The Red Mist. Randall Parrish

and a groping foot encountered something lying on the floor. I bent down, and touched it with my hand; it was the body of a man. The whole truth came to me in a flash—there had been a quarrel, a murder, ​unpremeditated probably, and the assassin had escaped. But which of the two was the victim? An instant I stood there, staring about in the dark, bewildered and uncertain. Then I grasped the lamp from the table in the other room, and returned holding the light in my hands. The form of Major Harwood lay extended on the floor, lifeless, his skull crushed by an ugly blow. Beside him lay a revolver, its butt blood-stained. Beyond doubt this was the weapon which had killed. I picked it up wonderingly—it was my own.

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      CHAPTER IV INTO THE ENEMIES' HANDS

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      THE truth in all its ugliness came to me then in sudden revealment. This was no accident, no result of unpremeditated quarrel between the two men. Harwood's death had been deliberately planned, and the effort made to cast suspicion on me, while the murderer escaped. This was why Taylor had insisted on our traveling together so long. It accounted for many things which had puzzled me in the conduct of my companion. And the plot had been successful so far as Taylor knew. The Major lay dead, with my blood-stained revolver—evidently the weapon which had struck the blow—lying beside him. Dawn would reveal the deed, and I would be discovered alone in the house. Only my wakefulness, my desire to investigate, had interfered with the complete success of this hideous plan.

      But why had Harwood been murdered? What purpose did his violent death serve? Who was Taylor? And what had brought him all that distance to do a deed like this? The two men were apparently friendly; there was a secret understanding ​between them; they met in this lonely place by appointment. There could be no doubt as to that, for I had caught the swift sign of warning passing between them caused by my presence; and had felt the desire for my early retirement, so they might converse freely. Could it be possible some misunderstanding had arisen which had led to this tragedy? One fact alone combatted this thought—the stolen revolver; the evident purpose of the murderer to cast the burden of the crime on an innocent man. That was no impulse of the moment, no sudden inspiration. Taylor had prepared himself for this emergency, had deliberately taken the weapon for that very purpose. Where had the fellow gone? In which direction had he fled? A knowledge of this might help to clear up the mystery, might reveal, at least, whether he sought refuge with the Union or Confederate forces. And what had become of the negro?

      All these questions flashed through my mind as I stood there, lamp in one hand and revolver in the other, staring down at the dead face. The first feeling of dazed bewilderment changed into anger, and a desire to revenge the death of this man who had once been my father's friend. I cared nothing at that moment for the uniform the Major had worn, that we were opposed to each other in arms; I ​recalled merely the genial nature of the man, his acts of former friendship, and his motherless daughter. Out of the mist floated the face of the girl, the girl who had waved to me in the road. The vision brought back to me coolness, and determination. I wiped off the blood stains from the revolver on the carpet, and slipped the weapon back into my belt, assuring myself first that it remained loaded. Then I felt through the pockets of the dead man—if robbery had been the object of this crime, that robbery did not involve the taking of money. I found a knife, keys, and a roll of bills untouched, but not a scrap of paper. On the floor, partially concealed by one arm, was a large envelope, unaddressed, roughly torn open. It was some document, then, that the murderer sought. This once attained, his purpose had been accomplished, and he had fled with it in his possession. What paper could justify such a crime? The negro—perhaps the negro knew.

      Intent now on my one purpose of discovery, my mind active and alert, I returned the lamp to the dining room table, and revolver still in hand began a rapid search of the house. The front door was fastened and barred, proving Taylor had not left that way. There was but one other room on that floor, a kitchen in considerable disorder, as though ​the servant had made no effort to complete his work; but its outer door stood unlatched. The porch without was dark and deserted, yet through here, undoubtedly, the murderer had fled, seeking the stable and a horse. But what had become of the negro? Was he victim, or accomplice?

      Satisfied now that Taylor had left the house, and escaped from the scene of his crime, I hastily searched the upper rooms, but found no trace of any other occupant. The servant was not there, nor had any bed, except my own, been occupied, or disarranged. Then Sam must have gone with the mountaineer in his hasty flight—must be equally guilty. This was the only conclusion possible, and the knowledge that I was left there alone rendered my own position more precarious. Harwood had mentioned no escort, yet surely he had never ventured into this doubtful region without having soldiers within call. No doubt they were quartered in the village, who, if he failed to appear when expected, would search for him. Before they came, and made discovery of the dead body, I must be safely beyond reach. If found there, no defense, no asseveration of innocence, would ever save me from condemnation. Their vengeance would be swift and merciless. Thinking now only of my own escape unobserved, I crept back down the stairs, my ​nerves shaken, extinguished the lights, without even venturing to glance again into the dark parlor, and felt my way into the night without. It was sufficiently dark to compel me to feel passage cautiously over the uneven ground, the path, circling an old garden, leading toward the stable. Twice I stumbled over the remnants of a broken fence, and once I stepped blindly into a shallow trench, and dropped my bundle. The recovery of it brought me a new thought—this would be Federal territory; or if not, already, my night's ride would bring me well within their lines before dawn. My pass, my Confederate uniform, would only serve to increase the peril of possible capture. There might be those back yonder in Hot Springs who would recall our passage through the village, who would describe the artillery sergeant to Harwood's questioning cavalrymen. A change of clothing would throw them off the trail. I slipped instantly out of the soiled suit of gray, and donned the immaculate blue, buckling the belt about my waist, and securely hooking the saber. Then I scooped out a hole in the soft dirt, and buried the old uniform, tearing my pass into shreds, scattering the fragments broadcast. It was so lonely and still all about, not even a breath of wind stirring the leaves, that I felt a return of confidence, a renewed courage. The house behind me, and the ​stable before, were mere outlines, scarcely discernible through the gloom. Yet I had only to follow the path, guided by the remains of a fence, to attain the latter. It was not a large building, and the path led directly to the single door, which stood wide open. I could hear the uneasy movements of a horse within, which was a great relief, as I had been fearful lest the fugitives had left me without a mount. Obliged to feel blindly in the dark, and not knowing what the black shadows might conceal, I was some time in leading the animal forth, properly saddled. But there was no alarm, no occurrence to unnerve me, and while there were three horses in the stable, I found it easy to choose my own. Once safely in the saddle, I circled the gloom of the house silently, and followed the roadway to the gate.

      Not a light gleamed in any direction, and I could recall no other house near by. While it remained in view I could not remove my eyes from the mansion I had just left, or forget the dead body lying there in the dark. War had already taught me to look upon death by violence with a certain callousness. I had walked over battle fields, strewn with corpses, almost unmoved. But this was murder, foul and treacherous—the victim a man whom as a boy I had been taught to respect and revere. The shying of my horse at the gate alone caused me to note ​the black something lying against the post. At first I deemed it a mere shadow, but the animal would not respond even to the spur, and I dismounted better to ascertain the cause of his fright. The negro lay there, dead as his master, a knife thrust in his heart. Then it was Taylor alone who had done the foul deed—and he had left no witnesses behind. Why had the fiend spared me in his bloody work? There could be but one reason—a thought in his cunning brain that I would be the one suspected—I, a helpless, unknown stranger, wearing the Confederate uniform, condemned by my own revolver lying beside the corpse—a hope that he would thus escape unfollowed. If he took such pains to cast suspicion on me, the man must have been aware that Major Harwood was not alone; that his death would be quickly discovered, and an effort made to avenge it.