My Lady of Doubt

by Randall Parrish

  CHAPTER XIII

  INTRODUCING PETER

  It was a new country to me that we traversed, a rolling country, but notthickly settled, although the road appeared to be a well-beaten track.The gloom, coupled with the rapidity of our movements, prevented me fromseeing anything other than those dim objects close at hand, yet we wereevidently travelling almost straight east. I endeavored to enter intoconversation with the two fellows riding on either side of me, butneither one so much as turned his head in response to my voice, and Isoon tired of the attempt. The night told me little of who they might be,although they were both in the uniform of the Queen's Rangers, the onecalled Peter on my right a round, squat figure, and bald-headed, his barescalp shining oddly when once he removed his cocked hat; the other was anolder man, with gray chin beard, and glittering display of teeth.

  But I gave these small consideration, my thought centring rather on thetwo riding in front, the Indian slouching carelessly in his saddle, hisreal shape scarcely discernible, while the lieutenant sat stiff andstraight, with head erect, his slender figure plainly outlined againstthe sky-line. He alone of the four spoke an occasional word, in thecontralto boyish voice, of which I made little, however, and the Indianmerely grunted an acknowledgment that he heard. The movements of my horsecaused the ropes to lacerate my wrists and ankles, the pain increasing sothat once or twice I cried out. The fellows guarding me did not even turntheir heads, but the lieutenant drew up his horse so as to block us.

  "What is the trouble? Are you hurt?"

  "These ropes are tearing into the flesh," I groaned. "I'd be just as safeif they were loosened a bit."

  I saw him lean forward, shading his face with one hand, as he staredtoward me through the darkness. I thought he drew a quick breath as fromsurprise, and there was a moment's hesitancy.

  "Let out the ropes a trifle, Peter," came the final order.

  The little bald-headed man went at it without a word, the lieutenantreining back his horse slightly, and drawing his hat lower over his eyes.In the silence one of the horses neighed, and the boy seemed tostraighten in his saddle, glancing suspiciously about.

  "Ride ahead slowly, Tonepah," he ordered. "I'll catch up with you." Heturned back toward me. "Who are you, anyway?"

  Surprised at the unexpected question, my first thought was to conceal myidentity. These were King's men, and I was in ordinary clothes--the roughhomespun furnished by Farrell. If, by any chance, I was not the partythey had expected to waylay, I might be released without search.

  "Who am I?" I echoed. "Do you mean you have gone to all this troublewithout knowing whom you hold prisoner?"

  "It seems so," coolly. "We know who we thought you were, but I ambeginning to doubt your being the right man. Peter, take his hat off."

  I straightened up bareheaded, the faint star-gleam on my face. Thelieutenant remained quiet, but Peter broke his sphinx-like silence.

  "Tain't him, is it?"

  "No; he must have taken the other road after all," with a slight laugh."We've been on a wild-goose chase. However, it's too late now to catchthe fellow on this trip."

  Peter rubbed his bald pate, his eyes on me.

  "An' what'll we do with this lad?" he answered drawlingly. "Turn himloose?"

  "Bring him along. We'll find out to-morrow who he is, and what hisbusiness may be. Men are not riding these roads at midnight without somepurpose."

  He wheeled his horse, and, with a touch of the spur, disappeared in thedarkness ahead. Peter clambered back into the saddle, and gripped myrein.

  "Come on," he said disgustedly, kicking the black in the side. "It's aways yet afore yer lie down."

  We rode steadily, and at a good pace. Occasionally the older man sworesolemnly, but Peter never uttered a sound, not even turning his head atmy attempts to draw him into conversation. The situation mystified me,but it became more and more evident that I should have to wait untilmorning before learning the truth. Neither guard would open his lips, andthe lieutenant rode straight forward, merely a dim shadow, in advance.There was no figuring the affair out. Why should these fellows, who,earlier in the evening, had been part of Delavan's wagon guard, be inambush to waylay some rider on the Bristol road? Who was it they soughtto capture? Where were they taking me, and why was I not released as soonas they discovered their mistake? These were the main questions, butthere were others also arising in mind. This did not seem to me like anordinary party of troopers; there was an offhand freedom from disciplinetotally unlike the British service. Neither Peter nor the Indian seemedto belong to the class with which the army was recruited. Peter appearedmore like a well-trained servant, and his riding was atrocious. And thelieutenant! There came back to me the haunting memory that he had joinedDelavan as a volunteer--the Dragoon uniform sufficient proof that he wasneither of the original foraging party of Hessians, nor of Grant'sdetachment of Rangers. Yet these others wore the green and white, andmust, therefore, have been in Grant's command. How did the four manage toescape from our attack, evidently animated by one purpose? Why was Grantso anxious to learn if I had seen the lieutenant, and whether we had aparty out seeking him? Not one of these questions could I answer; not onecould I even guess at with any degree of satisfaction.

  We were coming out of the low, swamp lands into a more thickly settled,and cultivated region. Rail and stone fences could be seen on either sidethe road, and we passed swiftly by a number of farmhouses, some simplelog structures, although one or two were more pretentious. In only one ofthese did a light shine, or any semblance of occupancy appear. Throughthe undraped window of a cottage I caught the glimpse of a woman bendingover a cradle. At the sound of our horses' hoofs she glanced up, afrightened look in her face, but her eyes quickly returned to what musthave been a sick child. It was like a picture thrown on a screen, and thenext instant we were galloping on through the dark, with only the memoryof it.

  It may have been two miles further along, when the lieutenant, and hisIndian companion, wheeled suddenly to the right, and, without slackeningspeed, rode through an open gate, and up a gravelled roadway, circlingthrough a grove of trees to the front door of a great square mansion. Itwas dark and silent, a wide porch in front supported by huge pillars, abroad flight of steps leading from the driveway. The Indian ran up these,leaving the lieutenant holding his horse, while we drew up some yards tothe rear. I heard the boom of the iron knocker, followed by a gleam oflight through a lower window. Then a negro's voice spoke, and the frontdoor opened, disclosing two figures, one with sputtering candle in hand.The two exchanged a dozen words before the lieutenant asked impatiently:

  "Is it all right, Tonepah?"

  The taciturn Indian made no attempt at speech, but gave an expressivegesture, and the young officer turned in his saddle.

  "Take the prisoner to the lower room, Peter," he ordered curtly. "I'lldecide to-morrow if he can be of any use to us."

  The two fellows loosened the rope about my ankles, and Peter waddlingahead, the graybeard gripping my arm, we climbed the steps, and enteredthe hall. A tall, slim negro, evidently a house-servant from his sleekappearance, eying me curiously, handed the little fellow a second lightedcandle, and the three of us went tramping along the wide hall, past thecircling stairs, until we came to a door at the rear. This the blackflung open, without a word, and I was led down into the basement. Theflickering candle yielded but glimpses of great rooms, beautifullydecorated, and, almost before I realized what was occurring, I had beenthrust into a square apartment, the door behind me closed and locked. Thetwo guards left the sputtering candle, perhaps a third burned, behind,and I heard them stumbling back through the darkness to the foot of thestairs. I glanced about curiously, shaking the loosened rope from mywrists, my mind instantly reverting to the chance of escape. Whoeverthese fellows might be, whatever their purpose, I had no intention ofremaining in their hands a moment longer than necessary. Somehow theirsilence, their mysterious movements, had impressed me with a strangefeeling of fear which I could not analyze. I could not belie
ve myself amere prisoner of war, but rather as being held for some private purposeyet to be revealed. Yet the room offered little promise. It was nearlysquare, the walls of stone solidly imbedded in mortar, the door of oak,thickly studded with nails, and the two small windows protected by thickiron bars. It was a cell so strong that a single glance about convincedme of the hopelessness of any attempt at breaking out. The furnitureconsisted of a small table, two very ordinary chairs, and an iron bunkfastened securely to the floor. I sat down on one of the chairs, andstared moodily about, endeavoring to think over the events of the night,and to devise some method of action. I could hear the muffled sound ofsteps above, and the opening and closing of doors. Once the rattle ofcrockery reached me, and I believed my captors were at lunch. I tried thebars at the windows, and endeavored to dig my knife-blade into themortar, but it was as hard as the stone. Discouraged, feeling utterlyhelpless, I threw myself on the bunk in despair.

  I was not there to exceed ten minutes when, without warning, the lockclicked, and Peter came in. I sat up quickly, but as instantly he hadclosed the door, and actually stood there grinning cheerfully. I wouldnever have believed him capable of so pleasant an expression but for theevidence of my own eyes.

  "Spring lock," he grumbled, a thumb over his shoulder, "opens outside."

  Whatever resemblance to a soldier he might have previously shown while inuniform was now entirely banished. Bareheaded, his bald dome of thoughtshining in the candle-light, his round, solemn face, with big innocentgray eyes gazing at me, an apron about his fat waist, the fellowpresented an almost ludicrous appearance. Somehow my heart warmed to him,especially as I perceived the tray, heavily laden, which he bore easilyon one arm, and the towel flung over his shoulder. And as I stared at himhis movements became professional. Silently, solemnly, his mind strictlyupon his duties, he wiped off the table top, and arranged the variousdishes thereon with the greatest care, polishing cups and glasses, andfinally placing one of the chairs in position. Stepping back, napkinstill upon arm, he bowed silently. I took the seat indicated, and glancedup into his almost expressionless face.

  "Peter, you old fraud," I said swiftly, "have you eaten?"

  "Not as yet, sir," his voice showing just the proper tone of deference,his eyes staring straight ahead.

  "Then take that chair and sit down."

  "Oh, no, sir; indeed, sir, I am not at all hungry, sir."

  I squared myself, fingering the knife at my plate.

  "Peter," I said, sternly, "I'm a better man than you are, and you'lleither sit down there and eat with me, or I'll lick you within an inch ofyour life. There is food enough here for three men, and I want company."

  He rubbed his hand across his lips, and I caught a gleam of intelligencein his eyes.

  "Well, sir, seeing you put it in that way, sir," he confessed, almost asthough in regret, "I hardly see how I can refuse. It is very flattering,sir." He drew up the other chair and sat down opposite me. "Would youcare for a glass of wine first, sir?" he asked solicitously. "It has beena rather dusty ride."