over it, and up the stairs to the blackness of the second story. The total desertion of the place was evident; the destruction which had been wrought was plainly the work of cowardly vandals, who had broken in after the Harwoods left. Convinced of this truth I proceeded fearlessly to explore, seeking merely the warmth of a fire and food. The library, a large room, the walls lined with bookcases, afforded no encouragement, but I stopped in amazement at the door of the dining room—the light of my lamp revealing a table at which someone had lately eaten, apparently alone. There was a single plate, a cup and saucer, a half loaf of bread, with a slice cut, part of a ham bone, with considerable meat remaining untouched, and a small china teapot. For an instant the unexpected sight of these articles fascinated me, and then my ​eyes caught a dull glow in the fireplace at the opposite end of the room—the red gleam of a live ember.

      I could not actually credit the evidence of my own eyes, firmly believing, for an instant, the glow was but the reflection of the light held in my hands. Yet a step forward convinced me—the ashes of the fire-place radiated warmth; someone then had been in that very room within an hour, had warmed himself there, and partaken of food. The shock of this discovery was so sudden as to give me a strange, haunted feeling. The house had seemed so completely deserted, so desolate, wrapped in silence and darkness, that the very conception that someone else was hiding there came upon me like a blow. Who could the person be? A faithful slave remaining to guard the property for his master? Some fugitive who, like myself, had sought shelter from the storm? Or Old Ned Cowan seeking to complete his mysterious purpose? Could this be the aftermath of the murder? A search after papers not found upon the body of the dead man? Somehow my mind settled to this theory, leaped to this conclusion—the prowler was Cowan, or else some emissary he had sent. Well, I would find out. Thus far the advantage was mine, for I knew of another presence, while the fellow, whoever he might prove to be, in all ​probability possessed no knowledge of my entrance. Perhaps he had already completed his search and departed; if not, then he must be somewhere on the second floor, for if below he would have certainly perceived my light or been alarmed by the sound of my movements.

      My heart beat fast, but from excitement, not fear. With cocked revolver in one hand, the lamp in the other, I silently opened door after door, peering into vacant apartments, half thinking every shadow to be a skulking figure. The search revealed nothing; not even further evidence of any presence in the house. The kitchen fire was cold, the cooking utensils clean, and in their proper places. The back door was bolted from within, the windows