by John Galt
“Well, sir,” he said, speaking in better language than might have been expected from his appearance and demeanor, “well, sir, since you will not accept my humble hospitality, I wish you a good night. We shall most likely never meet again—if so, I wish you well, sir. I, too, have been a soldier—mind, when you reach the next bridge, directly you have passed it, you take the right hand path; a little brook you’ll have to ford, and it may be a thought high from this rain; but you will find it safe and a good bottom! No! no!” he added, as the traveller would have slipped a guinea into the hand he had extended—“no! no! I have done you no service; I will take no reward! Good night!”
“Good night, and thanks!” returned the other—and they parted! the traveller, in half repentant thought, blaming himself with generous self-reproach for the suspicious fears he had half entertained of his guides’ good faith, and, for the moment, well nigh regretting that he had not accompanied the other to his hospitable home. But thoughts like these were soon absorbed in the necessity of looking to the guidance of his horse among the various difficulties of darkness and unknown road—and now he reached the first bridge, and the cross track by which he was directed to proceed. Yet, though he had forgot no syllable of his instructions, he hesitated; for the left hand was evidently the most travelled route, and that, by which he had been told to journey, seemed but a narrow and occasional by-path. He hesitated, and while he stood there, a wild whooping cry rang on his ear; a melancholy, long-protracted wail, followed by the quick flapping of wide wings. As the first sound burst on his ear, the horseman started, and half turned in his saddle, thrusting his hand, meantime, into his ready holsters—but as the final notes were followed by the heavy rush of pinions on the night wind—“Why, what a timorous fool am I,” he muttered, “to be thus scared by the chance clamor of a silly fowl! Well! well! ’tis of a piece with my late doubts,” and setting spurs to his reluctant horse—reluctant to turn into that by-path—he trotted forward. A few steps brought him to a small gloomy hollow—the bed of the brooklet mentioned by the farmer—now swollen by the late storm into the semblance of a wintry torrent, brawling among loose stones, and at a few yards’ distance from the ford dashing a sheet of broad white foam over a rocky ridge into the fierce Ashuelot. The trees grew close down to the brink on either hand, o’ver canoping the dismal ford—the water was as black as Acheron! The traveller drew his rein, and steered his charger cautiously down the steep bank, when, as his fore feet touched the marge, a heavy blow was dealt him from behind, with a huge bludgeon, bowing him to the horse’s neck. Before he could recover, a second followed, truly aimed the juncture of the spine and skull; a flash of myriad sparks streamed through his reeling eyes—his brain spun round and round—and, with a heavy sullen splash, he fell into the shallow pool—a strong hand wheeled the charger round, and a smart blow upon the quarters, sent him in full career over the self-same road he had lately traversed under the guidance of his master’s hand. The freshness of the water laving his forehead, lent, for a moment, a new life to the wounded traveller—he sprang to his feet, and grappled at the throat of his unseen assailant! Just at that point of time, a single sheeted flash, the last faint glimmering of the retreated storm, played for a moment on the sky—he recognized by that faint glimmer the dark visage and the gloomy scowl—he marked the glitter of the long butcher-knife, too late to parry its home thrust. One cry on God for mercy! one long, sick, thrilling gasp! one fluttering shudder of the convulsed and lifeless limbs! and his heart’s blood was mingled with the turbulent stream—and he lay at the feet of his destroyer, a mere clod in the valley.
THE MYSTERY
It was now long past midnight, and—though the storm, which had so fiercely raved through the dim gorge of the Ashuelot, had spent its fury hours ago—the clouds yet hung heavy and low in grey and ghost-like wreath along the mountainsides; the stars were all unseen in their high places; the moon, hid in her vacant interlunar cave, offered no gracious rays to the belayed traveller. The lights, however, of the Hawknest, glimmering through its narrow casement, poured their long lines of yellow lustre into the bosom of the darkness, while, from within, the loud laugh of the revellers proclaimed that sleep, that night, held no uninterrupted sway over the inmates of the wayside tavern. The scene in the small bar-room was much the same as it has been described at a period some hours earlier on the same dismal night. The landlord, his avarice contending with his natural love of rest, scarce half awake, sat nodding in the bar; eight or nine men, in various postures of uneasy sleep, cumbered the unswept floor, wrapped up in blanket coats and buffalo robes; while five or six, their fellows, sat round a dirty pine table, playing at cards with a pack, the figures on which were all but invisible through the deep coat of filth and grease that covered them—and occasionally calling for some compound of the various fiery mixtures, which had already half-besotted their dull intellects. Such was the scene, and such the occupation of the casual inmates who that night filled the Hawknest tavern; when, suddenly, in the midst of a profound silence, which had endured for many minutes, unbroken, except by the fluttering sound of the cards, thrown heedlessly upon the board, the hiccough of the waking—or the heavy snore of the sleeping—drunkard!—suddenly there was heard a crash—a thundering crash, that made the walls of the low cottage reel, and the glasses positively jingle on the table—a crash, that simultaneously aroused all hands—some from their heavy slumbers, other from their engrossing game, to sudden terror and amazement! It seemed as if some ponderous weight had fallen on the floor of the room overhead. With anxious eager eyes the gazed into each other’s faces, speechlessly waiting for some repetition of the sound! “What’s that in the devil’s name?” asked one, pot valor mingling strangely with amazement in his blank features—“What’s in the chamber overhead?”
“Nothing,” replied the landlord, who appeared the most thoroughly dismayed of all the company—“there’s nothing in it now, nor hasn’t been these ten years!”
“The chimney’s fallen, then—that’s it, boys! that’s it, I’ll be sworn, so you needn’t look scart! The chimney’s been shook by the wind, Jackson, and so it’s jest now fell, and frightened all of us most out of our wits.”
This explanation, plausible as it seemed at first sight, was eagerly admitted by the party, anxious to adopt any reasoning that might efface their fast-growing superstition—but as the speaker ceased—while two or three of the boldest were in the act of moving toward the door as if to ascertain the truth of his suggestion, a strange, wild, wailing sound was heard, as it were, of the west wind rising after a lull. There was, however, in its tone, something more thrilling and less earthly than ever was marked in the cadences of the most furious gale that ever swept over earth or ocean. Wilder it waxed and wilder—louder and louder every instant, till it was no less difficult to catch the import of words spoken in that sheltered bar-room than it had been upon a frigate’s forecastle.
“God—what a hurricane!” cried one, and rushed to the door which opened directly on the road; but, as it yielded to his touch, no furious gust broke in—the air without was calm and motionless—not a twig quivered on the lofty elm, not a cloud stirred from its stance along the rocky flanks of the ravine, not a breath stirred the pendulous vane upon the gable—still that shrill, tremulous, rocking sound rang through the chambers of the tavern; and in an instant, every inmate of its walls, women and men and children, half dressed and pale, and trembling—as if ague-stricken—rushed down the creaking stairs, seeking for safety in companionship, and ere five minutes had elapsed, all were collected on the little space of greensward that sloped toward the east from the road downward to the river. Still the wild sound wailed on—and more than one of the stout woodsmen, their minds already half familiarized to that which had appalled them at the first, more from its suddenness than from any other cause, were rallying their scattered senses—when the tones rose yet shriller and more piercing, and changed, as it were, by magic, into a burst of the most fiendish and unnatura
l laughter; while two or three of the upper casements flew violently open, as if forced from within by some power which they could not resist. Upon the instant, actuated by some strange impulse which he could not have himself well explained, he who had been, from the first, the boldest of the party, levelled his rifle at the central window, and drew the trigger without uttering a word—the powder flashed in the pan, vivid and keen the stream of living flame burst from the muzzle, but the report, if such there were, was drowned in a yell that pealed from the same window, so horribly sustained, so long, so agonized, that the blood curdled in the stoutest hearts, while several of the women swooned outright, or fell into hysterics; and the continued outcries of the terrified children lasted long after the sounds, which had excited them, subsided into total silence—for with that awful and heart-rending shriek, the terrible disturbance ended. Some time elapsed without the utterance of a word—the distant lightning flickered across the dark horizon—the bat came flitting on his leathern wings around the eaves and angles of the low inn—the whip-poor-will was heard chanting his oft-repeated melancholy chant down in the thickets by the waterside, and the far rushing of the turbulent Ashuelot rose with a soothing murmur upon the silent night. By slow degrees the pallid and awe-stricken group recovered from their deep dismay—Dirk Ericson, the woodsman, who had discharged his rifle as fearlessly against the powers of air as though it had been against the breast of mortal foe—Dirk was a sturdy borderer from the frontiers of New York, whop had learned soldiership and woodcraft under the kindred guidance of Mad Anthony—Dirk Ericson was the first to enter the walls of the haunted dwelling, for such all now believed, closely escorted, however, by two sturdy brothers, Asa and Enoch Allen, sons of the soil, and natives of the wild gorge, through which they had so often chased the red-deer, or tapped the savage catamount. They entered, slowly, indeed, and guardedly—and with the muzzles of their true rifles lowered, and their knives loosened in the sheath as if to meet the onset of beings like themselves—but well-nigh fearlessly—for theirs were mountain-bred, tough hearts, which—the first sudden start passed over—feared neither man nor devil. They entered, but no sign or sight was there that showed of peril—lights stood there unsnuffed, capped with large, fiery fungusses, but burning quietly away—the glasses were untouched upon the board as when the revellers left them—the blankets of the sleepers lay undisturbed upon the dusty boards.
“Nothing here, boys,” said the undaunted Dirk. “Let’s see if the devil’s upstairs yet! I a’n’t afeared on him, boys, so how!” and snatching up a light, he rushed with a quick step, as though half doubtful of his own resolution, up the frail, clattering staircase. There, the large open space immediately above the bar-room, from which the other chambers opened, was, indeed, absolutely empty—there was no particle of furniture which could have fallen! no! not a billet of a wood, nor a stray brick! nor, in short, any symptom of the by-gone disturbance, except a few chips of plaster, which had been broken from the wall by Dirk’s unerring bullet, and now lay scattered on the floor. They searched the house from the garret to the cellar, and found no living thing, and heard no sound, but of their own making. They joined the group upon the green, and as they told of their fruitless search, the courage of all present rose! And soon it was agreed that no one had been in the least degree alarmed; and it was almost doubted by some among the number, whether there had, indeed, been any sounds, but what might be accounted for on natural causes. While they were yet in anxious conversation, another sound came from a distance on their ears, but this time, it was one to which all there were well accustomed—the hard tramp of a horse, apparently at a full gallop down the pass from the northward.
“Here comes a late traveller,” cried mine host. “Bustle, lads, bustle—best not be caught out hereaways, like a lot of scart chickens—jump, there, you Peleg Young, and fetch the lanthorn.”
Some of the party, as he spoke, turned inward, and betook themselves to a renewal of their potations as to some solace for the troubles they had undergone; while others, Ericson and his confederate hunters among the number, lingered to greet or gaze at the new comer. Nearer and nearer came the hard clanging tramp—and now Dirk shook his head.
“There is no bridle on that beast,” he said—“leastwise if there be a bridle, there a’n’t no hand to steer it. Hark! how wildlike it clatters down yon stony pitch—now it has started off the road upon the turf—and now—its a shodden hoof, too—see how it strike the fire on the hill-side! There a’n’t no rider there, or else my name’s not Dirk.”
Even as he spoke—bridled and saddled, but with his bridle flying loose, embossed with foam, reeking with sweat, and splashed with soil and clay of every hue and texture, a noble horse dashed at full speed into the very centre of the group, and stopping short with a couple of small, sudden plunges, and a wild whinny, stood perfectly quiet, and suffered Dirk to catch him by the bridle without any attempt at fight or resistance.
“Why, it’s the traveller’s horse,” he cried, almost upon the instant—“the stranger gentleman’s—that stopped in jest to supper, and rode on with black Cornelius Heyer. Here’s a queer go, now! something’s gone wrong, I reckon—show a light here!”
“The horse has come down, Dick, in the rough road; and the traveller’s pitched off, I guess; we’ll have him here to-rights,” said Asa Allen.
“You’re out this time, boy,” answered the woodman; “this beast harnt been down this night, anyways,” as he examined his knees by the light of the winking lanthorn, “and the stranger warn’t the last to pitch off, if he had. That chap was an old Dragooner, and a Virginian too, I reckon. This bridle’s broke, too—and see here, this long, thick wheal upon his flank—the traveller hadn’t no whip with him—and the blow what made this, was struck from behind, by a man on foot—see, it slants downward, forward and downward, tapering off to the front end! There’s been foul play here, anywise! Take hold of his head, Asa—and give me the light, you Peleg, till I look over his accoutrements. Pistols both in the holsters—that looks cur’ous, and—this here cover’s been pulled open, though, and in a hurry, too, for the loop’s broke—both loaded! Ha! here’s a drop of blood—jest one drop on the pummel. The traveller’s had foul play, boys—he has, no question of it!”