by Bret Harte
the cool-headed arbiter ofconflicting interests, he was ready to meet them, not only with theintrepid instincts of a soldier, but with an aroused partisan fury equalto their own. To his surprise no one followed; the baying of a thirdhound seemed to be silenced and checked; the silence was broken only bythe sound of distant disputing voices and the uneasy trampling of hoofs.This was followed by two or three rifle shots in the distance, but noteither in the direction of the quarters nor the Dows' dwelling-house.There evidently was some interruption in the pursuit,--a diversion ofsome kind had taken place,--but what he knew not. He could think ofno one who might have interfered on his behalf, and the shouting andwrangling seemed to be carried on in the accents of the one sectionalparty. He called cautiously to Cato. The negro did not reply. He crossedto the tree and shook it impatiently. Its boughs were empty; Catowas gone! The miserable negro must have taken advantage of the firstdiversion in his favor to escape. But where, and how, there was nothingleft to indicate.
As Courtland had taken little note of the trail, he had no idea of hisown whereabouts. He knew he must return to the fringe of cypress to beable to cross the open field and gain the negro quarters, where it wasstill possible that Cato had fled. Taking a general direction from thefew stars visible above the opening, he began to retrace his steps. Buthe had no longer the negro's woodcraft to guide him. At times his feetwere caught in trailing vines which seemed to coil around his ankleswith ominous suggestiveness; at times the yielding soil beneath histread showed his perilous proximity to the swamp, as well as the factthat he was beginning to incline towards that dread circle which is thehopeless instinct of all lost and straying humanity. Luckily the edge ofthe swamp was more open, and he would be enabled to correct his changedcourse again by the position of the stars. But he was becoming chilledand exhausted by these fruitless efforts, and at length, after a moredevious and prolonged detour, which brought him back to the swamp again,he resolved to skirt its edge in search of some other mode of issuance.Beyond him, the light seemed stronger, as of a more extended openingor clearing, and there was even a superficial gleam from the end of theswamp itself, as if from some ignis fatuus or the glancing of a pool ofunbroken water. A few rods farther brought him to it and a full view ofthe unencumbered expanse. Beyond him, far across the swamp, he could seea hillside bathed in the moonlight with symmetrical lines of small whitesquares dotting its slopes and stretching down into a valley of gleamingshafts, pyramids, and tombs. It was the cemetery; the white squareson the hillside were the soldiers' graves. And among them even at thatdistance, uplifting solemnly, like a reproachful phantom, was the brokenshaft above the dust of Chester Brooks.
With the view of that fateful spot, which he had not seen since his lastmeeting there with Sally Dows, a flood of recollection rushed upon him.In the white mist that hung low along the farther edge of the swamp hefancied he could see again the battery smoke through which the ghostlyfigure of the dead rider had charged his gun three years before; inthe vapory white plumes of a funereal plant in the long avenue he wasreminded of the light figure of Miss Sally as she appeared at their lastmeeting. In another moment, in his already dazed condition, he mighthave succumbed to some sensuous memory of her former fascinations, buthe threw it off savagely now, with a quick and bitter recalling of herdeceit and his own weakness. Turning his back upon the scene with ahalf-superstitious tremor, he plunged once more into the tracklesscovert. But he was conscious that his eyesight was gradually growing dimand his strength falling. He was obliged from time to time to stop andrally his sluggish senses, that seemed to grow heavier under some deadlyexhalation that flowed around him. He even seemed to hear familiarvoices,--but that must be delusion. At last he stumbled. Throwing out anarm to protect himself, he came heavily down upon the ooze, strikinga dull, half-elastic root that seemed--it must have been anotherdelusion--to move beneath him, and even--so confused were his sensesnow--to strike back angrily upon his prostrate arm. A sharp painran from his elbow to shoulder and for a moment stung him to fullconsciousness again. There were voices surely,--the voices of theirformer pursuers! If they were seeking to revenge themselves upon him forCato's escape, he was ready for them. He cocked his revolver and stooderect. A torch flashed through the wood. But even at that moment a filmcame over his eyes; he staggered and fell.
An interval of helpless semi-consciousness ensued. He felt himselflifted by strong arms and carried forward, his arm hanging uselessly athis side. The dank odor of the wood was presently exchanged for the freeair of the open field; the flaming pine-knot torches were extinguishedin the bright moonlight. People pressed around him, but so indistinctlyhe could not recognize them. All his consciousness seemed centred inthe burning, throbbing pain of his arm. He felt himself laid upon thegravel; the sleeve cut from his shoulder, the cool sensation of the hotand bursting skin bared to the night air, and then a soft, cool, andindescribable pressure upon a wound he had not felt before. A voicefollowed,--high, lazily petulant, and familiar to him, and yet one hestrove in vain to recall.
"De Lawdy-Gawd save us, Miss Sally! Wot yo' doin' dah? Chile! Chile! Yo''ll kill yo'se'f, shuah!"
The pressure continued, strange and potent even through his pain, andwas then withdrawn. And a voice that thrilled him said:--
"It's the only thing to save him! Hush, ye chattering black crow! Sayanything about this to a living soul, and I'll have yo' flogged! Nowtrot out the whiskey bottle and pour it down him."
CHAPTER VII.
When Courtland's eyes opened again, he was in bed in his own room atRedlands, with the vivid morning sun occasionally lighting up the wallwhenever the closely drawn curtains were lightly blown aside by thefreshening breeze. The whole events of the night might have been adream but for the insupportable languor which numbed his senses, andthe torpor of his arm, that, swollen and discolored, lay outside thecoverlet on a pillow before him. Cloths that had been wrung out iniced water were replaced upon it from time to time by Sophy, Miss Dows'housekeeper, who, seated near his bedhead, was lazily fanning him. Theireyes met.
"Broken?" he said interrogatively, with a faint return of his olddeliberate manner, glancing at his helpless arm.
"Deedy no, cunnle! Snake bite," responded the negress.
"Snake bite!" repeated Courtland with languid interest, "what snake?"
"Moccasin o' copperhead--if you doun know yo'se'f which," she replied."But it's all right now, honey! De pizen's draw'd out and clean gone.Wot yer feels now is de whiskey. De whiskey STAYS, sah. It gets into delubrications of de skin, sah, and has to be abso'bed."
Some faint chord of memory was touched by the girl's peculiarvocabulary.
"Ah," said Courtland quickly, "you're Miss Dows' Sophy. Then you cantell me"--
"Nuffin, sah absomlutely nuffin!" interrupted the girl, shaking her headwith impressive official dignity. "It's done gone fo'bid by de doctor!Yo' 're to lie dar and shut yo'r eye, honey," she added, for the momentreverting unconsciously to the native maternal tenderness of her race,"and yo' 're not to bodder yo'se'f ef school keeps o' not. De medicalman say distinctly, sah," she concluded, sternly recalling her dutyagain, "no conversation wid de patient."
But Courtland had winning ways with all dependents. "But you will answerme ONE question, Sophy, and I'll not ask another. Has"--he hesitatedin his still uncertainty as to the actuality of his experience and itsprobable extent--"has--Cato--escaped?"
"If yo' mean dat sassy, bull-nigger oberseer of yo'se, cunnle, HE'Ssafe, yo' bet!" returned Sophy sharply. "Safe in his own quo'tahs nightafo' las', after braggin' about the bloodhaowns he killed; and safe oberthe county line yes'day moan'in, after kicking up all dis rumpus. Ifdar is a sassy, highfalutin' nigger I jiss 'spises--its dat black niggerCato o' yo'se! Now,"--relenting--"yo' jiss wink yo' eye, honey,and don't excite yo'se'f about sach black trash; drap off to sleepcomfor'ble. Fo' you do'an get annuder word out o' Sophy, shuah!"
As if in obedience, Courtland closed his eyes. But even in his weakstate he was conscious of the blood coming into his cheek
at Sophy'srelentless criticism of the man for whom he had just periled his lifeand position. Much of it he felt was true; but how far had he been adupe in his quixotic defense of a quarrelsome blusterer and cowardlybully? Yet there was the unmistakable shot and cold-blooded attempt atCato's assassination! And there were the bloodhounds sent to track theunfortunate man! That was no dream--but a brutal inexcusable fact!
The medical practitioner of Redlands he remembered was conservative,old-fashioned, and diplomatic. But his sympathies had been broadened bysome army experiences, and Courtland