At this, he gives Harkness a shove which sends him staggering into the arms of the mulatto.

The latter, drawing a long stiletto-like knife, brandishes it before the ex-jailer's eyes, as he does so, saying:

"Ma.s.s Harkness; keep on afore me; I foller. If you try leave the track look-out. This blade sure go 'tween your back ribs."

The shining steel, with the sheen of Jupiter's teeth set in stern determination, is enough to hold Harkness honest, whatever his intent.

He makes no resistance, but, trembling, turns along the path.

Once out of the glade, they fall into single file, the narrow trace making this necessary; Woodley in the lead; Clancy second, holding his hound in leash; Heywood third; Harkness fourth; Jupiter with bared knife-blade bringing up the rear.

Never marched troop having behind it a more inexorable file-closer, or one more determined on doing his duty.

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT.

ACROSS THE FORD.

No need to tell who are the strange equestrians seen coming across the river; nor to say, that those on the croup are not Indian women, but white ones--captives. The reader already knows they are Helen and Jessie Armstrong.

Had Charles Clancy or Sime Woodley but suspected this at the time, they would not have waited for Heywood, or stood dallying about the duplicity of Harkness. Instead, they would have rushed right on to the river, caring little what chances might be against them. Having no suspicion of its being ought save two travelling redskins, accompanied by their squaws, they acted otherwise.

The captives themselves know they are not in charge of Indians. After hearing that horrid laughter they are no longer in doubt. It came from the throats of white men: for only such could have understood the speeches that called it forth.

This discovery affords them no gratification, but the opposite. Instead of feeling safer in the custody of civilised men, the thought of it but intensifies their fears. From the red savage, _pur sang_, they might look for some compa.s.sion; from the white one they need not expect a spark of it.

And neither does; both have alike lost heart and sunk into deepest dejection. Never crossed Acheron two spirits more despairing--less hopeful of happiness beyond.

They are silent now. To exchange speech would only be to tempt a fresh peal of that diabolical laughter yet ringing in their ears. Therefore, they do not speak a word--have not since, nor have their captors. They, too, remain mute, for to converse, and be heard, would necessitate shouting. The horses are now wading knee-deep, and the water, in continuous agitation, makes a tumultuous noise; its cold drops dashed back, clouting against the blankets in which the forms of the captives are enfolded.

Though silent, these are busy with conjectures. Each has her own about the man who is beside her. Jessie thinks she is sharing the saddle with the traitor, Fernand. She trembles at recalling his glances from time to time cast upon her--ill-understood then, too well now. And now in his power, soon to be in his arms! Oh, heavens--it is horror.-- Something like this she exclaims, the wild words wrung from her in her anguish. They are drowned by the surging noise.

Almost at the same instant, Helen gives out an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n. She, too, is tortured with a terrible suspicion about him whose body touches her own. She suspects him to be one worse than traitor; is almost sure he is an a.s.sa.s.sin!

If so, what will be her fate? Reflecting on it, no wonder she cries out in agony, appealing to heaven--to G.o.d!

Suddenly there is silence, the commotion in the water having ceased.

The hoofs strike upon soft sand, and soon after with firmer rebound from the bank.

For a length or two the horses strain upward; and again on level ground are halted, side by side and close together. The man who has charge of Helen, speaking to the other, says:--

"You'd better go ahead, Bill. I aint sure about the bye-path to the big tree. I've forgotten where it strikes off. You know, don't you?"

"Yes, lootenant; I guess I kin find where it forks."

No thought of Indians now--nor with Jessie any longer a fear of Fernand.

By his speech, the man addressed as Bill cannot be the half-blood. It is something almost to rea.s.sure her. But for Helen--the other voice!

Though speaking in undertone, and as if with some attempt at disguise, she is sure of having heard it before; then with distrust, as now with loathing. She hears it again, commanding:--"Lead on!"

Bill does not instantly obey, but says in rejoinder:--

"Skuse me, lootenant, but it seems a useless thing our goin' up to the oak. I know the Cap' sayed we were to wait for them under it. Why cant we just as well stay heer? 'Taint like they'll be long now. They wont dally a minute, I know, after they've clutched the shiners, an' I guess they got 'em most as soon as we'd secured these pair o' petticoats.

Besides they'll come quicker than we've done, seeing as they're more like to be pursooed. It's a ugly bit o' track 'tween here an' the big tree, both sides th.o.r.n.y bramble that'll tear the duds off our backs, to say nothin' o' the skin from our faces. In my opinion we oughter stay where we air till the rest jeins us."

"No," responds the lieutenant, in tone more authoritative, "We mustn't remain here. Besides, we cant tell what may have happened to them.

Suppose they have to fight for it, and get forced to take the upper crossing. In that case--"

The speaker makes pause, as if perceiving a dilemma.

"In that case," interpolates the unwilling Bill, "we'd best not stop heer at all, but put straight for head-quarters on the creek. How d'ye incline to that way of it?"

"Something in what you say," answers the lieutenant. Then adding, after a pause, "It isn't likely they'll meet any obstruction. The half-breed Indian said he had arranged everything clear as clock-work. They're safe sure to come this way, and 'twont do for us to go on without them.

Besides, there's a reason you appear not to think of. Neither you nor I know the trail across the upper plain. We might get strayed there, and if so, we'd better be in h.e.l.l?"

After the profane utterance succeeds a short interval of silence, both men apparently cogitating. The lieutenant is the first to resume.

"Bosley," he says, speaking in a sage tone, and for the first time addressing the subordinate by his family name. "On the prairies, as elsewhere, one should always be true to a trust, and keep it when one can. If there were time, I could tell you a curious story of one who tried but couldn't. It's generally the wisest way, and I think it's that for us now. We might make a mess of it by changing from the programme understood--which was for us to wait under the oak. Besides I've got a reason of my own for being there a bit--something you can't understand, and don't need telling about. And time's precious too; so spin ahead, and find the path."

"All right," rejoins the other, in a tone of a.s.sumed resignation.

"Stayin' or goin's jest the same to me. For that matter I might like the first way best. I kin tell ye I'm precious tired toatin this burden at my back, beauty though she be; an' by remainin' heer I'll get the sooner relieved. When Cap' comes he'll be wantin' to take her off my hands; to the which I'll make him welcome as the flowers o' May."

With his poetical wind-up, the reluctant robber sets his horse in motion, and leads on. Not far along the main road. When a few yards from the ford, he faces towards a trail on his left, which under the shadow is with difficulty discernible. For all this, he strikes into it with the confidence of one well acquainted with the way.

Along it they advance between thick standing trees, the path arcaded over by leafy branches appearing as dark as a tunnel. As the horses move on, the boughs, bent forward by their b.r.e.a.s.t.s, swish back in rebound, striking against the legs of their riders; while higher up the hanging _llianas_, many of them beset with spines, threaten to tear the skin from their faces.

Fortunately for the captives, theirs are protected by the close-woven serapes. Though little care they now: thorns lacerating their cheeks were but trivial pain, compared to the torture in their souls. They utter no complaint, neither speaking a word. Despair has stricken them dumb; for, moving along that darksome path, they feel as martyrs being conducted to stake or scaffold.

CHAPTER FIFTY NINE.

A FOILED AMBUSCADE.

Almost at the same instant the double-mounted steeds are turning off the main road, Woodley and those with him enter upon it; only at a point further away from the ford.

Delayed, first in considering what should be done with Harkness, and afterwards by the necessity of going slowly, as well as noiselessly along the narrow trace, they have arrived upon the road's edge just in time to be too late.

As yet they are not aware of this, though Woodley has his apprehensions; these becoming convictions, after he has stood for a time listening, and hears no sound, save that of the water, which comes in hoa.r.s.e hiss between the trees, almost deafening the ear. For at this point the stream, shallowing, runs in rapid current over a pebbly bed, here and there breaking into crests.

Woodley's fear has been, that before he and his companions reach the road, the Indians might get past. If so, the chances of taking them will be diminished perhaps gone altogether. For, on horseback, they would have an advantage over those following afoot; and their capture could only be effected by the most skilful stalking, as such travellers have the habit of looking behind.

The question is--Have they pa.s.sed the place, where it was intended to waylay them?

"I don't think they hev," says Woodley, answering it. "They have hardly hed time. Besides 'tain't nat'ral they'd ride strait on, jest arter kimmin' acrosst the river. It's a longish wade, wi' a good deal o' work for the horses. More like they've pulled up on reachin' the bank, an'

air thar breathin' the critters a bit."

None of the others offering an opinion, he adds--