The Red Mist. Randall Parrish

westward. Indeed, before I could clearly collect my thoughts, I was in the midst of the horsemen, slowly moving east once more over the dark road. Fox held position beside me, talking freely about his varied experiences since enlistment, and I only found it necessary to encourage him by interjecting an occasional brief reply. He was evidently fond of his own voice, and glad to find a new auditor. His reminiscences had little reference to matters of interest to me, and my own thoughts were of the present situation, although I listened to his droning, and was ready to respond. I must find some means for parting company with these friendly cavalrymen, before they discovered the fate of Harwood. That was my first inclination; then it occurred to me that possibly I could attain my end more easily by making use of their protection. Why not? Neither Fox, nor any of his men, had slightest reason to question my identity. They would never connect me with the death of the Major, and, beyond doubt, they would immediately follow any trail the murderer left. If he went east or south the pursuers would never dare venture more than a few miles, for there were Confederates stationed in some force at Covington, but if Taylor, by chance, had turned west in his flight, the pursuit ​would take me into the very section to which I had been assigned. And if it proved this man Taylor was in reality old Ned Cowan, that was where he would naturally go—to his own people among the mountains of Green Briar. The knowledge that the real Raymond was actually expected to arrive in western Virginia complicated affairs greatly, and added to my peril. But it made my present position easier, and there might be ample time for me to carry out my plans before his appearance on the scene. Anyhow I had small chance to choose at present, and could only drift as fate ordained.

      Riding as rapidly as the darkness made possible, we clattered into the deserted street at Hot Springs, and Fox cursed vigorously the negligent guard. The sergeant knew little of where Major Harwood had gone, as he had given no orders, and not even intimated the probable time of his return. When last seen he was riding out the south road accompanied only by his servant. That was late in the afternoon, and the sergeant supposed they were merely exercising the horses. Yes, there were two men who passed through the village about dusk, an old mountaineer, and a young fellow in Confederate uniform. He didn't know where they went, as he was asleep at the time, and Corporal Green, and most of the squad, were fishing in the creek. The blacksmith told him ​about them, and said they were both on horseback, and had taken the south road. No, he hadn't given the matter any further thought. Fox swore again, and ordered the men into saddle, and we swung out at a sharp trot along the dirt pike. I rode next him, but the Captain was in such rage I kept silent, knowing well the tragic discovery soon to be revealed. The gray dawn began to steal about us, making objects near at hand visible, and revealing the tired faces of the cavalrymen. There was sufficient light to enable us to perceive the gloomy house in the oak grove, and the motionless form lying beside the gate. Fox drew up his horse with a jerk, and leaned forward staring.

      "My God, men!" he exclaimed, choking. "That's Harwood's nigger. Turn the body over, Green—ah! the poor devil was knifed. Here, a half dozen of you, unsling carbines, and follow me—there's been dirty work done. Sergeant, don't let your men destroy those hoof-prints in the road. Lively now, lads!"

      I advanced with them up the driveway, fearful that if I held back, it might later be commented upon. The front door refused admittance, but we entered from the rear. Everything within was exactly as I had left it, and in the parlor, still dark because of closed blinds, lay the lifeless body of ​Harwood. Fox fell upon his knees beside the motionless form, ordering the windows thrown open, his hands touching the lifeless flesh.

      "Dead for hours," he exclaimed in a tone of horror, turning his gaze upon me. "Struck from behind—see, Raymond. What in God's name can this mean?"

      He began searching the pockets.

      "Not robbery—for here is money, and a watch. But the papers are gone, every scrap of them." He looked about at the men. "The Major had his papers with him, did he not, Chambers?"

      "Yes, sir," and the young, boyish soldier addressed straightened up. "I was with him when he put on citizen's clothes, and he slipped a big buff packet into his pocket."

      Fox's bewildered glance met mine.

      "Do you know what that packet contained, Captain?" I questioned.

      "Only that it was entrusted to his care by General Ramsay, and its destination was the army on the Potomac."

      "To be forwarded by this man Taylor?"

      "I do not know. Harwood expected to meet Taylor here at Hot Springs, but I think there were others to be here also. The Major kept his own counsel, but something I overheard caused me to ​believe his engagement with Taylor was of a more private nature. Chambers was his clerk, perhaps he knows."

      The lad shook his head, his eyes on the dead man.

      "I'm certain those papers were not meant for him, sir," he answered slowly. "They were to be given to a scout named Dailey. It was some other business that brought the Major here all alone—but he never told me."

      There was nothing further to be discovered, and Fox realized the necessity of haste. His orders were prompt. Four men were detailed to bury the body, and then rejoin the column as soon as possible. The others were marched back to the gate, and remounted. Taylor had apparently made no effort to conceal his trail, the hoof-prints of his horse showing clearly now daylight had returned. He had ridden south at a sharp trot, and Fox, satisfied as to this fact, ordered his men forward. The gait at which we rode rendered conversation impossible, although my horse easily kept stride beside the Captain. More and more clearly the strangeness of my position was borne in upon my mind—here I was in Federal uniform, in a column of blue-clad cavalry, riding desperately in pursuit of a fugitive. It was all a series of strange accidents, and I could not figure out how I was to extricate myself from the ​position I had been compelled to assume. I had been accepted without question, and there was no excuse I could urge for escape. And how would I better my condition if I discovered one? If Taylor was a Confederate he would head directly for Covington, and, as soon as this was determined, this little squad of troopers would abandon pursuit. He had several hours start, and it would be foolhardy to attempt to overhaul the fellow. But if the man turned west—and surely there must be a crossroad below—Fox would keep on indefinitely. The Captain was of bulldog breed, if I was any judge of character, and his one thought now was the capture of Harwood's murderer. Such a course would bring us into the very heart of Green Briar, where my connection with this squad of troopers would serve me well.

      It was an hour later when we came suddenly to the fork, the south branch leading over a long clay hill, the west along a rocky ridge. Fox sprang to the ground, and followed the faint prints of the horse we were pursuing for a hundred yards on foot. Some cattle had passed southward, but there was a defect in the shoe of the animal Taylor rode clearly revealed in the clay. The Captain came back, a grim smile on his lips.

      "The cuss was no Johnny Reb," he said shortly. ​"That was what I was afraid of, but now I know what to do. We'll save our horses, men, for this is going to be a long ride—that murdering devil is headed for the Green Briar. This is the lower Lewisburg road." He swung up into saddle. "Green, take three men ahead with you, and keep half a mile in advance. Watch out carefully, for there may be graybacks along here. Going with us, Lieutenant?"

      "About the best thing I can do," I replied readily, "my orders were for Green Briar and Fayette."

      "All right, then, but they had small respect for your life when they sent you in there. From all I hear it is like a menagerie of wild animals broken loose—good fighting anywhere. Only trouble will be there is so much at home there will be no need for the boys to enlist. However that's your affair, not mine." His eyes surveyed his men keenly. "Loosen carbines! Forward march! Trot!"

      Silently, save for the jingle of accoutrements, and the thud of horses' feet, we rode westward, sunlight flecking the dusty uniforms. The pike dipped down into a hollow, and, climbing the hill beyond, appeared the figures of the four scouts. Far away was the haze of the mountains.

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      CHAPTER VI THE NIGHT ATTACK