The Red Mist. Randall Parrish

progress. Earlier in the war the Army of the Kanawa had passed along this way on forced march, ​and the ruts left by battery wheels were still in evidence, the frozen ridges making fast riding impossible. There were no villages, and only a few scattered houses, but the night was not so dark as to prevent fairly rapid progress. When dawn came we were to the west of Waynesboro, in broken country, and all through those long night hours scarcely a word had been exchanged between us. We camped finally in the bend of a small stream, where high banks concealed us from observation. There was little to eat in our haversacks, but we munched what we had, and Taylor, his eyes on the horses, broke the silence.

      "I reckon the critters don't need mor'n a couple hours' rest," he said. "They ain't been rid noways hard, an' I'm fer gittin' through the gap durin' daylight—the road ain't overly good just now."

      "Across the mountains? Is there a gap here?"

      "Ther road ter Hot Springs is 'bout two miles below yer. I cum over it ten days ago an' I reckon I kin find my way back. It's 'bout forty miles frum thar ter Lewisburg, mostly hills, but a good trail. I know folks et Hot Springs who will take good keer o' us, onct we git thar."

      We rested dozing, but neither sound asleep, for nearly three hours. Whatever might be in Taylor's mind, the lonely night had brought to me a new ​thought relative to my companion. The fellow was evasive, and once he had frankly lied in seeking to explain his presence in the valley, and the reason for his secrecy of movement. By now we were decidedly at cross-purposes, each vigilantly watching the other—Taylor in doubt as to what the bundle contained, which I never permitted out of my grasp, and myself as deeply interested in gaining possession of a packet of papers, a glimpse of which I had caught in an inside pocket of the mountaineer's coat. The belief that the fellow was either a Yankee spy, or a messenger between some Union emissary in the Confederate camp, and the Federal commander in western Virginia, became clear and distinct. His explanation that he had been seeking payment for losses occasioned by Confederate troops, was far from convincing. Had this been true he would certainly have been provided with a pass, and there would be no necessity for riding these back roads at night to avoid being challenged. His mission, whatever it might be, was secret and dangerous. Of this his ceaseless vigilance was proof.

      We rode on side by side through the rocky gap in the chain of mountains, and along the rough hills beyond, through gloomy stretches of wood, and over wind-swept ridges. It was cold and blustery, the clouds hanging low, and threatening storm. We ​were silent, suspicious of each other, never relaxing our vigilance. We encountered few travelers, and with these scarcely exchanged a word. Not a soldier was seen, although there was a Confederate garrison at Covington a few miles to the south. The light of a dying day still clung to the western sky when our wearied horses bore us into the village of Hot Springs. It was like a deserted hamlet, few houses appearing inhabited, and the shop windows boarded up. Occasionally a face peered at us cautiously through closed windows, and a man, tramping across the square, paused to stare curiously in our direction; but these were the only signs of life visible. Over a stone building—possibly the post-office—flapped a small Confederate flag, ragged and disreputable. Taylor, glancing neither to right or left, apparently indifferent to all this desolation, rode straight down the main street, and turned onto a pike road, leading to the left. A mile beyond, a frame house, painted white, barely visible through the deepening dusk, stood in a grove of oaks. The fence surrounding it had been broken down, and the gate stood wide open. The mountaineer turned up the broad driveway, and dismounted before the closed door. Almost at the same moment the portal opened slightly and a black face peered out.

      ​

      CHAPTER III THE BODY ON THE FLOOR

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      TAYLOR stood at the foot of the steps, pausing in uncertainty.

      "Is that you, Sam?"

      "Yas, sah, but I don't just make out who you gentl'men am, sah."

      "Well, never mind thet now. Is Mister Harwood, yere?"

      I insensibly straightened in my saddle. Harwood? What Harwood, I wondered—surely not Major Harwood of Lewisburg, my father's old friend! What was it I had heard about him a few months ago? Wasn't it a rumor that he was on General Ramsay's staff? And the daughter—Noreen—whatever had become of her? There was an instant's vision before me of laughing eyes, and wind-blown hair, a galloping horse, and the wave of a challenging hand. She had thus swept by me on the road as I took my mother southward.

      "I don't peer fer to recollect no such name, sah," replied the negro, scratching his wool thoughtfully. "I done reckon as how you got the wrong house."

      ​"No, I reckon not," said the other drily. "Git 'long in, an' tell him Jem Taylor is yere."

      The door opened wider.

      "Suah, I know you now, sah. Just step right 'long in, the both of yer. I'll look after them horses. You'll fin' Massa Harwood in the dinin' room, sah."

      I followed the mountaineer up the steps, and into the hall, utterly indifferent as to whether my company was desired or not. But Taylor paid no apparent heed to my presence. The interior was that of an old fashioned residence, which, as yet, had not suffered from the ravages of war. Evidences of neglect were numerous enough, yet the furniture remained intact, and the walls firm. The hall was carpeted, and the stairs leading upward were covered with a rug of brightly woven rags, yielding a touch of color. It was not yet dark, but a lamp burned on a near-by table, and a cheerful fire glowed at the farther end. A door standing open revealed what must have been the parlor, a seemingly large room in which hair-cloth chairs and sofas were dimly visible. But a brighter glow of light streamed from a room beyond, and Taylor, evidently acquainted with the house, walked directly forward, around the bulge of the stairs, and stepped within the open door. Determined to miss nothing, I was so close ​behind, that my quick eyes caught what I believed to be a swift signal of warning to the man within. This, however, was an impression born from my own suspicion, rather than any real movement, for Taylor took but a single step across the threshold, and stopped, leaning on his gun. Behind him, standing in the open door, I had full glimpse of the interior.

      There were two lights—one hanging above the table, the other on a sideboard to the right. The room itself was panelled in dark wood, the two windows heavily draped with hanging curtains, a few pictures decorating the walls. There was a fire-place, with a grate fire smouldering, and over it a pair of crossed swords and an old powder horn. The single occupant sat upright, before him the remnants of a light repast, his hand toying with a spoon, and his eyes shifting from Taylor's face to that of mine. He was heavily built and broad of shoulder, the face, illumined by the hanging lamp, strong and masterful, the jaw prominent, the forehead broad, the nose roman. It would have been a hard face, but for a gleam of good humor in the eyes, and the softening effect of gray hair, and a gray moustache. The man had aged greatly, yet I recognized him instantly, my heart throbbing with the possibility that I also might be remembered. Yet surely there was ​no gleam of recollection in the eyes that surveyed me—and why should there be? I had been an uninteresting lad of fifteen when we last met. This knowledge gave me courage to meet that searching glance, and to lift my hand in the salute due to an officer of rank.

      "Ah!" said Harwood in deep voice, "a soldier from the valley?"

      "Yes, sir," respectfully, "the Sixty-fifth Virginia."

      "Oh, yes; there was a company of mountainmen from Covington way in that command. Daniels your captain?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Deserter?"

      "No, sir; on thirty days' furlough."

      "Oh, indeed! so 'old Jack' thinks he has plenty of time, and can let part of his army go home, does he? Well, that's his business, of course. How does it happen you wear artillery uniform?"

      Expecting the question I answered unhesitatingly.

      "They'd lost so many gunners, some