The Complete Short Stories of Stephen Crane. Stephen Crane

what he would do in case the enemy should happen to pounce out at him.

      The familiar scene suddenly assumed a new aspect. The field of corn, which met the road upon the left, was no longer a mere field of corn. It was a darkly mystic place whose recesses could contain all manner of dangers. The long green leaves, waving in the breeze, rustled from the passing of men. In the song of the insects there were now omens, threats.

      There was a warning in the enamel blue of the sky, in the stretch of yellow road, in the very atmosphere. Above the tops of the corn loomed the distant foliage of Smith's woods, curtaining the silent action of a tragedy whose horrors they imagined.

      The women and the little boys came to a halt, overwhelmed by the impressiveness of the landscape. They waited silently.

      Mrs. Goodwin suddenly said: "I'm goin' back." The others, who all wished to return, cried at once disdainfully:

      "Well, go back, if yeh want to!"

      A cricket at the roadside exploded suddenly in his shrill song, and a woman, who had been standing near, shrieked in startled terror. An electric movement went through the group of women. They jumped and gave vent to sudden screams. With the fears still upon their agitated faces, they turned to berate the one who had shrieked. "My! what a goose you are, Sallie! Why, it took my breath away. Goodness sakes, don't holler like that again!"

      II

      "Hol' on a minnet!" Peter Witheby was crying to the major, as the latter, full of the importance and dignity of his position as protector of Migglesville, paced forward swiftly. The veteran already felt upon his brow a wreath formed of the flowers of gratitude, and as he strode he was absorbed in planning a calm and self-contained manner of wearing it. "Hol' on a minnet!" piped old Peter in the rear.

      At last the major, aroused from his dream of triumph, turned about wrathfully. "Well, what?"

      "Now, look a' here," said Peter. "What 'che goin' t' do?"

      The major, with a gesture of supreme exasperation, wheeled again and went on. When he arrived at the cornfield he halted and waited for Peter. He had suddenly felt that indefinable menace in the landscape.

      "Well?" demanded Peter, panting.

      The major's eyes wavered a trifle. "Well," he repeated—"well, I'm goin' in there an' bring out that there rebel."

      They both paused and studied the gently swaying masses of corn, and behind them the looming woods, sinister with possible secrets.

      "Well," said old Peter.

      The major moved uneasily and put his hand to his brow. Peter waited in obvious expectation.

      The major crossed through the grass at the roadside and climbed the fence. He put both legs over the topmost rail and then sat perched there, facing the woods. Once he turned his head and asked, "What?"

      "I hain't said anythin'," answered Peter.

      The major clambered down from the fence and went slowly into the corn, his gun held in readiness. Peter stood in the road.

      Presently the major returned and said, in a cautious whisper: "If yeh hear anythin', you come a-runnin', will yeh?"

      "Well, I hain't got no gun nor nuthin'," said Peter, in the same low tone; "what good 'ud I do?"

      "Well, yeh might come along with me an' watch," said the major. "Four eyes is better'n two."

      "If I had a gun—" began Peter.

      "Oh, yeh don't need no gun," interrupted the major, waving his hand: "All I'm afraid of is that I won't find 'im. My eyes ain't so good as they was."

      "Well—"

      "Come along," whispered the major. "Yeh hain't afraid, are yeh?"

      "No, but—"

      "Well, come along, then. What's th' matter with yeh?"

      Peter climbed the fence. He paused on the top rail and took a prolonged stare at the inscrutable woods. When he joined the major in the cornfield he said, with a touch of anger:

      "Well, you got the gun. Remember that. If he comes for me, I hain't got a blame thing!"

      "Shucks!" answered the major. "He ain't agoin' t' come for yeh."

      The two then began a wary journey through the corn. One by one the long aisles between the rows appeared. As they glanced along each of them it seemed as if some gruesome thing had just previously vacated it. Old Peter halted once and whispered: "Say, look a' here; supposin'—supposin'—"

      "Supposin' what?" demanded the major.

      "Supposin'—" said Peter. "Well, remember you got th' gun, an' I hain't got anythin'."

      "Thunder!" said the major.

      When they got to where the stalks were very short because of the shade cast by the trees of the wood, they halted again. The leaves were gently swishing in the breeze. Before them stretched the mystic green wall of the forest, and there seemed to be in it eyes which followed each of their movements.

      Peter at last said, "I don't believe there's anybody in there."

      "Yes, there is, too," said the major. "I'll bet anythin' he's in there."

      "How d' yeh know?" asked Peter. "I'll bet he ain't within a mile o' here."

      The major suddenly ejaculated, "Listen!"

      They bent forward, scarce breathing, their mouths agape, their eyes glinting. Finally, the major turned his head. "Did yeh hear that?" he said hoarsely.

      "No," said Peter in a low voice. "What was it?"

      The major listened for a moment. Then he turned again. "I thought I heerd somebody holler!" he explained cautiously.

      They both bent forward and listened once more. Peter, in the intentness of his attitude, lost his balance, and was obliged to lift his foot hastily and with noise. "S-s-sh!" hissed the major.

      After a minute Peter spoke quite loudly: "Oh, shucks! I don't believe yeh heerd anythin'."

      The major made a frantic downward gesture with his hand. "Shet up, will yeh!" he said in an angry undertone.

      Peter became silent for a moment, but presently he said again: "Oh, yeh didn't hear anythin'."

      The major turned to glare at his companion in despair and wrath.

      "What's th' matter with yeh? Can't yeh shet up?"

      "Oh, this here ain't no use. If you're goin' in after 'im, why don't yeh go in after 'im?"

      "Well, gimme time, can't yeh?" said the major in a growl. And, as if to add more to this reproach, he climbed the fence that compassed the woods, looking resentfully back at his companion.

      "Well," said Peter, when the major paused.

      The major stepped down upon the thick carpet of brown leaves that stretched under the trees. He turned then to whisper: "You wait here, will yeh?" His face was red with determination.

      "Well, hol' on a minnet!" said Peter. "You—I—we'd better—"

      "No," said the major. "You wait here."

      He went stealthily into the thickets. Peter watched him until he grew to be a vague, slow-moving shadow. From time to time he could hear the leaves crackle and twigs snap under the major's awkward tread. Peter, intent, breathless, waited for the peal of sudden tragedy. Finally, the woods grew silent in a solemn and impressive hush that caused Peter to feel the thumping of his heart. He began to look about him to make sure that nothing should spring upon him from the sombre shadows. He scrutinised this cool gloom before him, and at times he thought he could perceive the moving of swift silent shapes. He concluded that he had better go back and try to muster some assistance to the major.

      As Peter came through the corn, the