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NORTH CAROLINIANA
COLLECTION

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

 
 

 
 

Homeward Trail

BY
WALDRON BAILY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AUTHOR OF
HEART OF THE BLUE RIDGE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

GEORGE W. GAGE

NEW YORK,

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

 

HE a i a i a |

C

He noted as never before the slender grace of ne form
with its lithe erectness

 
 

CopyRIGHT, 1916, BY
W. J. WATT & COMPANY

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

CHAPTER I

AVID, sitting under an apple tree, stared
with vague eyes toward the thicket of
dogwood that bordered on the far side of
the orchard. Then, of a sudden, his gaze
quickened as there came a movement of the
foliage, and a fawn stepped daintily out
into the open, where it stood placidly regard-
ing the young man with limpid, friendly
eyes. One ear stood out at a right angle
from the head; the other was laid back, at-
tentive to something within the thicket.
David knew that this something must be
Ruth, with whom her fawn wandered every-
where. He stood up expectantly. A moment
later, the girl issued from the shelter, and
at sight of the youth stopped short beside

the fawn, which muzzled her hand in a gentle
caress.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

For a little, the boy and the girl were silent,
studying each other with intentness, in
which was something partly admiration,
partly surprise, as if they saw with a new
clarity of vision. It was borne in on David
with startling abruptness that his childish
playfellow of years was a child no longer,
was indeed a woman grown, and, too, beauti-
ful. He noted as never before the slender
graces of her form with its lithe erectness.
His glances roved half-shyly over the delicate
contours of the oval face, and he saw that
she was very fair. He had known it before,
but not as he knew it now in this flash of
illumination. An unfamiliar beauty was re-
vealed to him here and now in the red lips
curving so tenderly, in the satiny purity of
the complexion with its petals of rose in the
cheeks and the trace of brown given by the
sun, in the aureole of hair that was itself like
sunlight, in the lucent blue eyes, which shone
with mingled mirth and pride and affection.

Ruth, for her part, in her contemplation
of David recognized something unfamiliar.
She did not quite understand its significance,
but she felt herself half-confusedly abashed
by its presence. She sensed dully that her

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 3

boyish companion, as if in the twinkling of
an eye, had become of a man’s full stature.
The thought subtly distressed her, even while
it gratified her. So she thrust the idea out
of her mind in order that she might greet
him again to-day as yesterday.

“‘Oh, Dave!’? she called. There was a
warm note beneath the gayety that rang in
her tones. ‘Just think of pappy’s trusting
you to do all that business for him! I reckon
he never let anybody else collect money for
him.’? She laughed as she added: ‘‘You
know pappy’s mighty particular about his
money.’’

David grinned in response.

“‘Yes, there ain’t no two ways about his
being almighty close. He sure does make the
eagle squawk plumb awful every time he
pinches a dollar. I cal’late I’m some proud
over his sendin’? me with that load of
apples.’’

‘<Tt means you’re grown up, Dave,’’ Ruth
answered, and there was a hint of wistful-
ness in the music of her voice. Then, because
she herself by no means understood the full
Significance of her words, she went forward
quickly with the fawn at her side. When

 
 

4 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

she came to where the young man stood,
she paused, and put her hands to his cheeks,
and, as he bowed his head toward her, lifted
her face, and put her lips to his. In the
same second, she drew away from him, and
her cheeks flamed as they had never flamed
before from the kisses she had given him.
She stood mute and motionless, with down-
cast eyes, in a trouble half-shamed, half-
sweet.

David, too, stood wordless in a great con-
fusion. The kiss had loosed in him a flood
of emotion that thrilled and bewildered. It
was as if consciousness were drowned in the
tide of feeling. And as in the case of a
drowning man the whole life passes in re-
view during a few seconds, so now before
the mind of David a scroll was unrolled. But

this panorama showed only the kisses of ~

Ruth. They had been frank, free kisses all,
some tender, some mischievous, always kindly.
For, as to this young man and woman, each
was an only child, and, since they lived on
adjoining farms, they had always been play-
fellows. David remembered the day of his
first great grief, when from a field whither
he had gone to weep alone over the mother

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 5

who lay dying, he had seen his father come
out of the house and pass down the road
toward the village. A great desolation had
fallen on him, for the man bore, according
to local custom, the measuring stick, which
he had cut to the length of his wife’s form,
and which he wouldnow carry to the carpenter
to serve as a measure for the coffin. So the
boy had known that his mother was dead.
Ruth had come to him in the misery of that
hour, had comforted him with her kisses.
Again, within the year, when his father went
to fight in the Confederate cause, leaving
the gon in charge of William Swaim, Ruth’s
father, the: girl had welcomed him to his
new home with kisses, and had cheered him
in his loneliness. When, on his return from
a hunting trip with his father in the Blue
Ridge Mountains, along the upper reaches
of the Yadkin River, he brought her, accord-
ing to a promise made, a fawn which he had
caught, she had showered on him glad kisses
of gratitude. There had been other kisses
innumerable—joyous, teasing, tender. Here
was one of a sort altogether different. In
it was something disturbing, something curi-
ously penetrating and potent. It was a

 
 

6 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

mystery to this boy who did not yet realize
his manhood.

The rough voice of Swaim broke the spell
that held the two.

‘“‘Drat thet-thar dumned pesky deer t?
Tophet! Ye left the corn-crib door open,
Dave, consarn ye! An’ the ornery critter
has done et nigh a full peck 0’ seed corn,
an’ thet seed corn’s wuth money, by cripes!”?
The old man glared accusingly in turn at
David and Ruth and the fawn, which had
slipped away to a little distance as if
in conscious acknowledgment of its guilt
David, though aware that he was not at fault
in the matter, forbore any attempt at de-
fense, for he had no wish at this time to pro-
voke further his penurious and irascible
task-master. Ruth, however, boldly resented
this flouting of her pet.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,
pappy,’’ she declared spiritedly, ‘‘to be-
grudge a darling little thing like Mollie a
few ears of your old corn. And,’’ she added
impudently, ‘‘likely you left the door open
yourself. Dave is a sight more careful than
you are, pappy, and you know it.’’

The father drew his shaggy gray brows

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 7

in a fierce scowl, which the daughter bore

undaunted. His voice came with a rasp.
“Git inter the house, Miss High-an’-

Mighty, an’ help maw with the bakin’ an’

‘Sweepin’ an’ sich-like women’s tricks, instid

0’ lally-gaggin’ round hyar a-wastin’ yer
own time an’ Dave’s.’?

The scarlet flooded Ruth’s cheeks once
again at this direct attack, and she retreated
in haste, the fawn following. The old farmer
turned his frown on David, whom he re-
garded grimly for a long time. He was a
hard man and uncouth. He had a reputation
for meanness throughout the community,
and it was deserved. In his fashion, doubt-
less, he loved both his wife and daughter,
but they suffered none the less from his
penuriousness. Hig parsimony fretted Mrs.
Swaim more than it might have most of the
neighboring wives, there among the foothills
of the Blue Ridge, in North Carolina, for she
was of better birth than her husband, and
had even received the advantages of a course
in the female seminary at Salem. In her
romantic girlhood, her fancy had been caught
by the handsome and virile mountaineer.
She had been speedily disillusioned. Her

 
 

8 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

single compensation was in Ruth, and for
her daughter’s sake, she had held herself
from falling into the slovenly ways and il-
literate speech of the community. So, too,
she had trained her child as best she knew
how in matters of deportment and manner
of speaking. William Swaim had no sym-
pathy for any such ‘ ’tarnal foolishness.”’
He demonstrated the fact now by his aspect
as he stood glowering at the young man.
He was barefooted, and shirt and overalls
hung loosely on the tall, thin form. In the
deep hollow between the outstanding neck
muscles, the huge Adam’s apple jumped
spasmodically, as he chewed his quid of to-
bacco, and either spat or swallowed the
juice. The face was thin and drawn, brown
and wrinkled. The beak-like nose hinted of
eruelty and avarice. The sparse gray hair
and the tangle of whitening beard were un-
kempt and frowsy. The eyes were pale and
watery, with reddened lids. They were blink-
ing now as he contemplated David with a
malevolent distrust, which found expression
in his next words.

‘““Hit’s powerful resky trustin’ business t’
a harum-scarum galoot what hain’t got sense

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 9

enough t’ lock wanderin’ wild beasts outen
the corn-crib.’’ David opened his mouth to
protest, but thought better of it, and per-
mitted the slur to pass unrebuked. ““They ll
be quite some money a-comin’ fer thet-thar
load o’ limber-twig apples. I’m puttin’
right smart 0’ confidence in you-all, David
an’ I dunno as I had orter ’a’ done hit. ie
I said, it’s resky—pizen resky.’’ Having
thus relieved his saturnine humor, cae
iis almost cheerful, and spoke alertly.
ime we got busy with che load, t’ git hit
done come night, so’s yc kin start at sun-up
t’-morrer.”? |
David followed obedientiy, even with huge
Satisfaction. For this commission given him
by Swaim to sell the apples in Salisbury.
though seemingly such a trifling thing, was in
truth a matter of serious importance to those
chiefly concerned. To the elder man, the

sending forth of the youth was in the nature

of a test. David’s father and he had been
friends as well as neighbors. Naturally
enough, by reason of their mutual liking, and
too, by reason of the fact that their fin
adjoined, and that each had an only child,

they had planned a marriage between their

 
 

10 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

children. With more discretion than parents
in such cases usually display, they had kept
the project secret from those most concerned.
Swaim had much liking for the lad, which,
however, he was at pains to conceal. His
decision to entrust David with the sale of
the apples would never have been reached,
had he not felt that it was a duty he owed
himself to try out the business ability of
his daughter’s prospective husband. So, to
him, a bit of petty marketing carried deep
significance.

To David (and to Ruth as well) the matter
was serious because it brought to the young
man the first real responsibility in his life,
and the fact marked his stepping across the
threshold that separates boyhood from ma-
turity. A trivial event truly in the judgment
of those more sophisticated. Yet, to these
primitive folk, the occasion marked an epoch.
For that matter, this undertaking apparently
so simple was destined to prove the begin-
ning of vital episodes in the lives of David
Simmons and Ruth Swain.

CHAPTER II

EFORE dawn the following morning,
David had thrown the harness on the
tassel-tails, as he called the mules, and
hitched them to the canvas-hooded wagon
laden with apples. A blast of the horn sum-
moned him to the breakfast which Ruth had
prepared and now served to him. But there
was still constraint between the two, and
their words were few and perfunctory.
David seemed to give his entire attention to
the meal before him, and thus left Ruth free
covertly to study the clean-cut features of
the young man, framed by the waving black
hair. She considered for the first time, with
a maidenly wonder that was almost awe and
wholly admiration, the breadth of his shoul-
ders, the depth of his chest, the slim waist
and tapering flanks. It was only when at
last he arose from the table with a sigh of
repletion that David’s black eyes met Ruth’s
in a long, intent, questioning gaze. Presently,
11

 
 

 

 

12 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

the girl’s glance wavered and fell, and the
color mantled her cheeks. David felt a thrill
of exaltation, though he could not in the least
understand why.

“‘T wish you luck, Dave,’’? Ruth said. Her
voice was very low, faltering a little. ‘‘I’m
sure you’ll make a good job of it.’’ But she
did not offer him a kiss, nor did he ask it.

‘‘Do the best I can,’’ he replied, and hur-
ried out.

Within a minute, he was seated on the
driver’s seat under the shelter of the pro-
jecting canvas top, and, with a savage crack
of the long-lashed mule-whip, was off. Cran-
ing back for a last look, he saw Ruth in the
doorway, who waved her hand to him, and he
waved in return. Then, with a great con-
tentment in his heart, he settled himself to
the long drive. Though David was too
familiar with his surroundings to be deeply
stirred by them, nevertheless the beauty of
the scene harmonized with his mood, and
served to emphasize it. His eyes scanned
with pleasure the luxurious tints that the
autumn had painted on the foliage of dog-
wood and oak and sweet-gum. <A bob-white
ealled from a thicket, and David whistled a

 

 

Then, with a great contentment in his heart, he settled
himself to the long drive

 

 
 

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 13

response. He listened, without any futile
thought of imitating, to the soft and exquisite
singing of a mocking bird hidden within the
wood. There was no drawback to his satis-
faction as he journeyed on. The fall rains
had held off, so that the roads were good,
and he made excellent progress. Other
wagons, similarly loaded, swung into the high-
way from cross-roads, until David found him-
self one of a caravan moving leisurely within
a cloud of thick, red dust. The song of birds,
the murmur of brooks, the rustling of leaves
beneath the light wind were overborne by @
riot of coarser sounds—the thudding of
mules’ hoofs on the hard clay, the clanking
of harness chains, the creaking of heavy
wagons, the bawled oaths of drivers, the
hisses and crackling reports of whip-lashes ;
at the fords, the noise of churned waters, the
snorting of the beasts, the raucous laughter
and shouted conversations of the teamsters.

At nightfall, the train halted and made

camp. David, after he had attended to the

mules, fried his bacon and eggs over the
common fire. Then he rolled himself in his
blanket on the ground beneath the wagon,
and fell asleep to the lullaby of strenuously.

 
 

14 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

strummed banjos that came from the boister-
ous group still gathered around the fire.

The strangeness of his situation caused
David to awake long before the first glim-
merings of light. In his eagerness to accom-
plish the task set him, he at once began his
preparations for the road, since he could see
clearly enough by the starlight. He had fed
the mules, and breakfasted, and started off
before anyone else in the camp was stirring.
So, it came about that in mid-forenoon he
swung the mules on the easterly stretch of
the route to Salisbury.

It was as he came close to his destination
that for the first time his spirit lost its buoy-
ancy. There before him, on a tract of the
tising ground between the town and the
river, loomed grimly the high stockade of the
Confederate prison. At first glimpse of it,
David’s thoughts flew to his father, who had
been captured, and now languished in some
place like this far to the north, under guard
of Union soldiers. David had heard much
concerning the sufferings of the captives here
in Salisbury prison, and, as he pitied them,
he was filled with dire forebodings over the
fate of his father. Where the road passed

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 15

alongside the high stockade, the ground
sloped sharply upward, so that from his
perch on the wagon seat, he was above the
level of the stockade’s top, and could look
down and behold every detail of the grue-
some spectacle within the barrier. David
pulled the mules to a standstill, and stared
at the scene, fascinated and appalled.

The acres of the inclosure were crowded
with a tatterdemalion horde. These men were
gaunt starvelings, the wretched, famine-
stricken victims of war’s cruelty. They were
clad in soiled rags of uniform, which flapped
grotesquely loose on the emaciated bodies.
Through the masks of bushy whiskers
showed pallid features, lighted by cavernous
eyes. Some were so weakened by privations
that they were shivering even in the full
warmth of the sunlight. On many, the ban-
dages were witness of wounds still unhealed.
Often an arm was lacking; often a leg.

One of those mutilated in the latter fashion
first drew David’s particular attention, for

che cripple stood near the stockade, looking
up toward him. He was a young man of
about David’s age, who, under a happier
fate, would just now have been in his prime.

 
 

 

16 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

Like David, too, he was tall and straight,
with massive shoulders and a mighty chest.
The prisoner’s natural attributes of strength
made more conspicuous the pathos of his
present condition with wan, drawn face and
haggard eyes and stooped form hunched on
the support of the crutches. One trouser
leg dangled empty from the knee.

A sudden livelier gust of wind caught the
unfastened canvas curtain on the side of
the wagon toward the stockade. The cloth
was lifted and thrown back over the frame-
work, so that the heaped apples showed
plainly above the side of the box. At sight
of them, the cripple’s famished face lighted
with a consuming desire. After the scant
rations of sour corn bread which had been
practically his only food for many a weary
day, the ruddy richness of the fruit was tor-
ture to his need. He cried out shrilly in a
voice that quivered from the intensity of his
longing.

‘“‘Hi, mister! Can’t ye spare one of your
apples to a poor cuss, who’s just about
starvin’??? The smile that went with the
drawling words was pitiful.

The look in the fellow’s eyes pierced David

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 17

to the soul. The thought of his father in
desperate need like this moved him to gen-
erous action. He reached quickly over the
back of the seat, picked up an apple, and
tossed it over the stockade toward the crip-
ple’s eagerly outstretched hands.

The intended kindness was of no avail.
Another of the prisoners, who was standing
near at hand, had been watching greedily.
He, like all others in that place, was ragged
and forlorn and obviously very hungry. He
was a short, wiry individual of mature age,
with the chevrons of a sergeant still showing
on his coat-sleeves. A bristling red stubble of
beard gave him an appearance of fierceness.
Now, as the apple flew through the air to-
ward the cripple, he whirled and sprang with
surprising agility. He caught the apple, and
bit into it avidly almost before his feet
touched the ground. Then he sauntered off,
shamefaced, but munching voraciously.

The cries of indignation that had broken
from David and the cripple simultaneously
caused the other prisoners near by to look in
the direction of the sounds. A single glimpse
of the apples set them hurrying toward the
stockade, calling out in supplication. At

 
18 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

first, however, David gave no heed to these
others. His heart was hot with wrath against
the red-whiskered thief who had so meanly
despoiled the cripple of his gift. Neverthe-
less, the remedy was simple. He plucked
another apple from the load and tossed it
over the stockade. His hasty aim fell a little
short. The man on the crutches lurched for-
ward clumsily—too late. A wobegone, tot-
tering relic was suddenly galvanized into life,
and pounced upon the spoil. The cripple
rested inert, an expression of hopeless misery
on his face. David felt a new pang of grief
for this sufferer whom as yet he had failed
to comfort. He was hot with wrath against
those who had thwarted him. Then, in an-
other second, as his ears took in the plead-
ings of the men massing at the stockade, his
anger died and gave place to a new and
broader sympathy for these stricken ones.
Yet, he was by no means unmindful of the
first to win his interest. He was indeed more
than ever determined to accomplish his pur-
pose. To that end, he resorted to strategy.
He seized a double handful of the apples,
and tossed them to either side of the cripple.
While the soldiers scrambled for these, he

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 19

sent over two others so nicely directed that
the eripple easily caught both in his cap.
This success delighted David, and his de-
light was made deeper by the joy that shone
in the man’s face as he looked up and smiled.

‘A warm tide of benevolence welled high in
the young mountaineer’s bosom. He forgot
that these men here before him were his ene-
mies. He remembered only their need. Their
piteous appeals moved him to a reckless im-~
pulse of charity. He no longer thought of the
business entrusted to him by William Swaim.
His sole concern was to assuage to the full
measure of his ability the urgent necessity
of these famished prisoners. ‘A philan-
thropic zeal drove him on. He clambered
over the seat and stood among the apples,
and threw the canvas side-flap up over the
framework of the top. Then, without any
hesitation, he began casting the apples over
the stockade. The forlorn captives surged
toward the barrier, yelling their glee over

, the precious food that rained on them like

manna from heaven. David hurled his
kindly projectiles from both hands, fast and
furiously. The crowd within the yard
swirled hither and yon, following the flight

 
20 ‘THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

of the apples. They chattered and cursed
and laughed in an abandon of fantastic hap-
piness over this break in the horrible routine
of their imprisonment. David exulted with
them.

Some boys, going a-fishing, halted by the
wagon to stare round-eyed at the strange
spectacle of this young man with the hand-
some face and flashing eyes and long black
hair flying in the wind, who was throwing
these great, luscious apples so wildly over
the stockade, from behind which sounded the
roaring acclamations of the mob.

“«Say, give us some, suh}’’ one of the boys
shouted.

David heard the treble cry, and answered
it.

‘¢Come on up here, an’ fill your pockets,
an’ help me throw,’’ he commanded.

On the instant, the boys swarmed about
him, first filled their pockets, and then gave
themselves merrily to this new sport of bom-
barding the enemy. The many nimble hands
made short work of discharging the cargo.
A hail of apples filled the air. There was
joyous rioting among the prisoners, who just
before had been so apathetic in their wretch-

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 21

edness. Now, they were suddenly bubbling
over with liveliness, romping and chuckling
and gloating—and munching. The boys
working beside David squealed gibes at their
foes, and strove to catch them unawares with
apples cunningly aimed. David threw no less
fiercely, though with no malicious intent. On
the contrary, he was all aflame with the lust
of giving. It was with sharp regret that he
saw the last apple fly over the palisade. He
gave a glance down at the empty wagon-
box, and sighed. He made a gesture of dis-
missal to the boys. As they clambered down
from the wagon, David faced the mass of
prisoners. within the enclosure. He swung
his hands, palms out, in a wide gesture.
‘“‘They’re all gone, boys!’’ he called. The
note of sorrow in his voice was unmistakable.
For a few seconds, a tense silence rested
on the ragamuffin recipients of his bounty.
But, in another moment, the grateful men
broke into cheers that grew in volume, be-
came a thunderous din of thanksgiving. The
pean of praise was a wonderful music in the
ears of David—a music that reached to his
heart, and melted it. The tears of a pure
happiness misted his eyes. He nodded stiffly

 
22 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

in acknowledgment of the cheers, and then
in great confusion climbed to his seat, gath-
ered up the reins, and, with a crack of the
whip, set the mules jogging,

CHAPTER LIT

HE whirl of emotion continued without
change until, with a shock of surprise,
David looked about him and realized that
he was in the Salisbury main street. He
pulled the mules to a halt mechanically, but
did not move from his place. <A swift re-
vulsion of feeling battered down his com-
placent mood, and left him the prey of mis-
givings which increased in intensity from
moment to moment. At last, his conscious-
ness awoke to the nature of his act in yield-
ing to a heedless impulse. He perceived that
by the impetuousness of his conduct where
he had meant only kindness to those in want
he had actually inflicted wrong on the man
who trusted him. It was with a feeling of
blank despair that he admitted the truth
concerning his deed. He had given with
noble generosity. Unfortunately, the gifts
were not his to bestow. The supplies for his
charity had been stolen from William Swaim.
That no theft had been intended made no
23

 
 

24 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

difference. The ugly fact remained. The
glow of satisfaction was gone now. In its
stead came a chill of apprehension. He
shivered with dread of what the outcome
might be.

David slumped in his seat, and groaned.
His dismay was abject. But he made a
mighty effort to regain some degree of cour-
age in the face of the disaster he had so
unwittingly wrought. He reflected that at
least the issue need not be faced for many
hours yet, since there remained a long drive
homeward. He was sure, with dismal fore-
boding, that he would be unable to sleep the
coming night. There would be time a plenty
for consideration and decision as to his
course while he lay rolled in his blanket he-
neath the stars.

Since he had no business in town, thanks
to his kindly folly, David turned the mules,
and started back drearily along the way over
which he had come with such high hopes. As
he passed the stockade, he held his eyes
studiously averted from the scene of his un-
doing. But, when he encountered the cara-
van which he had left behind, he played the
hypocrite, and bragged shamelessly in an-

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 25

Swer to questions concerning the quickness
with which he had disposed of his load,
“‘Got rid of ’em in a jiffy!’? he announced
quite truthfully. But the triumphant smile
that accompanied the words was a lie.
Melancholy drove with David across the

miles, His brain grew weary and then numb
in the effort to devise some means of relief
from the difficulty of his position. The little
money left with him by his father had been
spent. Though Swaim had made him earn a
man’s wages, there had been no contract to
pay them, and there was no slightest like-
lihood that the old man meant to expend any
money unless compelled to do so. Could he
have paid the market value of the apples,
the arrangement of the matter would have

been simple. He might have been jeered at

for the sentimental absurdity of his per-

formance, but that would have been the worst

result. There would have been no question

of dishonor. But he had thrown away the
property of another, while without power to
make good his fault by purchase. Yes, he
was undoubtedly a thief. William Swaim

would not hesitate to call him just that—a
thief !

 
26 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

His forebodings were justified, for that
night David did not sleep. Again and again,
he went over the event of the morning with
increasing bitterness against himself. But,
in the course of his unhappy musings, he at
last seized on a diversion from his own self-
- eondemnation. It was as he chanced to re-
member the little, red-whiskered man whose
greedy selfishness had interfered at the out-
set when the first apple was thrown, and
had thus been the actual cause of the catas-
trophe that followed. David’s spirit was
filled with exceeding bitterness at thought
of the man. The feeling increased in in-
tensity until it was very near hate. It com-
forted him in some degree to charge another
with the blame.

An inquisitive opossum came cautiously
nosing. David threw a pine knot, and sent
the intruder scurrying away. It was just
as the first dull gray of the coming dawn
lightened the purple black above the eastern
hills. And it was in this moment that an
inspiration came to David. He smiled grimly
to himself in the darkness. The device he
had hit upon was palpably flimsy. He was
well aware that it by no means met the re-

i THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 27
quirements of his case. The sole merit of
the idea was that it afforded a possible,
though by no means plausible, pretext for
self-justification. Still greatly troubled, but
somewhat consoled by the fact that he had a
defensive plea in readiness, David break-
fasted, and hurried the mules onward. And
now, curiously enough, as the distance short-
ened, he found himself thinking less and less
of Swaim’s condemnation, and more and
more of what Ruth might feel over this thing
that he had done. Once again, too, he found
himself brooding over those tremors pro-
voked in him by Ruth’s last kiss. He tasted
a flavor in the remembrance. His pulse
quickened, with a tingling in the blood. A
flush showed through the tan of his cheeks.
His ¢yes deepened and glowed. And, not-
withstanding all this, he did not quite under-
stand the emotion that held him enthralled.
It was still early morning, for he had sent
the mules forward at a smart pace, when
David swung into the Swaim farmyard. «
Ruth was busy at the milking, squatting on
her heels, using one hand only on the teats
and holding the tin cup in the other, accord-
ing to the custom of the neighborhood. Hear-

 
28 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

ing the rattling of the wagon, she hurried
to the stable door, and waved a hand in greet-
ing. Then, as she saw her father come out
of the barn, she retreated, for she was not
minded to have any witness to her next in-
terview with David.

The old man’s cadaverous face was con-
torted to lines of jubilation. His welcome
was unqualifiedly genial.

‘“‘Wall, Dave, I didn’t ’low t’ see ye afore
sundown, an’ mos’ likely not till atter break-
fast t’-morrer. Ye sure must be some kin
t? lightnin’» Them mules don’t look like
they’d turned a har.’’ As David threw down
the reins and alighted from the wagon,
Swaim, with a grin of anticipation, stepped
close, and extended his right hand, palm up,
in readiness to receive his money returns
from the trip.

‘Thar must be a right smart o’ call fer
my kind o’ limber twigs in Salisbury these
days,’’ he cackled in high glee. ‘‘Ye’d bet-
ter fix t? load up an’ go right thar ag’in
whilst the folks is buyin’ so lively-like.’’

David held himself resolutely erect, and
spoke with an assumption of boldness that
he was far from feeling.

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 29

‘“‘Why, Mr. Swaim,’’ he said, in a tone as
casual as he could muster, ‘‘I got back so
quick ’cause I didn’t have t’ take the apples
clean through t’ Salisbury. I found a cus-
tomer on the rise o’ the hill where they
keep the Yankees that all look so powerful
hungry.”’ He forced a smile. ‘‘The feller
what bought the apples stood right there in
the schooner an’ done tossed the last of ’em
right smack over that-there punchin fence
while those poor devils scrambled an’ fit t’
git holt onto one.’’? A flash of reminiscent
enthusiasm made his face radiant. ‘‘T tell
ye, Mr. Swaim, it was wuth twice the wuth
0’ the load to see how much good they did
them starvin’?’ humans. The feller what
bought ’em just couldn’t he’p it, ’cause his
heart was teched by sufferin’.’’ David
gulped, hesitated for an instant, then added
firmly: ‘‘That feller was me. I hain’t nary
cent t? pay ye fer ’em. If ye won’t wait till
pap gits home ag’in, I’ll hunt a job t’ work
it out.”’

William Swaim’s jaw sagged, and he
gaped for a few seconds at the young man,
dumb from sheer amazement over this revela-
tion. Then, presently, as his mind took in

 
 

30 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

the full enormity of David’s offense, his face
grew ashen, and he trembled. His miserly
soul was wrenched by the loss of those dol-
lars he had hoped to fondle. An uncontrol-
lable wrath mounted against the lad who had
thus betrayed him. His watery, red-rimmed,
blinking eyes cleared suddenly and flamed.
He strode a step forward, and lifted a
clenched fist.

‘“‘Take thet, ye damn’ thief !’’ he screamed.
His voice came shrill, cracked with rage, as
he struck out blindly.

David guarded himself against the attack,
but made no offensive movement in return.

He was in the full of his strength, while the
elder man was old for his years, and by no
means strong. The youth had no fear of
suffering any serious injury from the vicious
assault, and so limited himself to defensive
measures in which he was successful enough.
He had no wish to aggravate his fault by
thrashing the man he had already injured
so dolorously in the pocketbook. Moreover,
he could not forget that William Swaim was
the father of Ruth, and as such necessarily

immune from violence at his hands.
Ruth, having just finished her milking, heard

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 31

her father’s shouted words, and echoed them
with a stifled shriek of alarm. She dropped
the cup of milk, and raced toward the barn.
She was just in time to see her father, more
than ever infuriated by his failure to break
down David’s guard, turn and leap to a
pitchfork lying on the barn floor. Armed
with this dangerous weapon, he again faced
David. Ruth knew well the peril of the
moment, for she was aware that her father
possessed a temper which, though usually
controlled, was when unleashed a madness
that knew no bounds. The pitchfork was
elmost at her breast when she hurled herself
between the two men, and cried out wildly
to her father to stop.

William Swaim halted, a dazed expression

on his face at the unexpectedness of the girl’s
intervention.

“Oh, pap,’? Ruth gasped, ‘‘ain’t you
ashamed of acting like that with Dave—
Dave been so kind and helpful to us
all!’

The old man was checked, but the wrath
still fared. He retorted with such haste that
the words came stammeringly.

‘‘He’pful!’’? he sneered. ‘‘He’s a thief—

 
32 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

thet’s what he is. He done stole my apples,
my limber twigs what meant real money fer
me. An’ he’s wuss nor a thief—he’s a fool,
_ plumb daffy, fer he says he done fed ’em t’
the Yank’ pris’ners down t’ Salisbury. But
I don’t swaller no sech lie like thet-thar.
Nary thief kin stuff Bill Swaim thet-away
s’long’s he loves the lady on the dollar.”’

The outbreak of speech had served as a
safety-valve for Swaim’s fury. David
realized that the father would not assault
him further in the daughter’s presence. For
the time being at least, the crisis was past.
He put his hands on Ruth’s shoulders, and
swung her about to face him. Even in this
moment of stress, he noted with a thrill of
new delight the loveliness of her flushed face,
the splendor of the violet eyes that met his
so steadfastly and so loyally. Then his lips
twisted to a whimsical smile, and he spoke
in a tone half of raillery, half of serious-
ness.

“Tm plumb guilty, Ruth,’? he declared.
“I’m jest that-there fool what your pap
spoke of. But I done stole the apples t’ feed
starvin’ humans—not fer love o’ the lady

on the dollar.’’

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 33

‘Tell me!’?’? Ruth urged. Both she and
David had forgotten William Swaim, who
lowered the pitchfork until the prongs
touched the ground, and then stood leaning
on the handle, staring malevolently at the
young man.

David told his story with great earnest-
ness. He suddenly felt that the most import-
ant thing in the world was to make Ruth
understand exactly what had _ occurred.
Nothing else mattered if only he could retain
her good opinion. To this end he recounted
his adventure in detail from the first blowing
back of the canvas flap by the wind through
all the incidents to the final scene with her
father. And through it all Ruth listened
breathlessly, at the outset astounded by the
extraordinary happening, soon sympathetic,
and finally happy over his generous im-
pulse.

Swaim, too, listened. Somehow, greatly to
his surprise, he felt his anger passing. He
forgot in part his sorely wounded avarice.
Now that he had sustained the first shock
to his greed, he gave ear to the narrative
with a curious mingling of emotions. Against
his will, he was compelled to a feeling of

 
 

 

34 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

admiration for this lad who had robbed him
in a fit of extravagant generosity. More-
over, he was ashamed now that he had let
his temper so master him. He was horror-

‘struck at thought of what he might have

done, had Ruth not interposed between him
and his mad desire. Remorse gnawed at
his heart. Lest he reveal the softening of his
spirit, he stealthily moved away, and passed
out of sight behind the barn.

Ruth and David took no note of Swaim’s
departure. They were absorbed in each
other, and in the story the young man told.
_ As he ended, the girl exclaimed in praise:
| Oh, it was splendid of you, Dave! I love
you for it!’’

There was no thought now of the embar-
rassment created between them by that last
kiss in the orchard. She threw her arms
around David’s neck, and, with the ease of
old habit, lifted her mouth to his, and kissed
him.

Even in the act, recollection came to her,
and the blood flooded her cheeks. She would,
have drawn back, but it was too late; their
lips were already joined. And at the con-
tact she felt a vibrant joy that eddied in

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 35

every atom. Thought ceased. There was
only an exquisite rapture that pervaded all
her being. Her senses seemed to fail. But
nothing mattered—only the bliss singing in
her heart. David’s arms were like bands of
steel about her, holding her close, so close!
as if he would never let her go. And she
had no wish save to be held thus always.
His lips lay on hers like a flame that thrilled
through the flesh to warm and gladden the
soul.

For David understood at last the mystery
that had so baffled him. In that second when
she threw herself before him to save him
from her father’s frenzy his heart had
leaped in an emotion deeper and sweeter and
nobler by far than gratitude. He recog-
nized that emotion for what it was—the love
of a woman, concerning which hitherto he
had only guessed crudely. The very intimacy
through all the years of adolescence between
him and Ruth had served to prevent his
thinking of her as other than a sister, a
comrade. Now, however, he knew her for
the concrete verity of vaguely tender rev-
eries. She was the one woman. He held
her crushed to his bosom, and his lips were

 
 

 

36 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

eager. He was exultant, masterful in the
joy of possession. He loved her, and he
knew that she loved him. Her lips told him

that in silence. Nothing else in the universe
mattered at all.

 

 

CHAPTER IV

FTER a long interval, the lovers drew
apart. They glanced about them with
a guilty air, and were relieved that no one
was observing them. They were both very
happy, but, too, after the period of abandon-
ment, they were now a little confused and
embarrassed toward each other, made self-
conscious by the bigness of this thing that
had developed in their lives with such amaz-
ing suddenness.

It was David who first returned to prosaic
thought. His gaze chanced to fall on the
empty wagon. The sight of it brought back
to memory the evil fashion in which Swaim
had reviled him as a thief. The radiance of
his face vanished. Inits place came a somber
darkening. His eyes hardened, and his lips
set in lines of grim determination.

“T’ve gotter git out,’’ he said curtly to
Ruth,’ who stared at him in astonishment

over the abrupt change in his manner, His
37

 
 

 

38 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

voice was gentle, but held a stern note of
resolve.

““Why, what do you mean, Dave?’’ the
girl asked anxiously.

“‘T must git out o’ here t’-night,’’ was the
answer. ‘‘I’m goin’ somewhere t’ earn a
bit o’ money fer a bill I’m owin’ t’ William
Swaim.”’

““No, no!’? Ruth remonstrated. Her heart
sickened at the thought that she must lose
this lover whom she had only just found.

David shook his head obstinately, and the
firmly modeled chin was thrust forward a
little.

‘“‘There’s no two ways about it,’’ he de-
elared. ‘‘It will be powerful hard t’ leave
ye, Ruth, just after we’ve got t’ be sweet-
hearts, but it can’t be helped. I can’t thrash
yer pap, Ruth—jest ’cause he’s an old man,
an’ cause he’s yer pap. An’ if I can’t lick
him, why, I just naturally gotter pay him fer
them apples.’’ His face lightened a little
as he smiled wryly. ‘‘T’ pay him I got t’ git
money, an’ t’ git money I got t’ git out o’
here,’’

“‘T know pap better than you do, Dave,’’
Ruth argued. She was eager to change his

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 39

decision, even though an instinct told her
that her hope was in vain. ‘‘Pappy has an
awful temper, and he’s pretty close. He
just flew off the handle, and didn’t know
what he was doing. He’s all over his mad
by now, and mighty ashamed of himself.
And, anyhow, he knows you’re good for the
money. "Tisn’t as if your father was poor.’’

David shook his head once again.

‘(My pap’s money ain’t any help, ’cause
there’s no way fer me t’ git hold of any of
it till he comes back from that-there prison
up North. Ye see, Ruth, I ain’t hankerin’
t? company none with Bill Swaim till I pay
him an’ prove I ain’t the damn’ thief what
he called me.’’ There was a tone of finality
in the utterance, which the girl recognized.
She yielded to it, though bitterly reluctant.

‘When will you go, Dave?’’ she inquired,
almost timidly.

“Sometime in the night,’’ David replied;
‘ike a thief should.’’ He disregarded
Ruth’s protest. ‘‘An’ don’t ye breathe a
word about it t’ yer pap er yer mammy.’’

‘‘But if I told pappy, he might—’’ Ruth
began.

David interrupted her.

 
 

 

 

 

 

40 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

‘‘Not a word t’ yer pap, Ruth,’’ he com-
manded. The girl yielded, though somewhat
grudgingly.

‘“‘T suppose I must do as you say,’’ she
pouted. ‘‘Wherever do you ‘low to go,
Dave??? There was a tremor of curiosity in
her voice, and she added pleadingly: ‘‘Oh,
don’t go far away, dear!’’

The young man regarded her with great
tenderness.

‘‘Not a mite further than I have t’,’’ he
declared. ‘‘I ain’t noways pinin’ t’ be shet
o’ ye, Ruth. An’ ye can bet that I’ll come
back a-runnin’ the first chance I git.’’

The conversation ended in new caresses
between the lovers, which left them palpitat-
ing with happiness, the more intense because
it had for a background the shadow of a
parting so soon to come.

Throughout his work that day, David’s
brain was teeming with contradictory plans
concerning the direction his journey should
take. He decided after long considera-
tion that his best hope of speedy success
with the undertaking would lie in following
the Yadkin River down to Georgetown in
South Carolina, where in all probability em-

 

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 41

ployment might be found. Or perhaps he
might strike across inland from Georgetown
to Charleston, on the coast, where the op-
portunity would be still greater.

No words were passed between David and
Swaim at meals. Mrs. Swaim, whose deli-
cate face showed the ravages wrought by the
sorrows of an uncongenial marriage, be-
trayed by her nervous manner that she knew
of what had occurred between the two men,
but neither she nor her daughter made any
reference to David’s trip to Salisbury or its
unfortunate outcome. After supper Ruth
found an opportunity to speak alone with
David in the orchard where he had gone to
smoke his pipe.

“‘You’re really going to-night?’’ she
queried, when they had kissed each other.

“‘Yes,’? David answered simply. He ex-
plained to her his purpose of going down
the river in his skiff. ‘‘I’ll slip away as
soon as the old folks are asleep,’’ he con-
cluded.

“‘T’ll make you a package of provisions,’’
the girl promised. There came a ripple of
laughter. ‘‘Pappy won’t know. Mammy
will, but she won’t mind. She’ll be glad.’’

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

42 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

The girl was serious again now. ‘‘Mammy
likes you, Dave.’’

The lover was a bit confused by this in-
direct praise. He spoke sheepishly, but with
sincerity.

“‘Yer mammy’s a fine woman.’’

But Ruth, though usually a dutiful daugh-
ter and affectionate, was not now interested
in her mother’s excellence. Her whole in-
terest was absorbed by this being who had
been her playfellow and intimate companion
for years, yet to-day was revealed to her
as a stranger—the lover whom she adored
and whom, because he was her lover, she
did not feel that she knew at all. The
mystery of the new relation fascinated her.
And by so much as there was charm in the
present relation by so much there was grief
at thought of the coming separation.

“Pll bring the package of rations down
to the boat,’? she said. ‘‘I’ll have it ready
for you by ten o’clock.”? She regarded him
accusingly as if she had subconsciously de-
tected in his mind some idea of evasion.
<‘Don’t you dare to go before I get there.”’

And David assured her that he would not,
and ratified the pledge with many kisses.

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 43

They were not night-owls in the Swaim
household. By nine o’clock all had gone to
bed—ostensibly. As a matter of fact, Swaim
and his wife had duly retired, and had al-
most immediately fallen asleep. David and
Ruth, however, were wide-awake. On going
to his room after supper, the young man at
once busied himself with the modest prepara-
tions for departure. It was indeed a simple
matter to pack in his carpet-bag the few
articles of a very limited wardrobe. When
his preparations had been completed, he sat
down by the window, and comforted himself
with a pipe while awaiting the lapse of time
sufficient to insure sound sleep on the part
of the elder Swaims. Finally he struck a
match and saw by the flare that his watch
marked almost ten o’clock. Carrying his
shoes in one hand, and the carpet-bag in the
other, with his rifle in the crook of the arm,
he crept out of the room in his stockinged
feet, and made his way with as little noise as
possible over the board flooring that creaked
alarmingly under his weight, past the bed-
room door through which sounded William
Swaim’s raucous snores and the softer
breathing of the woman, and on down the

 

 
 

 

 

44 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

stairs. He entered the lean-to kitchen, and
felt his way through the darkness to the
pantry door, which stood ajar. He whis-
pered Ruth’s name. There was no answer,
and he guessed that the girl had finished her
task already, and had gone on before him
down to the river. He was confirmed in this
belief, when, after recrossing the kitchen, he
found the back door standing half-open.
Sure that he would find her waiting for him
by the boat, he went out into the night.
After the dense dark within the house, the
night seemed well lighted with starlight
streaming from the cloudless heavens and
the golden glory of the hunter’s moon. The
tension under which David had been acting
was suddenly relaxed as he felt the spell
of the night’s serenity. The hush of an in-
finite peace encompassed him, and for a long
minute, he stood motionless, yielding to the
charm of it. A tang of autumn chill was in
the air. The young man filled his lungs with
a deep breath, which at once soothed and
stimulated him. Then, abruptly, his thoughts
veered to the girl who waited for his com-
ing by the river. Now, as he looked on the
still splendors of the night, he saw them as

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 45

the fit setting for the loveliness of Ruth. In-
stantly, he was impatient to be with her,
and set off running lightly down the lane
that led to the river. He covered the quarter
of a mile quickly. As he drew near where
the skiff was moored, the girl eaught a
glimpse of him.

‘Dave???’ she called questioningly. There
was a hint of anxiety underlying the music
in the soft utterance, which David, in his
happier mood, missed altogether.

‘‘Supplies all stored aboard, eh?’’ he ques-
tioned in his turn, by way of answer.

Ruth tried rather unsuccessfully to meet
his gayety in kind.-

“¢ Ay, ay, sir,’’ she replied briskly. ‘‘Ship’s
fully provisioned for the voyage, captain.’
Despite her effort, the words came quavering
a little. And now David perceived the dis-
tress she was striving to conceal. He swept
her into his arms, and kissed her many
times.

‘“Ye mustn’t be unhappy, Ruth,”’ he com-
manded with a gentleness that was none the
less authoritative. ‘‘I couldn’t bear t’ think
o’ ye mournin’ here while I’m out there in

the world.’’

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

46 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

The girl understood that he had no thought
of giving up his purpose to save her from
grief. The idea had not even occurred to
him. She called it to his attention, but quite
hopelessly.

“‘Can’t you stay with me, Dave?’’ she
asked, and in the inflection of the words was
a prayer that he would.

Dave spoke sternly.

“T’ve done got t’ square my debt t’ yer
pap. There ain’t no other way.’’ His voice
softened, and he held the girl closer as he
went on speaking: ‘‘But I’ll be a-pinin’ fer

you-all, Ruth, all the time I’m away. An’
it’ll seem a mighty long time, too.’’

‘“‘You don’t reckon it will really be very
long, do you, Dave?’’ the girl asked, with a
pathetic inflection of dismay at the sugges-
tion.

‘‘Shucks! No, o’ course not. ’I'won’t take
searcely any time wuth mentionin’ t’ earn
enough t’ pay fer them cussed limber twigs.
‘An’ the minute I git a holt on the money,
T’ll come a-runnin’. An’ I won’t be scramb-
lin’? back so all-fired fast jest fer the sake
0’ seein’ yer pap ag’in. It’s you-all my eyes
an’ my lips will be achin’ fer.’’ He kissed

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 47

her hair very gently, again and again. The
perfume of it was like incense to him. The
parting so near at hand pained him, but he
felt that he must not give way to his own
sorrow, since she must need his greater
strength to comfort her in her womanly
weakness. He patted her back in a clumsy,
effort to console.

Ruth stood clinging to him with her head
buried in his bosom. She was crying softly,
with little muffled sobs. This separation was
to her a very terrible thing. It seemed to
her that its coming thus immediately after
their mutual confession of love made it all
the more dreadful. There had been no time
to realize the intercommunion of their hearts
before a cruel fate interposed to thrust them
apart. Even had matters stood merely on
the former friendly footing between them,
she must have found the abrupt departure
of David a cause for suffering. Now, since
the intimacy between them had developed
into a mutual passion, she was stricken to
the soul that the man she loved should go
from her and leave her in desolate loneliness.

Ruth ceased weeping after a time, though
she had heard but dully the murmured en-

 

 

 
 

 

 

48 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

couragement and endearments with which
David sought to cheer her flagging spirits.
The change in her was due chiefly to a sudden
thought that the expression of her despair
would tend to make her lover too unhappy.
So, with the instinct of self-sacrifice that is
natural to the fond woman, she used all her
strength of will to cast off the external signs
of depression in order that she might not
inspire melancholy in David when he most
required courage for his adventuring out
into the world. She raised her face and gave
him kiss for kiss, and joyous words of love
and trust. The young man responded gladly.
He spoke with confidence of the future, of
his hopes for a speedy return to her arms,
of the perfect life they would live together
throught the long years to come.

It was midnight when the last farewell
was spoken between them, and David pushed
the skiff from the shore, and let it swing into
the current of the river. The girl stood
tense in restraint on the land, peering with
dilated eyes to detect the final bit of shadow
moving over the water, which gave the vague
outline of the man she loved. And David,
looking back as the boat drifted slowly down

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 49

the stream, held his gaze fast to that gray
silhouette, dimly seen beneath the moon-
light on the shore, which was Ruth—Ruth,
his sweetheart! Then, presently, the ghostly
figure vanished in the mist-wraiths, to be
seen no more. A pang of infinite loneliness
pierced David’s breast as the vision of the
girl faded from his view. For long moments
he sat brooding, disconsolate and rebellious
over the destiny that tore him from her.
But, presently, the peace of the night touched
him again with its benediction, and his sor-
row fell from him. His fancy turned to the
adventure that awaited him in the coming
days. He bent to the oars and sent the skiff
forward with long steady strokes. And as
he sped on through the night, he was no
longer lonely, for he was companied with

his dreams.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER V,

OR some hours David rowed steadily,
though with a leisurely stroke. But

on passing beyond that portion of the river
most familiar to him, he gave over rowing,
and with an oar for rudder, was content to
let the skiff float lazily with the sluggish
eurrent. He chose this method of journeying

not so much to escape fatigue as for the
sake of caution. The waters of the winding
stream were usually shallow, and although
his craft was flat-bottomed with a draft of
only a few inches, it was necessary to steer
with care to avoid driving on one of the pro-
jecting rocks. So, the progress was slow, yet
made with a luxurious ease that suited the
traveler’s mood and left him free for pleas-
ant reverie. There was something almost
hypnotic in that silent, stately floating over
the velvet dark surface, between serried
sentinel ranks of poplars and sycamores,
which lined either shore. The moon dropped
50

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 51

toward the western horizon so that the boat
moved within the heavy shadows of the trees,
and David guided it almost by instinct rather
than by sight. The moon dipped lower
swiftly and set. The scene became weird; a
vague and melancholy vista. A breeze
sprang up before the dawn. The air grew
colder, so that David felt the dank chill of
it, and shivered. He shook off the sense of
oppression that crept upon his spirits, and
determined to make camp on shore.

He sent the boat rustling through the
reeds that opposed their frail barrier be-
tween the channel and the bank. The skiff’s
bow lifted and slid up easily on a sandy
beach. David clambered out. His move-
ments were stiff at first from his hours of
sitting during the cool night. But, very soon,
his blood quickened its flow, his muscles be-
came warm and supple again. His simple
preparations were speedily made. The boat
was uptilted on its side, propped in position
by the oars, to serve as a wind-break. He
did not trouble to cook a meal, but was satis-
fied with a few mouthfuls of cold meat. Then
he rolled himself snugly in his blanket, and
almost within the second was fast asleep.

 
 

 

52 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

The sun was hours high when finally David
stirred, yawned noisily, stretched his muscles
until the joints crackled in protest, and sat
up. His mood was harmonious with the joy-
ous day, and he felt a cheerful readiness to
fare forward on his quest. He was beset
with a ravenous hunger, and hurried the
preparation of hot food from his store of
corn meal, bacon and coffee. Then, replete,
he resumed his journey.

For three days, David followed the course
of the river at his ease. By night he would
lie up in some sheltered nook on the bank,
and by day he would drift with the current,
rowing only occasionally in the more open
and level stretches of water. The weather
held fair, so that he suffered no discomfort
from this source. The food supplies were
ample for his needs, and he added to them
with game that fell to his rifle. Flocks of
wild duck and geese were frequent. Often
as he rounded a bend of the river he would
find them clustered thick before him. More
than once his bullet caught a green-headed
mallard before it could rise into the air.

It was on the third day, when he had
traversed a distance of perhaps seventy-five

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 53

miles from the Swaim homestead, that David,
at nightfall, drew near the city of Salisbury.
Though unfamiliar with the river itself in
this direction, he was able to recognize his
surroundings by certain landmarks. Chief
among these was the stockade of the Con-
federate prison, which loomed through the
gloaming, sinister and hideous, on the higher
ground above the river. The sight of it, thus
vaguely seen at dusk, touched the adven-
turer’s spirit with an unreasoning bitter-
ness. He was not in the least repentant for
what he had done here in a flush of generous
enthusiasm. But just now he keenly re-
gretted the miles that lay between him and the
girl he loved. Here was the cause of their
separation, and he loathed it accordingly.
Then, inevitably, his thought jumped to the
red-whiskered man, who had been first to
rob the cripple, and thereby had precipitated
the catastrophe. David felt a flare of fury
against this fellow, as he had before while
returning from Salisbury. Now, however,
his feeling was even fiercer, for this con-
scienceless rogue by his theft had come be-
tween the lovers. A surge almost of hatred

swept up in the lad’s bosom. His fingers

 
 

 

54 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

twitched convulsively, as if he longed to be
at grips with the man, to thrash into him
some sense of decency in his conduct toward
cripples.

A faint, bell-like rhythm came down on the
breeze. It seemed to issue from the direc-
tion of the stockade, and moment by moment
it grew louder. David knew the sound, and
his pulse quickened. He had meant to push
on to the ferry landing a little way below,
where the flat-bottomed scow was still poled
across the stream, when any traveler blew
a summons on the tin horn. He had intended
to camp there for the night, and thence to
walk the two miles into Salisbury next morn-
ing, to inquire for possible news of his
father. But now he forgot the swift ap-
proach of night in this new interest in the
sound borne to his ears by the wind. With
a thrust of his steering oar he turned the
skiff’s bow to the shore. The bank here was
high and steep, and the current ran swiftly.
He caught hold of an out-jutting branch
from a birch that grew on the shore, and so
held the boat from being swept on. The
rhythmic booming noise sounded more
loudly. It was the baying of hounds.

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 55

The instinct of the chase set David quiver-
ing with excitement. What the quarry of
the dogs might be he had no means of know-
ing, but he guessed that they must be on the
trail of either a fox or a deer. He hoped
that it might be the latter. His mouth
watered at the possibility of venison broiled
over the coals for supper. Still keeping the
skiff in position by his grip on the bough,
he seized the rifle with his right hand in
readiness for instant action if the prey
should come his way. Thus prepared, he
stood poised, listening intently.

There could be no doubt that the chase
was drawing nearer. There seemed every
likelihood that the fleeing creature was striv-
ing to reach the river in a last desperate
effort to escape its pursuers. The light
was going fast now, but in the open space
of the river it was still sufficient to afford
a fair aim.

A crackling sound came from the under-
brush that covered the shore. The noise of
it increased. David wondered at the volume
of it. Even a stag running its swiftest could
hardly go crashing like that. It was head-
ing ‘straight for him, too—whatever the

 

 
 

 

56 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

thing might be. He still hoped it would
prove to be a deer, although he doubted.
The floundering body bursting through the
thickets was almost upon him. He knew that

in another second, unless pulled down by the |

dogs, it must break from the concealment
of the woods. It was so close that there
could be no danger of losing his opportunity
by letting the boat drift, and he must have
both hands for the shot. He loosened his
elutch on the branch, the skiff dropped down
the river. Even as it moved with the cur-
rent, there was a final clatter of broken
boughs at the edge of the high bank. A
bulky something leaped from the shadows
there, and hurtled forward in a long are
toward the water. And in that same second
when the boat began to move, David’s rifle
sprang to his shoulder, and his eyes lined
the sights on the thing chased by the dogs.
But the weapon did not belch its deadly
missile. Instead, a gasping ery of horror
broke from David’s lips; his forefinger fell
from the trigger as if palsied.

“¢Good God! an’ I almost got him!”’

He shuddered, and felt a nausea.

“Tt’s a man—an’ I almost got him! I

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 57

might have killed him! It was a powerful
close squeak. An’ I thought I was jest a-gun-
nin’ fer supper!’’

David sat staring in fascinated horror at
‘the man who had thus escaped the trailing

- of the hounds, which now whimpered their dis-

tress from the shore.“ The fugitive had gone
beneath the surface at his plunge. When he
reappeared, spluttering, he started swim-
ming at full speed toward the farther bank
of the river, fifty yards away. But the shock
of the cold water put too great a strain on
his body, weakened and overheated as he was
by his flight from the hounds. Suddenly, he
uttered a shrill ery, threw up his hands, and
sank.

The skiff, unchecked, had floated a con-
siderable distance down stream. David was
too far away to give immediate succor. But
he lost no time before acting. In a moment
he had dropped the rifle, and the oars were
placed. He tested their strength in short,
jumping strokes that sent the boat swiftly
toward where the body must be swept along
in the current.

Tt was the shallowness of the stream that
gave David the chance of rescue. He caught

 
 

 

 

 

58 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

a glimpse over his shoulder of the drown-
ing man’s form being swept over a sand
strip hardly submerged. He was able to
bring the skiff alongside before reaching
deeper water, which would have made his
task difficult, if not impossible. He dropped
his oars, and caught the half-unconscious
man by the shirt collar. When he had se-
cured a safe grip under the arms, he was
able to get the fugitive aboard, thanks to
the steadiness of his clumsy flat-bottomed
skiff. This accomplished, he stretched the
victim face downward, supported by a
thwart under his belly, and proceeded first
to empty him of the water and then to re-
store him to full consciousness by such vigor-
ous methods as he knew. The treatment
was, in fact, remarkably efficacious, so that
within a few minutes, the man, after a final
bit of strangling, aroused to consciousness
with a piteous appeal for mercy from further

ministrations.

David, greatly pleased with this result, :

lifted the fellow and turned him, so that he
was in a sitting position. It was then, with
his face close to that of the man he had pulled
from the river, that David saw the features

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 59

clearly. At sight of them he started back
with an exclamation of disgust.

“You!” he grunted savagely,

The irony of fate had made him the reseuer
of the one man in the world against whom
he cherished a grudge. He felt bitterly to-
ward William Swaim, who had called him a
thief. But he knew the justification for the
old man’s anger, and the fact that it was
due to his own fault kept him from nourish-
ing resentment. That fault on his part
however, had come as the direct effect of
another man’s mean action. The red-whisk
ered Union prisoner, who had stolen the
first apple meant for the cripple, wag fa
real cause of all the trouble. David h a
cursed that greedy prisoner often. Now h
cursed once again, for it wag the r ee
whiskered individual whom he had just ar
from drowning and who now sat before bts
gasping and shivering from his immersi
in the chill stream. The young man made s
Secret of his feeling, but let his mood as
forth in stinging words, cue

“Ye thievin’, hard-hearted Yank?! ‘As if
ye hadn’t given me trouble ’nough niceaae
Ye’r’ a plumb-ornery seallywag, aston

 
 

 

 

60° THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

the apple I done throwed t’ a cripple. AL
ain’t aimin’ t’ save sich as you-all from bein’
et by dogs er drownded. Hang yer carcass !
Go ashore an’ let them dogs chaw ye up
piecemeal as ye deserve. Hr ye can drown.
Git out, I’m tellin’ ye!”’ .

The man, who had been dazed at the out-
set by David’s violent denunciation, now in
his turn recognized the young man who had
thrown the apples over the stockade. Weak-
ened by the peril through which he has just
passed, he would have pleaded for mercy,
from the stalwart young man who stood over
him so threateningly. But he had no time.
As he shrank from the fierceness of the
other’s speech, David moved closer. When
he ceased speaking, the mountaineer, in a
final access of fury, picked up the wretched
fugitive, and tossed him overboard toward

the shore.

CHAPTER VI

AS the unfortunate victim of adversity
disappeared under water with a huge
splash, David jumped to the oars, which he
plied briskly to hold the skiff against the
current. He had no fear lest the man drown
since he had tossed him into the ayer
close to the shore under the bluff. But his
indignation was not yet satisfied, and he
meant to tell the fellow a few rages candid
truths concerning thieves and Yankees and
oppressors of cripples. He only waited until
the escaped prisoner should be in a positi
to give him due attention. ee
For the moment, the soldier was in too
Serious a plight to listen even to the worst
abuse. He managed to get to his feet after
hard struggling and stood tottering and
choking from the water he had swallowed
The river rose to his armpits, and it ae
evident that he had need of all his strength
to withstand the sweep of the current. When
61

 
 

 

 

 

62 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

he had cleared his lungs a little, he Bs
with clumsy, staggering caution oe ‘i
shore. He slipped, and only with Fs eu
saved himself from going down. ; a ae
the man was almost at the end a a
sources. David in the boat two rods ae
could hear the hiss of the hurried, cae 2
drawn breath, the panting sigh with w. ee
was exhaled. The mountaineer was toue ae
with compunction. The fires of his aa
died. He felt ashamed of the harshness a
had displayed toward one who, veeihe a
fault had been, was now deserving 0 2 y
at least for the suffering he had nn x
gone already and those which he still - :
David was influenced, too, by the a
that the Union soldier made no plea Z
for mercy, but maintained a stoical - oe
as he battled against the clutch o
tee sympathy that stirred in ees
bosom was quickened to action a a ia
factor in the situation. The dogs, at © a
on the river bank from which the fugi

THE HOMEWARD TRATL, 63

caught the scent of their prey borne toward
them on the wind. They came charging
along the shore and only halted when they
reached the high overhanging bank opposite
their quarry. They rushed to the brink, but
Slunk back, unwilling to make the plunge
down into the stream. They bayed and
whimpered and growled with bared fangs.
Even were the soldier to keep his pre-
carious footing and escape out of the grip
of the current, he would still have the
bloodhounds to face, and they would be
ruthless,
David had declared that he wished the
fellow might be thrown to the dogs, but he had
said this in a gust of wrath. Now that the
reality threatened, he was horror-struck at
the possibility of such a fate for any fellow
human being. Moreover, there came to him
in this tense moment a thought of his own
father in the Northern prison, who might be
in flight as this man and fighting to escape
with his life from merciless foes. David
felt the impulse to help the hapless Union

had leaped into the water, had aoe age
i ice at the poin

by the sound of David’s voice

he to which the boat drifted, or they had

Soldier against his adversaries, even as he
Would wish some Northern ]

ad in a position
like his own to give aid to h

is father. And,

 

 
 

 

64 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

too, he was moved by an instinctive sympathy
in favor of one against whom the odds were
So heavy.

Now, another weight was dropped in the
balance to make David’s decision in behalf
of the fleeing prisoner. A noise of shoutings
sounded out of the woods some distance back
from the river bank. There could be no
doubt that these cries came from the guards
who were in pursuit of the fugitive, and
were now hastening in the direction indicated
by the baying of the bloodhounds. If as-
sistance were to be of avail, no time must
be lost. The man himself was incapable of
avoiding recapture. He had managed to ap-
proach more closely to the bank, and stood
where the water was not above his waist
line. But it was apparent that his strength
was well-nigh exhausted. Even in the fad-
ing light he was visibly shivering from his
contact with the stream. In his weakened
condition, it would be manifestly impossible
for him to breast the current and gain the
farther shore of the river. On the bank be-
fore him, the dogs waited, frantic with de-
sire to set upon him, to rend and throttle
him. The beasts would be reinforced by the

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 65

pursuing men, whose shouts indicated that
they were rapidly drawing nearer.

David hesitated no longer. With a strong
push on the oars, he sent the skiff shore-
ward. He saw that the man feared his ap-
proach, naturally enough, for the fellow be-
gan a stumbling progress up stream away
from the advancing boat, After the treat-

ment he had meted, the mountaineer could
not wonder that he was
enemy.

be I was a mite ha’sh.

Leastways, I ain’t a-goin’ 4?
by them durn bloodhounds.’?

halted at David ’s placating ad
skiff now drew close to him.
plumb foolish, but I aim t?
stream away from them dog
too. Jest ye climb in here right-smart spry.
There ain’t no time fer shennanigin,”?

The miserable object of ;

the young man’s
Compassion had no choice b

: : at to obey, though
he expression on his face was of mingled

alarm and perplexity over the kindly
from the one who had just treated him with

See ye et up
The man had

git ye acrost the

heartless violence. It is likely that he sus-

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

66 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

pected the lad in the skiff of being either
drunk or crazy—a belief easy enough in view
of the rapid and amazing inconsistencies in
conduct. This astonishing and dangerous
person had first rescued him and then thrown
him out to drown, and now promised to
rescue him yet once again. But, since he
had no choice, he yielded to David’s impa-
tient command, and with much difficulty, due
to his weakened state, managed to climb
awkwardly over the side of the skiff, which
the mountaineer held balanced against his
weight. Then, the tension of his effort re-
laxed, he rolled on the boat’s bottom in a
huddled heap of misery, shuddering and
groaning. The instant he was aboard, David
bent to his oars, and sent the skiff at full
speed out into the channel of the river.

The shadows of night had drawn down
until even in mid-stream it would be diffi-
cult for those on the shore to pick out the
shadowy movement of the boat. David made
all haste, increasing his speed a little as the
voices of the men indicated their arrival at
the bank. Since no new outery came from
those assembled there, the mountaineer was
sure that the presence of the boat had not

 

 

With a strong push on the oars, he sent the skiff shoreward

 

 
 

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 67

been detected. But he continued rowing
down stream with the current as swiftly as
possible for a long way, until full darkness
had settled over land and water. No sound
or movement came from the collapsed form
of the fugitive, except a feeble moaning and
now and then a convulsive trembling. As
David felt the chill of the autumn night, it
occurred to him that the exhausted man in
his drenched garments might suffer seri-
ously from the exposure. He rowed in to-
ward the shore opposite the prison, and
peered sharply through the shadows for a
landing place. He made out a tiny cove,
and beached the skiff on the shelving sand.
Then he busied himself alertly in caring for
this enemy whom he had saved from the
cruelty of the elements and beasts and men.
The fellow, half-unconscious, yielded himself
to David’s hands without any attempt at
resistance. The young man stripped off the
sodden garments, and then rolled the soldier
snugly in a blanket, and bestowed him in
the bottom of the boat. This done, he
launched the skiff again, and continued on
down the, river steadily throughout the long
hours of darkness, until a ghostly gray

 

 
 

 

 

68 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

stealing into the horizon told that the dawn
was near. Then, once more, he turned the
boat’s bow toward the western shore. After
some search, he found an excellent landing
in a little bay, where the entrance was al-
most concealed from any passing on the river
by a luxuriant growth of reeds and alders.
Pine woods ran down to the shore, offering
protection from the wind, and affording
abundant fuel. Here David made his camp.
The escaped prisoner, who was now sleep-
ing soundly, and whose moaning had ceased,
was left undisturbed in the skiff where it
was drawn up on the gravelly shore. Soon,
a brisk fire was burning. David spread out
the soldier’s tattered garments close by the
blaze to dry. Then he betook himself to the
preparation of a meal, for which he himself,
having worked through the afternoon and
the night without any supper, was nearly as
ravenous as he knew his starving companion
must be.

The savory odor of sizzling bacon and eggs
penetrated to the consciousness of the fam-
ished fugitive. Hardly had the bubbling be-
gun in the skillet which David held over the
coals when the soldier, although a moment be-

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 69

fore sunk in profound slumber, suddenly sat
up, sniffing rapturously. Drawn as the steel
to the magnet, he got to his feet and climbed
out of the boat and hurried toward the fire.
He was not checked at all by the discovery,
that he was stark naked. He merely pulled
the blanket about him Indian fashion, and
went on.

David nodded in recoznition of the man’s
need.

‘Ready in a minute,’’ he vouchsafed.

When presently the fellow had been sup-
plied with a tin plateful of the hot food,
David was moved to new pity by the mani-
fest hunger the man displayed. He let his
own appetite go unsatisfied for a little in
order to give his guest another helping.
Then he cooked a second mess, which he
divided between the two of them.

When the meal was ended, the mountaineer
shifted into his best suit of clothes, and gave
the other to the soldier, who, he now learned,

‘was named Sam Morris. The clothes were
ridiculously large for the Yankee, but they
were whole and decent and he was pathetic-
ally grateful for the gift. His single pos-
session of value that he had retained was

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

70 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

a battered old pipe, which had been long
without tobacco. His happiness was com-
plete when David gave him a filling for the
pipe, and he sat for a time in silence, puffing
luxuriously with that appreciation which is
known only to those long deprived of such
solace.

“T guess you saved me from bein’
drownded,’’ Morris said at last. ‘‘Your
feelin’s seem to be kind 0’ mixed. I guess
you meant well all the time except for a
minute you lost your temper.’’ ;

“T *low I was plumb het up,’’ David ads
mitted reluctantly.

‘“An’ I ain’t the one to blame you,”’’ the
soldier declared. ‘‘I don’t wonder you had
it in for me. It was a cussed mean trick,
my swipin’ that apple from that poor one-
legged boy of ours. But I tell you, mister,
when a man’s starvin’ he ain’t rightly re-
sponsible for the things he does. A man’s
belly is a mighty sight bigger than his con-
science. Why, mister, I just couldn’t help
swipin’ that apple. Was you ever hungry—
real hungry, mister?’’

David laughed at the patent absurdity of
the question.

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL ffi

“Three er four times a day, ’s fur back
as I can remember.’’ Then his face sobered.
“But I cal’late I hain’t ever been hungry
like ye Yankees there inside the stockade.
You-all was so pesky peaked and pinin’, it
got me a-goin’ with them apples plumb reck-
less. If I hadn’t been so wrought up, I
wouldn’t ’a’ been so darned free with an-
other man’s apples.’’ He chuckled amusedly
over his own discomfiture.

“They wasn’t your’n!’’ Morris eried.

David shook his head and his face
lengthened. Then he told the full narrative
of his exploit, while Morris listened eagerly,
with many ejaculations of astonishment, of
admiration, of sympathy.

‘‘Gosh all hemlock!’’ he vociferated, when
the tale was ended. ‘‘I certingly did get you
into a peck of trouble, and now you’re
a-heapin’ coals of fire on my head, as it
were.’’

“‘T owe ye somethin’,’’ David replied with
a grin, ‘‘fer that extry duckin’ I give ye in
the river.’’

The two men continued talking together
for a time, discussing their future course of
action. David, having embarked on the work

 
 

 

 

72 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

of rescue, was anxious to earry it to a suc-
cessful conclusion. He felt a personal re-
sponsibility for the man whom he had saved
from recapture, and the feeling offset his
natural antagonism to this enemy from the
North, so that he was willing to work in the
fugitive’s behalf. The fellow’s frank con-
fession of fault in stealing the apple meant
for the cripple had done much to change the
mountaineer’s hostile mood to one of friend-
liness. It was quickly decided that the two
should journey together to the coast. The
soldier’s identity would hardly be penetrated
by the few persons they were likely to meet
on the voyage, since in David’s clothes there
was nothing of his outward appearance to
betray him. The chief need for caution
would be in the matter of speech. He must
speak little if at all, lest his Yankee drawl
excite suspicion. With their plans thus set-
tled, the men wrapped themselves in their
blankets, and, both alike over-wearied, slept'
soundly until noon of the next day.

Their leisurely traveling down the river
was for the most part uneventful. There
were no signs of pursuit, and the few persons
whom they encountered showed no suspicion,

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 73

for David did the talking, and they regarded
his taciturn companion with the stubble of
red beard as a fellow mountaineer. It was
not until they came near to the South
Carolina border that adventure befell.

Several miles before the Yadkin River
crosses the state line, beyond which it flows
peacefully on its way as the Great Pedee
to mingle its cloudy waters with the clearer
element of the sea, it passes through a nar-
row defile worn down through the stone of
the cliffs by the ceaseless friction of the
waters during untold ages. Here, within the
canyon, the stream rushes madly in a sharp
descent, crowded within lofty walls. The
cavernous place echoes with the roaring
turbulence of the stream. To-day the huge
power of the rapids has been harnessed for
the making of electric current to supply
cities and towns far and near. But half a
century ago, the waters raced in wasteful
riot through a region that was a wilderness.

David, who was wholly unfamiliar with
this portion of the river, was able never-
theless to calculate his near approach to
the rapids by estimating the distance he had
traveled from Salisbury.

 
 

14. THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

He spoke of the rapids to Morris.

“T "low we’re plumb close t’ some rough
water. I hain’t never been this fur before,
but, shucks! I ain’t worryin’. I cal’late it
ain’t likely t’? be as bad as some rapids I’ve
shot up in the mountains.’”? He regarded
the soldier doubtfully. ‘‘Be ye a-feared?
Tf so be, I’ll set ye ashore when we hear the
river begin thunderin’. Ye’ll have a mighty
hard climb t’ the foot 0’ the rapids, I reckon,
but it’ll be safer, like’s not, even if ye break
a leg on the rocks. But I’m thinkin’ ye
wasn’t born t’? be drownded.’’? He chuckled
reminiscently.

Morris, too, grinned in response.

“T guess I'll stick to the boat,’’ he as-
serted. ‘‘I’ve been down rapids myself,’’
he added boastfully. ‘‘Up home, our Sunday
school had an excursion to Ausable Chasm.
Fine rapids there, by cricky! Went down
in a steamer. It bobbed around something
scandalous. The women was all a-squawkin’
an’ hangin’ onto the men. I was close up to
a pippin of a girl, but she didn’t seem
to have her right senses like, and hugged

an old mossback with a fat wife, what
clean forgot about them rapids in tell-

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 75

ing the girl she was a hussy and how to be-
have.”’

It so chanced, as the skiff drifted down
the current toward the beginning of the
rapids, that the wind, which had been blow-_
ing with increasing violence, and veering
from the west, now blew straight from the
north. The effect of it was to prevent the
men in the boat from hearing the earlier
sullen muttering of the troubled waters be-
low. They were already within the grasp
of the hurrying current before they were
aware that the rapids were at hand. Even
when they perceived from their increased
speed that they were close to the descent,
they were quite undisturbed, all unconscious
of any grave peril before them. Had it not
been for the wind, the mighty din would have
warned them, would have bade them beware
and investigate ere facing the danger that
menaced them. But their ears were stopped.
So, without a qualm of apprehension, they
sat contentedly in the skiff, which darted for-
ward with the smoothly hastening water at
a speed that increased swiftly from moment
to moment. Then, of a sudden, the river
made a turn. Within the minute they were

 
 

 

 

 

 

76 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

rushing through a sunless space of somber
shadows inclosed by massive cliffs which
towered, grim and relentless, between them

and the outer world.

CHAPTER VII

M7 ITHOUT warning the uproar of the

elements crashed on the ears of the

two men in the skiff as their frail craft was

swept into the rock-bound recess. Yet, at

the outset, the clamor that came from the

frantic waters further on was the only thing
likely to cause alarm.

This first stretch of the rapids gave no
visible hint of the dangers lying in wait be-
yond. The waters, while hurrying ever more
swiftly, showed here a smooth surface, un-
broken by projecting rocks. The fluid body
moved forward calmly and evenly between
the straight, parallel stretches of rock that
hemmed it in. There was nothing threaten-
ing in this movement so far as the eye could
detect, though the swift increase in speed
was a terrifying thing. But it needed no
more than the thunderous din reverberating
among the cliffs to proclaim the deadly peril
that menaced close at hand. The enormous

7

 
f
i

 

 

 

 

 

78 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

noise at first astounded the two men, then
appalled them. They shuddered and shrank
back as if in recoil from the hideous up-
roar. But the skiff bore them on remorse-
lessly. The gaunt, pallid face of the Union
soldier showed ghastly gray through the red
bristles of beard; David’s ruddy cheeks
whitened beneath the tan. The escaped
prisoner needed not to be told that a des-
perate, if not fatal adventure confronted
him. Here was nothing like the sportive
liveliness of Ausable Chasm. This level
flight forward toward the tumult of sound
was unspeakably dreadful, ominous of de-
struction lurking only seconds away, just
beyond a break in the straight line of the
canyon’s walls, where now flashed the danger
sign of white, far-flung masses of spray.
David, too, felt terror’s cold grip on his heart.
The rapids he had known had been nothing
like this.

With the singular lucidity that so often
marks the memory in moments of gravest
import, he recalled the various accounts he
had heard of these rapids near the border.
Tt seemed to him that each single word ever
spoken to him concerning them now flashed

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 79

through his brain. He realized, too, with a
pang of shame for his own conceited heed-
lessness of youth, that he had only himself
to blame for the extremity in which he found
himself. He had had warning enough of the
trap set by the river here. Only, in the blind
pride of his personal prowess, he had wil-
fully discounted the tales told him concern-
ing these ravening waters. He had only his
own folly to accuse for the fatal pass into
which he had entered so recklessly. It was
a folly for which he might have to pay with
his life. He knew from the infernal clamor
bursting out of the distance that only a
miracle could save any one alive out of such
turmoil.

Panic fell on David. He knew fear for
the first time in his life. His heart failed
him in the opening seconds of that stealthy,
sinister volleying speed with the river’s cur-
rent. He saw the terror-stricken face of his
companion turned toward him, vaguely out-
lined against the gloom; he saw the man’s
mouth moving grotesquely, whether in pray-
ers or curses he could not tell, since the
booming elangor from the cliffs stilled alt
other sound. For that matter, David just

 
 

 

 

80 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

then had no care for his fellow victim of the
river; his sole concern was for himself—the
selfish instinct of the creature for its own
life, without a thought to spare for aught
else in the universe.

The impulse of fear drove David to ‘vain

endeavor. He swung the steering oar from ~

its place in the stern, and beat with it fran-
tically in furious swings through the water.
He put every ounce of his strength into this
assault against a relentless enemy. The ef-
fort was futile. The skiff did not even swerve
in its flight onward. It was the tragical
struggle of a pygmy against a Titan.

Morris was crouching on the bottom of the
boat, as if seeking protection behind its frail
bulwarks from the river’s frightfulness. His
eyes were glazed; his lips were writhing in
impotent soundlessness. The soldier who
had fought undismayed and bravely on many
bloody fields, now huddled cowering and gib-
bering in the grasp of stark despair.

Something of sanity returned to David.
Fear still possessed him, but his momentary
panic passed. He realized the utter ab-
surdity of any attempt to match his puny
strength against the river’s might. He

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 81

recognized as well the futility of his pur-
pose even could it have been achieved in turn-
ing the skiff’s course to either side, for the
twin walls of stone that confined the stream
rose sheer for a long way. There was no-
where any possibility of a landing place,
nowhere a projection to which one might
cling. Those bleak, slimy, perpendicular sur-
faces were absolutely unscalable. The moun-
taineer abandoned further effort. He strove,
without much success, to regain some mea-
sure of courage and to face the outcome,
whatever it might be, in a spirit of manly
fortitude. Mechanically he shipped his oar,
and sat with countenance grimly set in
readiness for whatever might befall. <A de-
fiant energy welled up in him. He would
not cringe in the presence of the final catas-
trophe, though he had no least hope of
escaping alive out of this evil place.

All this in a matter of seconds. The skiff
fairly flew the length of the canyon’s level
stretch. It came with incredible quickness
to the bend where against the outer cliff
the pounding waters cast high wreaths of
spume. David expected that the boat would
be hurled against the rock, would be crushed

 
 

 

82 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

to splinters, leaving them helpless in the
race. But the time was not yet. The skiff
had been in the very center of the channel,
and, though it now swung down within inches
of the stern rampart, it did not quite touch.
The falling spray came in a drenching
shower. In the same instant the boat was
swept with the stream in a great curve, and
went hurtling along the second stage of the
rapids.

Here the din was deafening. But through
it pierced a thin thrust of sound—the shrill
shriek of the soldier as his affrighted gaze
beheld the chaos now revealed. David gave
no conscious attention to the man’s ery, but
somehow it seemed like an echo from his
own emotion as he stared aghast at the
spectacle of the river in its rage.

It was as if the stream had suddenly gone
mad, and wallowed in an insensate fury, yet
was subtly aware of its own crazed condi-
tion, and sought to flee from this, its torture
chamber, out into the distance, where the
sane peace of the valley waited with smiling
welcome. The rocky floor of the rift through
which the river tore fell away in a slope so
steep that the torrent seemed rather to leap

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 83

than glide.. And the course of the stream
was roughly meandering. The cliffs, too,
were jagged, worn to uncouth shapes by the
buffetings of the waves, ridged and furrowed,
here with prongs like the tusks of some fero-
cious monster, avid to rend and devour, there
with eroded grottoes, dim and mysterious,
within which the baffled waters whispered
and moaned, But the chief danger spots
were where rocks reared their crests in
steadfast resistance to the endless batter-
ing of the river. Hach protruding point,
though itself veiled from view, was made
known by white sheen of spray from the
water shattering against it. Others, too,
there were, which, though without such warn-
ing of their presence, were none the less
deadly—those that did not quite clear the
surface, but lay beneath in ambush to destroy.

The skiff plunged downward with the
flood. It rocked perilously under the pound-
ing of opposing currents. The two men were
forced to cling with all their strength to the
gunwales, to avoid being carried into the
river’s hungry maw. The instinct of self-
preservation made them hold fast with des-
perate energy to the frail support that alone

 
 

 

 

 

84 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

lay between them and destruction in the rabid
coil of waters. But reason forbade any ex-
.pectation that their respite could endure for
more than a few flitting moments.

The boat reeled under a sudden vicious
blow. As it careened, one side scraped
against an outthrust of rock. The little
craft shuddered at the contact like a living
thing, but there was no pause in the onward
rush. David gasped in relief as he saw that
no injury had been wrought. He wondered
dully how long it would be before the com-
ing of the crash that must mean the end of
all things. Already the clothes of both men
were wringing wet. The skiff was half-filled
by fallen spray. The boat veered violently
to the left, missing the cliff by a hand’s
breadth. It was caught in an eddy and spun
dizzily for what seemed a long time. In
reality it was no more than the fraction of
a second. Then again it leaped downward.
Tt fled like a sentient thing, swerving this
way and that to dodge the lethal rocks. It
came to David’s mind that now the chief
turmoil was behind them. A flame of hope
kindled in him. His eyes roved the canyon
before him and he saw that the cliffs were

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 85

less towering, more broken. The place was
visibly lightening. And there could be no
mistake: the bedlam of the river was dimin-
ishing. Yes, surely, there could be no mis-
take: the end of the rapids was at hand.
The flame of hope in David’s breast blazed
high.

The skiff hesitated, quivering like a
wounded thing. Its bottom rasped over a
toothed surface of hidden stone. A great
mass of boiling water drove against it, as it
lay wavering, half-capsized. The force of
the impact hurled the boat aloft into the air
as if it had been a feather. It descended in
a long are and fell full on an immobile, piti-
less bulk of rock, which crushed it instantly,
smashed it into tiny fragments, which went
swirling and dancing away on the tide like
thistledown before the gale. The crash of
the riven boat filled David’s ears. He felt
himself locked fast in the embrace of the
river, felt himself dragged forward, down-
ward. A pain like fire burned through his
brain—and consciousness ceased.

 
 

 

 

CHAPTER VIII

HE ‘greatest mysteries are not those
conceived by the fiction-makers. The
mysteries that have to do with things actual
are the most fascinating and the most baffling
—when there can be no certain solution.
Plato, twenty-odd centuries ago, wrote a few
words concerning the lost Atlantis. Through-
out those ages the learned have sought with
all diligence to prove the verity amid a vast
jumble of speculations over the fate of a
vanished continent. They have searched in
vain. To-day, as always, that bit of world
history remains enticing, elusive, unknown.
There was the Man in the Iron Mask. He
is the one utterly unrecognized personage
in civilization’s record. <A great novelist
portrayed him, and offered an explanation
of his identity. There have been other ex-
planations of that identity, ingenious and
excellent every, one. The only flaw is that

the various theories presented are totally
86

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 87

irreconcilable. As a matter of fact, the
mystery of the Man in the Mask remains
still pathetic and dreadful—and entrancing.
So, too, the mystery of a lost colony ; summed
in a single word, Croatan—of which word no
man knows the source or the significance.

The mystery is none the less absorbing in
that it has to do with folk of our own blood,
dwelling in our own land.

Sir Walter Raleigh sent no legs than three
unfruitful expeditions to Roanoke Island, at
the: junction of Albemarle and Palmico
Sounds. This land of Virginia seemed in-
deed one flowing with milk and honey, and
there was every reason to believe that a
eolony here would flourish exceedingly. The
woods were alive with game, the waters
teemed with fish, the rocks in the sounds
bore oysters in inexhaustible supply, the soil
was extraordinarily fertile. The third ex-
pedition brought colonists for a permanent °
settlement. There were men, women and
children. Houses were built, clearings were
made and crops were planted. There was
not a qualm of foreboding on the part of
any when the ships set sail for England, to
return in a year’s time with supplies. It

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

88 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

was in this colony on Roanoke Island that
Virginia Dare was born—first white child
born in America.

There came troublous times in England.
The return of the ships was delayed for
three years. When at last the little fleet
sailed into the island harbor, officers and
men alike were amazed. They had expected
the colonists to come swarming in welcome
of the returning vessels after the long period
of isolation from the rest of the world. In-
stead, not a single person was anywhere
visible. The houses of the community stood
with closed doors. Investigation only deep-
ened the puzzle presented by the situation.
The place was wholly deserted. The houses
were carefully searched, but there was no
trace of recent occupancy in any of them.
Tt was plain that the dwellings had been de-
serted, and for a long time. Nowhere was a
hint given to tell the story of this strange
disappearance. There were no signs of com-
bat, such as might have appeared had the
colonists been slaughtered by Indians. There

- was nothing to suggest that starvation had
destroyed the little band. No cluster of
rudely marked graves proclaimed an inva-

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 89

sion by virulent disease. There was in
truth absolutely no clue from which to de-
duce a reason for the weird thing that had
befallen.

No clue—save one.

Near the landing stage a tall pole had been
erected. Its conspicuousness gave it signi-
ficance. A word was carved on it; a single
word. That word was:

“Croatan.’’

Such is the mystery. None knows the fate
of the colony that disappeared so strangely.
One may only surmise as to what occurred.
And surmise here, in view of all the facts,
has small justification in any aspect of the
matter. The mystery as to how and whither
these men, women and children went forth
from their homes may be indicated in that:
one word, Croatan. But that word itself
too, is a mystery—fit symbol, if symbol it be,
of the folk who left it.

Centuries afterward, that portion of Vir-

ginia which was to become the interior of
the two Carolinas began to be settled by

hardy and industrious adventurers. Into the
tier of counties situated between the Lumber
River and the Yadkin, contiguous to the

'

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

90 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

South Carolina border, came the advance
guard from a body of Scotch pioneers. Find-
ing soil and climate to their liking, they sum-
moned their fellows, and made a permanent
settlement.

They found, however, that in and about
the section which they had selected they were
not, after all, the first comers. Here was
already established a flourishing community.
The people that constituted it was a strange
sort. The race showed an amalgamation
that was unique. These individuals were dis-
tinctly unlike the neighboring tribes of Red
Men, even though they displayed some racial
characteristics in common with the Chero-
kees, whom they most resembled. They
spoke the English language; they had Eng-
lish usages; they wore clothes fashioned
after English custom; their homes were sub-
stantial log houses; they kept droves of
ponies and herds of cattle and flocks of
sheep. The men displayed good physiques ;
the women were comely. Perhaps the one
thing that most differentiated them from the
Indians was the fact that the heaviest labor
was performed by the men instead of the
women. They had little to tell of a definite

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 91

kind as to their origin. The familiar myth de-
clared that they had come from a long way
off. There was evidence of an Indian strain
in the blood from the cheekbones, which
while not extremely prominent were higher
than the average among whites. A final
peculiarity was found in the nomenclature.
Many members of the tribe had English
names. And these names were identical with
those of the lost colonists!

On the face of it, there are reasons a plenty
why the members of this tribe should call
themselves the Croatans. Anyhow, their
neighbors have given them the name, and
they have accepted it. What strange, per-
haps horrible, history lies hidden here, we
cannot know, we may not guess with any pre-
cision. And, since there is no definite evi-
dence to the contrary, we may best take this
people at its own estimate as comprising the
sole descendants of the colony that aban-
doned Roanoke Island in a fashion so inex-
plicable more than three hundred years ago.

In the centuries that elapsed after the
mingling of the blood of whites and red men
m the Croatans, the tribe passed the years
in leisurely, migratory living on the main-

 
 

 

 

92 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

land. Thus they grew to know all the coastal
region. They became familiar with every
detail of the Atlantic plain. They were at
home on the savannahs that reached levelly
toward the sea, and they knew the innu-
merable secret trails that penetrated the laby-
rinths of the swamps, where the treacherous
ooze steamed beneath canopies of funereal
cypress, garlanded with Spanish moss in
endless drooping festoons. They fattened
their larders with the game to be found
among the open forests of yellow pine spread
over the coastal plain. They came to inti-
mate acquaintance with the higher ground of
the Piedmont plateau, where their rifles took
toll of the creatures that harbored on slopes
thickly timbered with oak and elm and hick-
ory. They even pressed their hunting up
higher into the Brushy Mountains of the
Blue Ridge, where hard wood and conifers
mingled.

Wherever the Croatans made their camp,
they were formerly rather undesirable as
neighbors. They were a people apart. All
others were by way of being their natural
enemies, and, as such, legitimate prey,'to be
plundered as opportunity served. The chief

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 93

pastime of the men was in forays against the
peace, property and prosperity of honest
settlers who were so unfortunate as to excite
the cupidity of the lawless band. The sparsely
settled region was powerless to protect it.
self from such depredations. The strongest
force must have failed to track them through
the swamps, where they alone could pass
safely by quaking bog and slimy morass.
Their camp was always adequately prepared
to resist attack, and could easily have re-
pelled any siege that might possibly be
brought against it.

So the Croatans lived and thrived throuch
the centuries and their consciences were Pie
a whit troubled by their thievery, for in-
deed they thought no moral wrong of it.
They regarded themselves, in a somewhat
vague, but very practical way, as overlords
of the country round about, with all the
rights of suzerainty.

Chief Lowrie built his eamp not far from
the Yadkin River and close to the border of
South Carolina. The outbreak of the Civil
War was not of supreme importance to him
or to his people. Some of the Croatans were
loyal to their Southland; but the fact that

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

94 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

the nation was in the throes of mortal strife
distressed many of them not at all. On the
contrary, it caused rejoicing, since the draft-
ing of men to the colors made raiding easier.

On the very day that David and the soldier
gave themselves so recklessly to the merci-
less fury of the rapids, Chief Lowrie sum-
moned to his presence for a very serious
conversation his only child, the Princess
Blizabeth.

CHAPTER IX

HE princess was in her bedroom, em-
broidering an intricate design in beads

on a moccasin of finest buckskin, when she
heard her father’s call. She wondered a
little at the summons, which had a peremp-
tory ring not usual in his speech to her. She
got up obediently, laid aside her work, and

went out into the living-room of the cabin
where her father awaited her.

This room was a spacious one, running
the whole length of the cabin, with two
smaller chambers opening from it on either
side. The huge fireplace with a kettle of
stew simmering from the crane indicated
that the kitchen was here, while the rudely
fashioned table spread with oilcloth showed
that the place served as a dining-room also.
Other furnishings proved it to be the family
Sitting-room. The composite character of
the place was revealed in the orderly array
of shining copper and iron cooking utensils

95

 
 

 

 

96 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

hung upon the walls, in the display of coarse
crockery arranged on a set of shelves, in
the high desk and smaller table, on which
stood a candle before a row of well-worn
books.

Chief Lowrie had been oiling his rifle.
Now, as his daughter entered the room, he
set the weapon against the wall, and from
his place in a heavy armchair regarded her
gravely, yet with manifest pride and tender-
ness. And Elizabeth returned his gaze
levelly. She stared at him half-curiously,
as if she felt somehow that this interview
was fraught with a significance beyond the
ordinary. It appeared to her that her father
was a little strange in his manner, his bear-
ing more authoritative than that to which
she was accustomed in his relation to her.

The chief of the Croatans was in truth a
striking figure. He was a man of much more
than the average height, and the length of
his body made him appear so even when
sitting. He was broad-shouldered, too,
evidently the possessor of an exceptional
physique. At fifty, his form had coarsened, so
that he had lost something of the elasticity
and swiftness of his movements. But the

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 97

great strength remained undiminished. It
was a strength that had made him able to
rule his people by might as well as by the right
of inheritance, for there was no man in the
tribe to stand against him, nor ever had been.
His head and face, too, were those of a
natural ruler, massive and powerful. His
iron-gray hair, still unthinned by the years,
waved a little, and the abundant locks gave
dignity. The features were of a Roman
type, haughty and rugged, usually a little
cruel, a little savage.

But there was nothing either cruel or
Savage in their expression now as he con-
templated his daughter. On the contrary,
the sloe-black eyes glowed with affection as
they scrutinized the girl from beneath shaggy
brows.

The daughter was assuredly one to delight
a father’s heart. She was taller than most
women. Hvidently she had inherited a share
of her father’s physical vigor. She stood
Straight and pliant, and the unconscious pose
revealed an exuberant energy. She had the
Strength that comes from muscles of steel
sheathed in the soft, yet firm flesh of a
woman. For she had inherited not only the

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

98 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

strength of her father, but also the beauty
and charm of the mother who had died to
give her birth. At eighteen, she had reached
full development of her womanly grace. She
wore a one-piece homespun gown, which
reached just below her knees. A thong of
deer-skin belted it at the waist. The homely
garb became her well, since it displayed the
exquisite lines of a figure gently rounded,
slender and lithe. There was a suggestion
of the princess in the dainty feet, trimly
shod in high moccasins. But the quality of
her found its best display in her face, which
was not merely striking for its delicate love-
liness, but for its intelligence and nobility.
In some remarkable manner the slight ac-
centuation of the cheekbones increased the
effect, as did the rich bronze tint that under-
lay the red and white of her complexion.
There was firmness in the rather generous
mouth, and with it tenderness, perhaps a
subtle prophecy of passion. The slightly
arched nose gave her the look of a patrician,
’ and it harmonized well with the great black
eyes, set wide apart. The brow seemed now
a trifle too high for womanly perfection, for
the heavy masses of her hair were drawn

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 99

away from it and gathered in two heavy
braids which fell over the gently swelling
bosom to her waist. .

She went forward slowly, until she was
immediately before her father. There she
stood sedately awaiting his pleasure.

After a moment of hesitation, he addressed
her. His voice was a little harsh, but not
unkind. It indicated that his feelings were
stirred more deeply than they usually were,
that this was an occasion of peculiar im-
portance, in which she, the daughter whom
he loved, was intimately concerned.

“Yer? eighteen year old, *Liz’beth,’? he
began. ‘‘An’ ye’r’? a woman grown. An’
ye’r’ my darter—’’ he smiled wryly—‘‘the
nearest thing t’ a son an’ heir what I’ve got.
I ain’t complainin’ edzackly ’cause ye ain’t
a boy. But, ’cause I ain’t got a son t’ take
my place as chief o’ the tribe, why, ye see,
"Liz’beth, hit’s up t’ ye t’ take fer yer man
the one what’s fitten t? rule the Croatans in
my stid, when I’m dead an’ gone. Ye un-
derstan’, don’t ye, gal??? He waited for an
answer, surveying his daughter with somber
eyes,

A trace of trouble showed in the lines

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

100 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

of the princess’ face. She did indeed fn-
derstand perfectly the significance of her
father’s words. In a erude way, both the
father and daughter felt themselves subject
to the principle of noblesse oblige. The pride
of birth was strong in both of them. Chief
Lowrie often boasted to his daughter con-
cerning his high birth. He claimed descent
from the chiefs of the red men, and, too, he
vaunted a white lineage, which went back to
Virginia Dare in this country and to her
forebears in the old world. The girl had ac-
cepted his vainglorious pretensions without
question. She regarded herself as the prog-
eny of a great ancestry, and, as such, hedged
in with responsibilities due to her position.
She was well aware that since she was
the only child of the chieftain, the continu-
ance of the blood must come from her mar-
riage. She had no thought of revolt against
her father’s decree, which seemed to her in-
evitable under the circumstances. Rather,
she welcomed it as a duty to be done. Never-
theless, now that the crisis approached, she
found herself reluctant. She was not with-
out her maidenly dreams. The father, full
of an inordinate pride in his beautiful daugh-

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 101

ter, had sent her to the seminary at Fayette-
ville, where she had completed a course that
gave her an excellent education. She had
been fond of reading. Romances thrilled her.
In her reveries, she had fancied herself a
princess who awaited the coming of Prince
Charming to awaken her soul by the touch
of his lips. That imagined Prince Charming
was, alas! totally unlike any one of the
young men among the Croatans. He was
most unlike Goins, the man next in au-
thority to her father, in whom the chief
put most reliance. Now, as she nodded as-
sent to her father’s question, she waited
unhappily to hear this suitor’s name pro-
nounced. And it came in the chief’s next
utterance,

“Ye must take Charlie Goins fer yer hus-
ban’. Thar ain’t no two ways about hit.
’H’s got more gumption than any other feller
in the tribe. An’ ’e’s mighty nigh as strong
as Ibe. °H’ll be able t’ keep ’em in order,
When I’m done.’’ He cast a eugenic eye over
his daughter’s form. ‘Yer children orter
be fust class. Charlie ain’t no ravin’, tearin?
beauty t’ ketch a gal’s eye. I "low thet.
But ’e’s a man, an’ thet’s the main thing

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

102 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

atter all. We’re inbred too damn’ much, an’
thet’s the truth. Charlie ain’t good enough
fer ye, ’Liz’beth; but ’e’s the best we’ve got,
an’ thet settles hit. Ye’r’ old enough t’ be
wed. Charlie’s only been waitin’ fer my
word. I’ll give hit t’ ’im now. Ye hear?”’
In the father’s voice was the ring of patri-
archal authority.

The girl bowed her head in meek assent
to the implied command, though she felt an
inward shudder of repulsion as the face of
the man she was destined to marry rose be-
fore her mental vision. An instinctive de-
sire at least to postpone this final bestowal
of herself on one whom she detested caused
her to speak for the first time since she had
entered the room.

“‘Give me a few days, to prepare myself.”’
She hesitated, and then went on, almost
timidly, with a great wistfulness in her tones.
“<Tt’s a—sort of shock, you know.’’

“Why, *Liz’beth, ye ain’t s’prised none,
be ye?” the father exclaimed.

- “No, not surprised, really,’’ the girl ad-
mitted. <‘‘But now that it’s come, it’s
a shock just the same, even though I was
expecting it. I reckon it’s just because

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 103

that’s the way girls are.’’ She smiled placat-
ingly.

The chief grunted scornfully.

‘‘All women’s cussed foolishness!’? he re-
torted. Then his manner softened. ‘*But
ye always been a good gal, ’Liz’beth, an’
thar ain’t no sech a’mighty hurry ’bout yer
gittin’ spliced. The only anxious one, I
eal’late, is Charlie, an’ ’e kin stand hit fer
a few days—leastways ’e’ll hey t’.’?

The princess smiled radiantly, joyous over
having achieved her object.

“T’ll go for a hunting trip,’? she an-
nounced. ‘‘I’ll go at once. I don’t want to
meet Charlie until—afterward. I’ll have
Minnie meet me, and bring rations.’’

‘‘All right,’? came the father’s consent,
and he nodded dismissal.

The girl’s preparations were quickly made.
They consisted for the most part in donning
a heavier pair of moccasins, in slinging the
powder-horn and bullet-pouch over her
shoulders, in a hurried summons to Minnie,
her most intimate companion, to whom she
gave directions to meet her near sundown
at the secret hunting lodge with supplies.
These things done, Elizabeth, carrying her

Lg

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

104 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

small-bore rifle with its octagonal barrel,
mounted her pony, and rode swiftly toward
the river, with intent to pass in solitude the
few free hours that still remained to her of
maidénhood.

*.

Te princess followed a trail that led

to the westward through the forest.
When she reached a point near the river, she
left her pony tethered in a thicket, with a e

}
feed of meal from a bag which had been ihe

|
|
|
|
|
|

CHAPTER X regen a
&,.
t® |

hidden in the underbrush. Then she made
her way on foot ina southwesterly direction
until she came to the eastern bluff of the
Yadkin, at a point near the lower end of the
rapids. It was here that the hunting lodge
was located, the whereabouts of which she
had kept jealously guarded as a secret from
every one, except her confidante, Minnie.
Soon after finding the place, the idea of build-
ing a shelter there had occurred to ‘her, and
with her friend’s aid the task had been ac-
‘complished. Chief Lowrie alone knew of the
existence of the lodge, but even he was ig-
norant of its precise location. The princess
was fond of wandering in the wilderness for
days at a time, and on such occasions usually
105

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

106 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

returned to the lodge at night, where Minnie
would meet her and bear her company.

Now she climbed down from the top of the
bluff, following a rough and precipitous path
in a rift of the cliff. This brought her to
a broad ledge, overhung by the hollowed
rock of the higher cliff. Thus was formed
a shallow natural cavern, fronting toward
the west and open on three sides. At either
end was rude matting, made by the girls
themselves from woven sedge-grass, sup-
ported on poles. Protected as it was from
the north and the east winds, the cavern was
snug enough for comfort in that mild climate.
If the night air came chill, there was always
a brisk fire of pine knots burning on the
rocky shelf. For the rest, the lodge was
equipped with two bunks where blankets
were spread over thick layers of pine needles.
Deal boards, collected from a pile of drift
at a bend in the river below, had been nailed
to a section of stump to make the table.
Other bits of stump served in lieu of chairs.
A few cooking utensils completed the furnish-
ings.

There would still be many hours before
sundown and the coming of Minnie. The

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 107

princess was grateful for this period of soli-
tude. She felt that she must commune with
herself searchingly over the change that was
imminent in her life. Her mood was an ad-
mixture of melancholy and rebelliousness. *
She was half-frightened at herself for the
bitterness of her antagonism to the project
commanded by her duty to her father and
to her people.

She laid down the rifle and placed the
powder-horn and bullet-pouch with it. Then
she seated herself cross-legged on the level
stone, and stared up and down over the vast
and splendid scene. In her ears was the
roaring of the rapids, but softened by dis-
tance. Usually, Elizabeth looked long in
fascinated wonder at the seething waters in
their ceaseless race past her refuge. The
power and the strangeness of them never
failed to excite in her an admiring awe. And
she loved the majestic, yet peaceful pan-
orama that was outspread around about.
Always hitherto a kindred serenity had
stolen into her soul as she contemplated the
tranquil beauty of the valley to the south. To-
day, it was more than ever lovely, for field
and forest, upland and bottom, were alike

 
 

 

 

 

108 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

gorgeously colored, yet in most delicate har-
mony of tints, by the autumn air. The girl’s
mood, however, was unsympathetic to the
gracious charm of nature. Her spirit was
in turmoil. Her eyes turned inevitably to
the rioting waters in the canyon. She felt
within herself a like frantic, though invisible,
struggle to escape. The near prospect of
union with the man whom her father had
selected appalled her. The coarse-featured
face of the fellow rose in her memory, and
she recoiled from it in loathing. She re-
called how once he had tried to kiss her—
recalled, too, the nausea his touch had
caused. She had sought to evade even his
gaze, affronted by its leering attempt at in-
timacy. She realized that the surrender of
herself into this man’s keeping would tax
her to the utmost of her strength. She had
no thought of resistance. Her ideal of con-
duct demanded this sacrifice of herself. But
she understood that she would have need of
jall her will to go through with the perform-
ance of her duty graciously. She thanked
God that her father had accorded this inter-
val in which to prepare herself. She would
have need of it to the full.

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 109

For a long time the girl sat there, brood-
ing over a future that appeared altogether
dismal and repellent. She was distraught
with apprehensions concerning the life that
stretched before her. Her natural intelli-
gence had been broadened by education. She
could not doubt that this union with a man
whom she so detested would mean unbroken
misery. Yet, she had no choice, as it seemed
to her, save to accept such sorrow for her
lot. Thus only could she fulfill the obliga-
tion imposed upon her by birth as daughter
of the chief of the Croatans. She sighed
gently in a tender sadness of renunciation
at thought of the ideal man of her dreams.
Him she could never know. She could never
thrill to his touch, never bask in the ardor
of his glances, never yield herself to him in
lovers’ raptures. Instead, there would be
only and always Goins, bestial and vicious,
with the gorilla-like arms to clasp her, with
the thick, loose lips to kiss her. She shook in
a spasm of anticipatory dread. The tears
of a self-pity welled from the limpid eyes,
and trickled slowly over the velvet curve of
the cheeks. And ever she stared downward
at the mad riot of the canyon’s waters.

 

 

 
 

 

 

110 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

She saw the skiff as it was swept into the
last, most furious stage of the rapids. She
uttered an ejaculation of horror as she
realized that the tiny craft, reeling and rush-
ing with the raging stream, carried two men.
It seemed certain that they were doomed to
destruction in the cauldron where rock and
water battled so unceasingly against each
other, but joined their forces to annihilate
any that came between. Her spirit grew
faint with fear for the two hapless victims of
the river. She watched the craft’s wild
flight in a trance of terror. It was a recur-
ring miracle second by second that it still
remained afloat despite the constant assaults
on every side. For a moment ghe even ven-
tured to hope that, after all, the final miracle
might come to pass, that the boat might
plunge unscathed into the pool at the rapid’s
foot, and bear its freight alive out of the
jaws of death.

The hope was killed almost in the instant
that gave it birth. Aghast, she saw the skiff
rise high in air as if driven up by a dyna-
mite charge. She saw it swing forward in
the long are of its fall back to the water. She
saw it crash down upon the rock, saw it dis-

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 111

integrate before her eyes, saw its occupants
in the grip of the river. She saw one man
swept by an eddy toward the wall on her
side of the canyon. She saw that he was
apparently uninjured, for he was swimming
in a desperate effort not to be carried away
into the resistless grasp of the channel cur-
rent. She knew that there was a chance of
life for him, since the cliffs were much broken
at this point, so that, could he attain to the
river’s edge, he might find a way to safety.

But that other! The girl’s heart stvod still
in dread. It seemed impossible that he could
win through. In another moment, a ery of
pity broke from her lips. She could not
doubt that the man was marked for death.
Her eyes caught the white blur of his face
as it gleamed for an instant and was gone,
engulfed by the torrent. He had made no
struggle. It was clear that he had been ren-
dered helpless by some injury, had been left
the toy of the merciless stream.

Suddenly, a new thought broke the par-
alysis of fear that had fallen on Elizabeth.
It was the thought of rescue. The possibility
was too remote for credence, yet it spurred
her to action. She did not pause to consider

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

112 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

her course. The single means that offered
a chance of success flashed on her conscious-
ness. She moved with swiftness and preci-
sion, as if carrying out a carefully considered
plan. She sprang to her feet, and went hur-
rying down the cliffs toward the river.

The route she took was one perilous to
the careful and plodding climber. It prom-
ised to prove fatal to one who fled at such
reckless speed, skirting ledges that gave
barely foothold, leaping from shelf to shelf
where any slip meant death. But anxiety
drove the girl ever faster, regardless of the
danger. She knew the need of haste—the
vital need. She must reach the base of the
cliffs before the body of the stricken man
was borne past the bend in the river a little
way below. The winding of the stream gave
her a slight advantage. There was, how-
ever, no time for painstaking care in the
descent, if she would not be too late. So she
darted downward, undeterred by risks that
seemed certain destruction. It was only the
splendid strength of her and the perfect co-
ordination of eye and muscle, and, above
all, the brave spirit of her that enabled her
to cover the precarious trail unharmed.

THH HOMEWARD TRAIL 113

At the very end, disaster almost over-
whelmed her. When she was a score of yards
above the river, whence a rough, steep slope
ran to the water, a fragment of rock gave
way under her light footfall. She stumbled,
lost her footing for an instant, and was
thrown from her balance, though she did not
fall. Nevertheless, she was compelled to
continue on downward at increased speed,
powerless to check her headlong career over
the sharply slanting litter of broken rocks.
She went leaping in great strides, each
longer than the one before. At the river’s
brim, she sprang high, and was carried out
clear of the bowlders that edged the stream.
She fell uninjured in the pool formed here
by a backset of the water within the half-
encircling arm of rock that was thrust for-
ward from the cliff.

Elizabeth knew the place well. In the air,
she had turned bodily to face downstream.
While still immersed, she began swimming
with every bit of her strength toward the
rocky point just below, which bordered that
side of the pool. So quick was her effort,
and so sturdy, that the avaricious hold of
the water was powerless against her. In a

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

114 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

moment, she had reached the reef, and
clambered out upon it, uninjured.

The girl could not pause to think of her
own escape. Her sole concern was over the
man whom the river had claimed for its own.
Was she in time? She advanced to the
farthest point of rock lying above the sur-
face. Beyond her the stone showed dimly
a little way under water. If the body were
swept just here, it would move a little more
slowly, being rolled over and over along the
rocky shelf. Here, if anywhere, was the
solitary opportunity to effect a rescue. But
was she in time? Hlizabeth straightened and
gazed with straining eyes over the tortuous
length of pounding waters upstream.

Almost instantly, she glimpsed him.

The face vanished, reappeared yards lower
down. Elizabeth knew that the moment had
come. It was now, or forever too late. The
one poor chance for this stranger’s life was
in her hands. She nerved herself for the
ordeal. The body would be floundering past
her in another instant. She half-crouched,
tense, expectant, a-quiver with eagerness.

The body was swept into view. It came
tumbling—as she had known it would—

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 115

through the shallows over the rocky shelf.
It was there before her now, ready to her
grasp. Her heart jumped, then missed a
beat. The body would pass just beyond her

reach.

She did not hesitate in the least, but
stepped into the race of smooth water that
slid over the submerged rock.

The slithering quiet of the surface masked
a treacherous fierceness below. The current
clamped like a vice on her leg and pulled
her down. But, as she fell, her left hand
lunged forward—caught a grip in the man’s
long hair, and held. Her other hand, when
she struck the water, quested wildly for a
hold on the slimy stone. She was swept
along a short distance, then her fingers
found their opportunity in a tiny rift. The
fingers clutched convulsively. She held her-
self against the savage dragging of the
stream. She was able to lift her head above
the water, and to take a long breath. She
rested a moment to prepare for the final con-
test. The beating of the current against the
man’s inert form wrenched the arm that held
him, so that the pain of it was almost in-
tolerable. The strain on the other arm was

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

116 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

steadier, but the anguish from it was even
greater. It seemed to her that she had no
strength left for any slightest movement.
Nevertheless, she meant to try still further,
to the utmost, for her life and for his—if it
yet remained in him.

Presently, she bestirred herself to action.
Very cautiously, she moved one foot over
the slippery stone. The toes within the
flexible moccasins sought a fissure or a pro-
jection to which to cling. And, very soon,
a cleft place offered a safe foothold. Then,
the search was continued with the other foot
—successfully, at last. Still moving with the
utmost care, she got to her knees. The pull
of the current on the body was such that she
could not flex the muscles of the arm that
held it, and her suffering from the strain
was almost more than she could bear, but
she set her teeth, and endured it. The tax
on the other arm was relaxed, since the feet
had come to its support. This partial relief
comforted her, and cheered her to renewed
endeavor. She secured a safer hand-hold.
So, with tedious slowness, in physical tor-
ment from the buffeting of the current
against her and against the burden she bore,

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 117

Elizabeth crawled to the bank. There, in a
last frenzied output of waning strength, she
hauled the body of the man after her, clear
of the river’s clutch. She did not know
whether he was alive or dead. For the mo-
ment, she hardly cared. Beside the twisted,
sodden figure of the man, she sprawled in
collapse, now that the ordeal was ended, and
lay in a stupor of fatigue.

 
 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XI

Ee princess moved slightly and moaned
like a hurt child. She remembered
dully the man she had seen in the rapids,
her run down the cliffs, her fight against
the voracious river. It all seemed to have
happened ages and ages ago, in some other
strange lifetime. Then, in the twinkling of

an eye, her consciousness cleared. She
recollected every detail distinctly. She sat
erect with quick energy, though the motion
of her stiffened muscles was torture. She
looked down at the still form by her side.
Was he dead? Had her fierce struggle in
his behalf been all in vain?

She stoically disregarded her own physical
misery, and set herself to complete the work
she had begun—if indeed it were not already
too late. She bent over the body, and thrust
her hand within the bosom. To her joy, she
detected a beating of the heart, feeble and

broken, but unmistakable none the less. New
113

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 119

strength flowed into her from this encour-
agement, and she entered on the task of
restoration with hopeful vigor. She turned
the man on his face, with his head down the
slope, in order to clear his lungs of the water
he had swallowed. Then she turned him
back, and seized his arms and worked them
to stimulate the breathing. She disregarded
the cut on his head, which had doubtless
stunned him. The immersion in the stream
had kept it open, but now the blood was
clotting and only a little flowed sluggishly
from the gash. The wound must await its
turn. Death from drowning was the vital
peril.

There came a choking gasp from the un-
conscious man; his body was racked by a
convulsive shudder. The girl hastily pulled
him about, so that his head was on the higher
ground. This done, she stood erect, and
looked down into his face. She was thrilled
to see that the eyes were open and gazing
dazedly up at her. In the same second, the
lids fell, and remained fast shut. Elizabeth
bent close and watched, and saw the rise and
fall of the chest in the rhythm of breathing.
Triumph filled her. She alone had fought

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

120 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

for this man, and she had brought him alive
back from the very gates of death.

“Wi, there!”’

Elizabeth looked up in astonishment, as
there fell on her ears this hail in a high
nasal voice. She saw on a ledge some rods
above her a man in garments which, though
they clung to him dripping wet, were plainly
several sizes too large for the emaciated
frame. The face, too, was gaunt, but its
thinness was half-concealed by a short growth
of stiff red whiskers. The hatless head
showed a thatch of like ruddy color, made
sleek for the moment by water. The girl
knew that this must be the other occupant
of the boat. The fact was confirmed in the
fellow’s next words.

“‘Yon’ve got him!’’ There was great ex-
citement in his tone. ‘‘Is he alive?’’

The princess nodded.

“‘Gome on down and help,’’ she com-
manded.

She studied the man curiously as he hur-
ried down the descent toward her. While
he was yet some distance from her, she spoke
with a singularly impersonal note of disdain.

‘‘You’re a damn’ Yank’.’? She was quite

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL ~ 121

unaware that she used the profane adjective,
so familiar had it become on the lips of those
about her. ‘‘Is he one?’’ Her glance went
to the face of the unconscious youth lying
beside her.

Morris shook his head in violent dissent.

‘‘He’s a Johnny Reb, all right,’’? he de-
clared. ‘‘He saved me from the river when
the bloodhounds was after me, and so he sort
of had me on his hands. But there’s more to
it than that,’’ he added, as he came to a halt
by the girl. ‘‘It’s a long story.’?

“No time for it now,’ Elizabeth stated,
with cold authority. ‘‘We’ve got to get him
up the cliffs in a hurry, where he can be dry
and warm.”’

Morris cast a doubtful eye up the way
along which he had just come.

“That Salisbury prison kinder took the
tuck out of me,’’ he admitted. ‘‘I’m too
darn’ puny for any use.’’

““T low you can help some,’’ was the an-
swer. ‘‘Cut two birch poles about eight foot
long.’

‘‘Hain’t got any knife,’’ Morris objected,
*‘They didn’t leave us anything there in the
stockade.’?

 
 

 

 

 

 

122 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

Elizabeth bent over the form of the man
she had rescued, and searched the pockets.
She uttered an ejaculation of satisfaction as
she drew out a big clasp-knife.

<‘There!’? she exclaimed, and tossed it to
the Union soldier, who caught it and straight-
way set about the task she had imposed.

When, after a little, he returned with
the required lengths of sapling, the girl was
in readiness with David’s coat, which she
had removed, and some strips of worn can-
vas, which she had brought from the heap
of drift at the edge of the inset. With Mor-
ris’ aid, she buttoned the coat over the two
poles, and, to make it more secure, cut slits
in it, and laced the two sides firmly together
with the latches from her moccasins. The
pieces of canvas were bound on, to increase
the length of the supporting part in this im-
provised litter. She added also the belt from
her waist at a point where it would support
the body at the knees. To complete the work
to her satisfaction, she removed the moun-
taineer’s suspenders, and made a mesh of
them for a head-rest.

“Now help me lift him,’’ came the curt
order. She herself took the body under the

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 123

arms, and carried most of the weight, as
they raised it and placed it on the nile
litter.

ee take the foot,’’ she explained. ‘It
will be heavier going up, and I’m stronger
than you. Go on down the bank a little way. :
You'll see a path up that’s easier.’?

Morris seized the poles, and went forward
obediently. With the girl’s voice guiding
him, he duly turned into the trail that led
upward. It was an arduous ascent. It taxed
the strength of the girl on whom most of
the burden rested. It was almost too much
for the debilitated fugitive, whose weakness
had been increased greatly by the experiences
of the day. But, with many rests on the
way, the work was at last achieved, and the
summit of the bluff attained. Afterward, it
was a simple matter to carry the litter along
the comparatively level top, to the point
above the hunting lodge, and thus down the
short descent to the cavern itself. ‘As they
came to the place, Morris cried out in sur- .
prise, and uttered numerous questions, to
which the girl gave absolutely no heed.

‘Help me get him into this bunk,’’ she
ordered the wondering soldier. When this

 
 

 

 

 

124 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

had been accomplished, she brought a flask
of peach brandy from the stores in the lodge,
and with some difficulty managed to make
David swallow a little. ‘‘Now you get his
clothes off, and rub him dry, and wrap him
up well in the blanket.’? She dropped a
towel on the bunk, and turned away. ‘‘I’ll
get some water to bathe his wound,’’ she
added. She took up a tin pail and went out.

When Morris had done, he issued from the
eavern, and found her waiting for him. She
gave him instructions for building a fire of
pine knots at the entrance, and then went
within. She bathed the injured man’s head
with the cold water from the spring, and
bandaged it neatly. Afterward, she gave
him more of the brandy, which he now took
readily, whereat the girl sighed in relief.

Morris came and stood looking down at
David with an expression of deep solicitude
on his homely face.

‘“‘Oughter have a doctor,’’ he remarked
gloomily.

But Elizabeth moved her head in negation
that seemed strangely emphatic. As a mat-
ter of fact, she already felt a proprietary
interest in this bit of flotsam which she had

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 125

plucked from the river, and she meant to
make the saving of him her own exclusive
work. She resented the soldier’s suggestion
from an instinct of jealousy lest any other
should interfere between her and the com-
pletion of her work.

“This cut on his head isn’t very bad,’’ she
said; and her voice was a little sharp. ‘‘I’ve

cleaned it and done it up. Pretty soon I'll

have some salve to put on it.’? She glanced
toward the westering sun, which was now,
close to the horizon, and knew that Minnie
would speedily be at her service to send for
the supplies needed in the sick man’s behalf.
She turned her eyes to David, and noted the
slight dew of sweat on his forehead. ‘‘No,’’
she concluded decisively, ‘‘he won’t have any,
chill now, and that’s what I was most afraid
of. No, he won’t need any doctor. We'll
nurse him between us.”’

Morris, more than ever bewildered, choked
back the questions that crowded to his lips.
There was much concerning which he would
have liked to ask, but somehow the manner
of this extraordinary girl, so beautiful, so
dominant, and so efficient, halted the expres-
sion of his inquisitiveness. Without ventur-

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

126 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

ing any further remark, he went out of the
cavern, and squatted on the far side of the
fire, close by the flames, to dry his clothes,
_and incidentally to ponder in great perplexity
the remarkable situation with which he found
‘himself confronted.

It was perhaps half an hour later, and the
cavern was beginning to fill with the shadows
of dusk, when at last David stirred feebly.
His eyelids unclosed, and he gazed up dream-
ily into the face bending over so near to
his own. There was only a lazy contentment
in his regard at first. But, presently, this
vanished. The eyes narrowed a little and
grew brighter. Amazement glowed in them.
His lips moved, but the words were inaudible.
The girl put her ear close to his mouth, and
listened, and heard the whisper:

‘“Who are you?”’

 

CHAPTER XII

HE answering voice came in a music that

was inexpressibly soothing to the lad

who listened. The sound of it charmed his

spirit, though the words so softly spoken
scarcely penetrated his consciousness.

“‘T am Elizabeth, the daughter of Chief
Lowrie, of the Croatans.’’

‘¢How did I git here? Where is this place,
anyhow?’’ David demanded. He was anxious
to know something concerning his surround-
ings and the events that had brought him
hither ; but he was more anxious to hear again
the melodious cadences of that voice.

‘cYou were in our country—you and your
companion—when you were wrecked in the
rapids. We brought you here as the near-,
est place.’’

David’s eyes left the girl’s face for the
first time. He looked about the chamber in-
quiringly.

‘We?’ he questioned.

127

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

128 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

“The man who was with you helped me to
bring you up here,’’ she responded. ‘The
Yankee soldier from the prison,’’ she added,
answering the young man’s puzzled glance.

David’s face cleared.

“‘Oh, Morris!’ he exclaimed. Full mem-
ory rushed back on him. He remembered
that last instant of consciousness, when the
waters had closed over him, and there had
come the stabbing pain through his head.
‘‘Morris escaped then???

66Veg.??

‘Somethin’? must have hit me on the
head,’’ David murmured, more to himself
than to the girl.

But she heard and answered him.

“‘Your head was cut on a rock. I have
bound it up. It will be sore, but it’s nothing
very serious.’’

David put his hand to his head and touched
the bandage gingerly, wincing as he did so.

‘‘T "low ye’ve been plumb kind t? me, Miss
Elizabeth.’? He smiled in warm gratitude,
which was not the less because of the radiant
loveliness of the face into which he looked.
He experienced a thrill of pleasure in this
intimate association with a woman unlike

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 129

any he had ever known. She bore herself
with a dignity that was unfamiliar in his ex-
perience, but had in it something singularly
attractive. In this case, the effect was sof-
tened by the beauty of her face and by the
gentle kindliness of her manner toward him.
He felt himself in the presence of a being
superior to any he had ever known before.
Yet, she was in no wise repellent or aloof.
Rather, she displayed toward him an amia-
bility at once maternal and tender. The fact
that she had wrought the rescue of this man
aroused in her of itself a profound interest,
and this interest she unconsciously revealed.
Its effect on the object of it was immediate
and pervasive. Though he did not as yet
know that he was indebted to the girl for his
life, he already felt drawn to her with an
emotional intensity that was startling, yet
delightful. Under her direction, he drank
again of the brandy, and soon was able to
speak aloud, though weakly.

Morris, from his place outside beyond the
fire, heard the two voices, and came hurrying
into the cavern, which was now lighted only
by the flames.

‘‘Hurrah!’’ he cried, as he came up to the

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

130 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

bunk. He got hold of one of David’s limp
hands, and shook it heartily. ‘‘Feelin’ fit
as a fiddle—I don’t think!’’ he exclaimed,
_ with a chuckle. ‘‘You gotter thank this girl
here that you can feel anything at all. How
she ever did haul you out of them rapids
I don’t know. I hain’t hearn the story yet,
and I wasn’t there to see. But I do know
for myself that she’s mighty spry, and pow-
erful as a man.’’

David regarded the girl with new wonder
and respect, and, too, with a sense of vital
relationship.

““You—you-all pulled me out?’’? he ques-
tioned, half-timidly.

Hlizabeth showed no embarrassment. She
had done the thing, and it was not to be de-
nied or belittled. The honesty of her char-
acter caused her to speak frankly.

“‘T saw you upset. I was up here. There
was just a chance. I tookit. I got down to
the point below in time to catch you. It was
close work. I thought once I couldn’t do it.
But it came out all right.’’

David looked into the limpid brown eyes
of the girl with a reverent admiration.

“‘Ye put yerself in danger t’ save me!’’ he

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 131

said softly. There was such a tone of feel-
ing in his voice that for the first time Eliza-
beth was a little confused. But she answered
as candidly as before.

“‘Yes. There was no other way.’’ She as-
sumed an air of brisk command. ‘‘And now
you must rest.’’ She turned toward Morris.
“*You go,’’ she bade him. Then she spoke
again to her patient. ‘‘You must sleep. I’ll
watch by you. Go to sleep.’? Almost in-
stantly, David obeyed.

It was a half-hour later when a sound of
voices from outside attracted the attention
of Elizabeth. A glance at her patient showed
that he was sleeping soundly. She got up
quietly, and went out to investigate. Within
the cirele of light from the flames, the Union
soldier was standing with his arms stiffly
stretched above his head and an expres-
sion in which surprise, chagrin and fear
were blended on his uncomely features. Ag
Elizabeth appeared on the scene, a high
feminine voice came incisively from out the
night’s shadows.

‘‘Now turn yer back, an’ keep yer han’s
up!’? The last words were spoken with men-
acing emphasis.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

132 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

Morris, as he turned, saw Elizabeth, and
his face lighted in relief. He called out
whiningly.

“Say, miss, can’t you call off this durned
she wildcat? She’s drawed a gun on me,
and stuck me up, and if she ain’t just plain
crazy, I miss my guess. She’s been ravin’
about some princess, and accusin’ me of
havin’ her tucked away in a pocket some-
wheres.’’

“You ean put down your hands,’ Eliza-
beth vouchsafed, and as Morris complied
with a grunt of satisfaction, she called in a
louder tone: ‘‘It’s all right, Minnie. You
needn’t be worried any about this man.’’
Unconsciously, she spoke with a contemp-
tuous inflection, under which the fugitive
writhed. There and then was born in his
heart a feeling of enmity against the girl who
was herself so strong and competent, and
who regarded him in his weakness so scorn-
fully.

Minnie stepped within the lighted space by
the fire. She was a pretty girl, much smaller
than the princess, of a more markedly In-
dian type, very vivacious and intelligent.
Under her arm was the rifle which she had

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 133

held trained on Morris. Her explanation
was to the point.

“‘T saw this man an’ hailed him. I knew
he was a damn’ Yank’ soon’s he spoke. I
asked him whar you-all was, an’ he said he
didn’t know anything ’bout ye. So I stuck
him up.”’

Morris broke in indignantly.

“‘She never said a blamed word about you,
miss—just some highfalutin josh about a
princess. Ain’t the little spitfire crazy as a
loon?’’

The answer came with a serene dignity
that left the New Englander utterly flab-
bergasted.

“‘T am the Princess Elizabeth.’’

Having thus said, the girl ignored Morris,
and spoke briefly to her friend. She ex-
plained what had occurred, and sent Minnie
to bring the additional supplies required for
the injured man.

While awaiting her messenger’s return,
Elizabeth reéntered the cavern, and took her
place beside the sleeping man. It was only
after considerable hesitation that Morris
ventured to approach her. He was in a state
of almost ludicrous bewilderment. He could

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

134 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

by no means solve the puzzle of this girl,
who was at once so beautiful and so capable,
who spoke with a propriety that even his
unaccustomed ears appreciated to some ex-
tent, who was called a princess, and herself
claimed the rank. He recognized his own
inferiority to her, and he knew that she, too,
recognized it. The fact filled him with bit-
terness, which was the more humiliating be-
cause he was now dependent upon her bounty
for food and shelter and protection in this
country of his enemies. A princess who
lived in a cave! He was baffled by the mys-
tery of it all, and exasperated by his own
helplessness. It was his hunger that com-
pelled him to address her.

Elizabeth frowned at his approach, and
lifted a warning finger, lest he disturb the
sleeper. So Morris came on tiptoe, and in
a whisper asked for something to eat. The
girl pointed toward the shelves stocked with
provisions.

“‘Help yourself,’’ she said indifferently.

The man made a full meal, but it was un-
flavored by gratitude.

When Minnie returned, the two girls
rigged a blanket across a corner of the

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 135

cavern to form a private chamber. Then, as
a little fever set in, and David became rest-
less, Elizabeth redressed the wound with a
healing ointment, and afterward soothed him
with repeated applications of the cold spring
water on his head. Morris was given the
second bunk, and Minnie slept on blankets in
the curtained corner. But Elizabeth, despite
the strain to which she had been subjected
in the day’s adventure, watched over David
in wakeful solicitude through all the long
hours of the night. It was not until after
dawn, when Minnie had arisen, that she
shared the meal prepared by her friend, and
then took a few hours for her own repose.
When she reappeared, Elizabeth found
David just waking from a refreshing sleep.
Only a slight trace of the fever remained.
‘‘Are you hungry?’’ she asked.
“‘As a b’ar!’’ he declared promptly. His
voice showed how greatly he had improved.
Though David protested that he was no
longer an invalid, Elizabeth regulated his
diet with scrupulous nicety. She was indeed
over-careful throughout the days that fol-
lowed, even absurdly solicitous for the health
of this man whom she regarded as her own

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

136 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

personal responsibility since she had saved
him from the river. She early admitted the
truth that this stranger whom fate had
brought filled all the requirements of her
ideal mate. It almost seemed to her that
her heart had gone out to him at the first
instant of seeing his face. She accepted the
fact of her love for him, and rejoiced in it.
It never occurred to her to doubt that her
love would be returned. Though her charge
spoke no word of direct tenderness, his eyes
were eloquent, and his tones were vibrant
with a feeling that found its response in her
breast. Morris, always ill at ease in the
presence of the princess, spent most of his
time smoking on the ledge before the cavern.
Minnie was absent a great part of the time.
In consequence, Elizabeth and David were
for the most part alone together, and in-
evitably the intimacy between them devel-
oped by leaps and bounds. The young man
was in the throes of a great passion, though
he refused to confess the truth to himself.
The duty of loyalty to Ruth sealed his lips
fo any word of love. But duty was power-
less to stem the emotion that surged within
him. He denied his heart for very shame,

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 137

but he knew the denial was a lie. And, too,
often shame vanished, and in its stead was
exultation over the loveliness and the worth
of this wonder-woman who ministered to
him. From hour to hour, from day to day,
he lived in a glamour. He dared not face
the future; he turned away resolutely from
the past. But in the present he was divinely
blest.

It was on the sixth day after the rescue
of David from the rapids that Elizabeth
called Morris to her, and gave him an order.

‘“Take my rifle, and go out and get some
fox squirrels.’’

The girl’s cool tone was disdainful as al-
ways when she addressed this enemy from
the North.

The soldier took the weapon, and went
obediently; but within him the smoldering
hostility threatened to burst into a blaze,

 
 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIII

HIEF LOWRIE and his lieutenant,
Goins, were riding through the forest
some half-dozen miles to the northwest of
the Croatan camp, on their return from a
scouting expedition, which had in prospect
a raid for plunder. The sharp report of a
rifle sounded near, and caused the two men
to regard each other in surprise, since none
of the tribe was likely to be in this neigh-
borhood. But, in another moment, a thought
came to the chief, which caused him to urge_
his pony in the direction of the sound. There
was something familiar in the note of the
weapon, and he recalled the fact that his
daughter was still isolated somewhere in this
vicinity. It seemed to him probable that it
was she who had fired the shot. He was
anxious for her return home. So, now, he
pressed forward in the hope of meeting her
and making known his wish. Goins followed
his leader, mildly curious as to who the
hunter might be.
138

THE HOMEWARD. TRAIL 139)

As the two horsemen rode into a little glade
within the wood, they saw a man stand-
ing with rifle grounded, who was an utter
stranger. The fellow faced the newcomers
with an attempt at bravado, which was visi- .
bly denied by the involuntary shrinking of
his body. The whole effect of the stranger
in his ill-fitting garments and with his gaunt
face half-hidden by the short red beard, was
such as to provoke suspicion. There was
something outlandish about him, something
that declared he did not belong in the region,
even before he opened his mouth. For 2
few seconds, the Croatans scrutinized the
hunter with sharp glances. Then, suddenly,
the chief’s brows drew down in a black
frown. His heavy voice boomed out, stri-
dent and menacing. At the first sound of
it, the stranger recoiled a pace as if from a
blow.

“‘Whar did ye git thet-thar rifle?’? Lowrie.
demanded. His eyes glowered savagely.
Then, as the other hesitated, confused by the
fierceness of the unexpected query, the chief
continued even more harshly in direct accusa-
tion.

‘‘Thet-thar rifle’s my darter’s. Whar’d

 

 
 

140 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

ye git hit? Speak up damn’ quick, if ye
wanter save yer wuthless hide.’’

The unhappy Morris, for the hunter was
he, was momentarily stricken speechless by
the verbal onslaught. He stood in dumb con-
sternation, his pale, red-rimmed eyes dilated
in fear, his jaw sagging. The chief leaped
from hig saddle with an agility astonishing
in one of his bulk. He strode close to the
soldier, and towered over him threateningly.

‘“Whar’s my gal, ye whelp?’”’ he demanded
furiously. ‘‘Find yer tongue, er I’ll find hit
fer ye.’’

The fear that had held Morris speechless
now drove him to utterance. He babbled
quaveringly, brokenly.

‘<The girl give it to me herself—the girl
that says she’s a princess—she sent me to
shoot squirrels—I hain’t stole the gun—I
hain’t done nothin’ at all, mister—’’

The stammering whine broke off, for the
huge hand of the chief fell on his shoulder,
and he was shaken like a rat in the jaws of
a terrier. When Lowrie let go his hold,
Morris staggered and fell, and then sat ering-
ing abjectly while his assailant spoke again.

““Ye’r’ a poor liar, ye damn’ Yank’, My

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 141

darter ain’t runnin’ the country with sich as
you-all scum out o’ Salisbury. Ye don’t need
+? more’n open yer yawp t’ tell whar ye come
from. An’ ye’ll be back thar sudden, if I
don’t kill ye fust.’? His voice, which had
lightened a little, burst in a mighty roar.

‘‘Whar’s my darter?’’

Morris scrambled to his feet, and remained
half-crouched in terror, ready for instant
flight if an opportunity came. But, as the
chief stood waiting for an answer, the sol-
dier’s brain cleared a little. He guessed that
the strange girl who had given him the rifle
was in fact the daughter of this raging giant
who threatened to destroy him. To his
memory came the father’s indignant refer-
ence to the girl’s associating with such as he.
Tt occurred to him that the man would be
equally outraged should he become aware
of the fact that she was nursing another
stranger, with whom she dwelt in a lonely
retreat. The enmity that he felt toward
Elizabeth moved him to betrayal of her to
her father. He was sure that in this wise
he could divert wrath from himself to her,
and thus perhaps save himself while injuring
her. He was still greatly alarmed, but the

 

 
 

 

 

 

142 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

hope of escape and of satisfying his hostility
toward the princess gave him strength to
speak boldly for the first time.

“‘T can lead you to where your girl is, and
she’ll tell you she give me her gun herself,
to go shootin’ with. She’s in a kind of cave
with a young chap she’s fished out of the
river.’

Lowrie, who had listened with a fair de-
gree of patience, shouted a curse, and Morris
shuddered again at the venom in the raucous
voice.

“Ye lyin’? houn’! Ill cut out thet dirty
tongue 0’ yer’n.’’

Yet, some subtle note in the man’s voice
conveyed a hint of doubtfulness, which gave
the soldier courage.

“Time enough for that,’? he retorted,
“¢when I’ve led you to the place, and you’ve
found out what I’ve said wa’n’t true. Meb-
be you know where the cave is,”?

The chief shook his head.

“‘T Imew she had a. place some’res,’’ he
admitted, with manifest reluctance, ‘‘but I
don’t know whar hit’s at. I ‘low you-all
kin lead me thar. An’ when I’ve proved
ye’r’ lyin’, I’ll tend t? ye ’cordin’ t’ yer de-

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 143:

serts, an’ it won’t be no ways pleasant fer
ye nuther.’’

He reached out, and took the rifle from
Morris, who made no effort to retain it.
Then he climbed back on his horse, and spoke
gruffly to Goins, who throughout the scene
had remained a silent, but profoundly inter-
ested observer.

“You-all git along t’ the camp, Charlie,’”
he ordered. ‘‘I’ll look arter this-hyar critter
myself.’?

Goins knew the chief too well to attempt
any argument against the decree, but turned
his horse, and rode away in the direction of
the Croatan encampment. As he disappeared
from view in the wood, Lowrie spoke a word.
of command to the soldier, and the two
moved away briskly together in a southerly
direction toward the rapids of the Yadkin.
Hach was busy with thoughts not to be shared
by any one, least of all by the other, so they
covered the miles in silence.

And even more silently a third man fol-
lowed their trail. Goins, aflame with jeal-
ousy over the soldier’s report concerning the
woman he expected to marry, had tethered
his horse when safely out of sight, and then

 
 

 

 

 

144 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

had returned to stalk the others, and so to
be guided to this cave of which he had never
before heard, where Elizabeth companied
shamelessly with a foreigner.

Lowrie left his horse at Morris’ sugges-
tion when they neared the hunting lodge, and
the two men proceeded on foot, moving as
noiselessly as possible by tacit agreement.
The soldier led the way down the precipitous
path to the broad ledge from which the
cavern extended. There was no one visible
on the shelf to give warning of their ap-
proach, but a low murmur of voices sounded
from within, made indistinct by the matting
that intervened. Morris tiptoed softly to a
point in the woven wall where he had dis-
covered a little opening in the sedge-grass.
He beckoned to the chief, who had halted,
somewhat at a loss, and Lowrie cautiously
advanced until he stood by the other’s side.
After a glance within, the Yankee drew back,
and indicated the aperture. The father put
his eye to the rent, and looked within. For
a few seconds, his gaze, accustomed to the
clear outer light, could distinguish nothing
plainly within the dim interior of the shelter.
But presently his vision adjusted itself to

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 145

the obscurity, and he was able to see with
a distinctness that caused him to choke back
with difficulty the imprecations leaping to his
lips.

His daughter was seated on the floor, re-
clining in a posture of graceful ease against
the rough wooden side of a bunk. Her face
was all animation, and she was speaking
earnestly, in a soft, hurried voice. Her bril-
liant black eyes were fixed on her listener
with an expression of devotion that was un-
mistakable. That listener answered the
confession in her glances with a like emotion
in his own. But he did not speak; only
nodded mute acquiescence to her words. At
the moment when the father thus spied upon
her, Elizabeth was saying:

‘‘Tt has always seemed my duty to marry
him.’? Even in that dusky light, the chief
could detect the flush that mantled his
daughter’s cheek. ‘‘But now, lately, I have
come to know that I can never marry Charlie

Goins.’’

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIV

Eos withdrew his gaze from the
opening in the matting, and noiselessly

went back along the path up the bluff for a
little way, beckoning the soldier to follow
him. When they were at a distance so that
he could speak without being overheard, he
gave a gruff command to Morris.

“Tl go back thar, an’ you-all go “long
inter the cave, an’ talk t+? my darter. I'll
know by the way she acts whether ye been
lyin’ er not. If ye’ve tol’ the truth, I hain’t
a-goin’ t’ hurt ye none.’”? He turned and
went cautiously back to the spying place, and
an imperative gesture directed Morris to-
ward the entrance of the cavern.

The soldier went forward readily enough,
but doubtfully, for he was more than ever
bewildered by the course of events. He had
expected to see this fierce old man convulsed
by rage over the discovery of his daughter’s

secret association with the stranger. To
146

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 147

his amazement, the man showed no signs of
anger, not even of a natural indignation on
account of the treachery practised against
him by his own child. Instead, the rugged
features seemed somehow curiously softened.
There was the suggestion of an immense
satisfaction in his expression. Morris felt
once again that he was utterly at a loss to
understand the situation into which he had
been thrust. He was well content, however,
despite his confusion of mind, since the man
who had threatened him now seemed com-
paratively well disposed and tractable. So
he entered the cavern confidently, and dis-
played the two fox squirrels, which he had
carried in his pocket. Elizabeth curtly bade
him clean them against Minnie’s coming, and
nodded dismissal. On his return outside,
Lowrie with a wave of the hand indicated that
he should ascend to the top of the bluff. But
the chief himself chose to remain at his espial
a little longer. Thus it came about that he
heard himself mentioned by the girl.

“T’m worried about pappy. It will hurt
him when he knows that I must go against
his wishes. He’s always expected me to
marry Charlie Goins.’’ Elizabeth’s voice

 
 

 

148 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

was half-apologetic. ‘You see, he’s father’s
lieutenant, and so he’d naturally be the next
chief if he married me. But I can’t marry
him, and that’s all there is about it. I
thought I could, but I can’t.’? Her voice
had hardened a little, with a note of defiance
init. ‘‘What’s more,’’ she added resolutely,
“T’m going to tell pappy all about it this
very night—and about you, too, David,’’ she
added impulsively. She seemed unaware of
the implication in her words by this associa-

tion of her refusal to marry Goins with the
fact of the young man’s coming into her life.

But the implication was not lost on either
of her hearers. In that moment, it was as
if a light flamed in David’s heart so that the
truth stood out naked and unashamed, and
beautiful—the truth that this girl, so capable
and self-reliant, yet so delicately lovely, so
adorably feminine, that this girl, to whom
he owed his life, loved him. It flashed on
him that he should pay this debt to her with
his own heart. But the sense of another
duty pressed hard uponhim. He felt in every
atom of his being the instinct of response
to the love which the girl so innocently be-
trayed. It took the utmost strength of his

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 149

will to resist the surge of passion that would
have swept him toward her. But he remem-
bered Ruth, and the spirit of loyalty held
him motionless and mute, sternly unyielding
to his desire. Nevertheless, he could not veil
the fires burning in his eyes as they met
those of Elizabeth. The girl’s gaze fell in
a maidenly confusion, half-troubled, wholly
sweet, as for the first time, under the im-
pact of that ardent regard, she felt the stir-
rings of womanly passion within her own
breast.

The other listener, the father, who might
have been expected to be greatly disturbed
by the overthrow of his most cherished plans,
showed a surprising indifference to the dis-
appointment. His face was not distorted by
either anger or grief over the shattering of
his hopes. On the contrary, his heavy fea-
tures were relaxed into a grin that seemed
one almost of approbation. He turned away
and very quietly mounted the path that led
to the summit, where he found Morris wait-
ing. He gave the fellow his daughter’s
rifle, which he had retained up to this time,
and spoke roughly.

“Ve kin git back thar. I ’low ye was

 

 
 

 

 

 

150 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

tellin’ the truth. I hain’t got no likin’ fer
pizen critters sich as ye be. I meant t’ put
ye back in the prison thar at Salisbury, an’
git the bounty fer ye, if I didn’t kill ye fust.
But my darter’s tuck up with ye, an’ thet
saves yer hide. But I reckon ye needn’t say
anythin’ t’ my darter ’bout hevin’ seen an’
talked with me. Thet’s my business, an’ not
her’n. Keep yer mouth shet, er hit’ll be the
wuss fer ye.’’

As he ceased speaking, the chief hurried
off toward where he had left his horse.
Morris stood staring after the man, more
perplexed than ever, for he had vaguely
sensed a geniality about Lowrie, which was
contrary to all his expectations. There was
an air of satisfaction pervading the chief
which was not dispelled in the least by the
harshness of his speech. The soldier shook
his head despondently as he watched the
brawny form disappear within the wood.
The mystery of it all was beyond his solving.

There was another who watched the chief.
Hardly had Lowrie vanished within the
shadows of the forest when Goins left the
place in which he had been lying concealed
behind some bushes a few rods further up

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 151

the bluff. He hurried in his turn to his
horse, which he had left at some distance in
order to escape observation. He mounted
and rode at full speed for the encampment.
But he was at pains to take a somewhat
roundabout route to avoid being seen by
Lowrie. He was sure that the chief would
ride slowly, and thus give him ample time
to reach the settlement before the other’s ar-
rival, even though he took a longer trail.
And in this he was justified. When Lowrie
dismounted at his cabin door, he was greeted
by his lieutenant, who lounged there, smok-
ing. It never occurred to him to suspect that
the man whom he trusted had come into the
encampment only a few minutes before him,
and not an hour agone. But it did occur to
him to serutinize Goins’ face with unaccus-
tomed keenness. He saw with new clearness
the bestiality of the fellow’s countenance,
and for the first time he experienced a lively
distaste for the one whom he had regarded
hitherto as inevitably his successor in the
government of the tribe. He became re-
motely aware, too, of the aversion which such
aman as this must provoke in such a woman

his daughter. He perceived with an ab-

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

152 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

rupt sense of self-disgust the monstrousness
of the marriage which he had projected be-
tween Elizabeth, a girl of purest life and
highest ideals, and this creature, so repulsive
and so debased. He wondered at the blind-
ness that had permitted him even to con-
sider a union so grotesquely incongruous.
He felt a sudden exaltation ag he recalled his
daughter’s decision spoken to David in the
cavern, that she would not wed Charlie Goins.
The grin that had so mystified Morris a
little while before, now reappeared on the
chief’s face as he considered his lientenant—
a grin equally smug and crafty. Goins, in
his turn, was perplexed to know what might
lie back of Lowrie’s expression. But he was
wise enough to bide his time and to ask no
question. He guessed that affairs in connec-
tion with his wooing were not progressing
as he eould wish. A rabid jealousy had been
aroused in him already by what he had heard
from the soldier and the practical verifica-
tion of it which he had witnessed from his
place of hiding on the occasion of Lowrie’s
visit to the hunting lodge. He swore a silent
oath of hatred against the man whom Hliza-
beth had rescued from the river, and re-

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 153

solved to remove that obstacle from his path
ruthlessly, should the need arise.

True to her avowed purpose, the princess
returned to the encampment that evening
with Minnie, and at once sought a private in-
terview with her father. She narrated first,
very briefly, the events connected with the
coming of David. Her father listened closely,
smoking steadily, his face quite expression-
less under the anxious eyes of his daughter.
When, finally, she paused for some comment,
he spoke in a tone of seeming indifference.

“HE needs a little more rest afore goin’
on is way, ye say? Wall, I cal’late we’ll
hev to hev ’im hyar till ’e gits right peart
ag’in. I "low ’e kin stop by right hyar, ’e
bein’, ’cordin’ t’ yer say-so, a fitten pusson.
I’ll find a place fer the sojer some’res till
we kin git rid 0’ ’im.”’ -

A dainty blush of pleasure warmed the
girl’s cheeks as her father thus gratified the
wish which she had not directly expressed,
The chief was not unobservant of the effect
upon her, and his complacency increased, al-
though his features remained as stolid as
ever.

The princess, encouraged by her success

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

154 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

thus far, took heart of grace, and broached
the subject of the proposed marriage be-
tween her and Charlie Goins. She was in
some degree abashed by her own temerity
in going counter to her father’s wish, but
she was upheld by a spirit of determination
born of the new emotion that had come into
her heart. The feeling for David was not
to be denied, and the first effect of it was
to forbid her from entering into a loveless
union with a man whom she despised and
loathed. So, with much faltering, she made
known the fact of her insurmountable anti-
pathy for the man selected by her father,
and her final resolve to resist the fellow’s
suit, even to the point of direct disobedience
to her father’s command. The girl spoke
humbly, but there was an under-note of de-
liberate decision, which her father recognized
and respected, though he still maintained his
austere demeanor. Hlizabeth was distressed
by the sternness of his visage, and added a
pitiful plea for forgiveness of her fault, if
such it seemed to him. Then, at last, she
ceased speaking, and for a little time silence
rested between the two.

When presently he answered, the chief’s

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 155,

voice was grave, but with a kindliness in
it that the girl had not expected.

“T "low ye’r’ honest, "Liz’beth. Now I
jist want ye t’ tell yer ol’ pappy one thing
right out fr’m yer heart, gal. Ye didn’t say
nothin’ like this t’other day, when I axed
ye *bout gittin’ spliced t’ Charlie.”? The
rugged countenance softened swiftly, and a
gentle glow lighted the piercing black eyes
that studied his daughter’s face. ‘‘I aim t’
hev ye tell me jist how ’tis with ye. Ye
seem t’ hev got a mighty sudden notion
ag’inst pore Charlie. Has this stranger fr’m
up yender got anythin’ t’ do with yer new
way 0’ lookin’ at things? Tell me thet, ’Liz’-
beth.’? He waited in silence.

A great wave of color flooded the girl’s
face. She dropped her head in her hands,
and sat bowed, unable for the moment to
reply, shaken by emotion. The father did
not urge her. There was unaccustomed ten-
derness in the gaze that he held steadfastly
on the agitated figure before him. And, too,
now that he was himself unobserved, the
stolidity of his expression relaxed, and there
was a recurrence of the grin that told of a

secret satisfaction.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

156 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

Elizabeth dropped her hands at last, and
raised her face, which was radiant in spite
of the embarrassment it showed. The limped
lusters of her eyes were unusually brilliant,
flashing from the emotion that vibrated in
her heart. She met her father’s scrutiny
bravely, and uttered her confession in a voice
which, while hardly more than a whisper,
was firm, and resonant of pride and joy in
the avowal.

“Yes, I—I love him.’’ She hesitated for
a moment, and then continued felteringly.
“‘T never knew—what it meant before—love!
It’s because I didn’t know that I thought—
I supposed of course I could—marry Charlie.
Now, it’s all different—oh, so different! I’ve
learned something about what love is—what
it means. I could never marry Charlie now.
Just the thought of it sickens me. Even if
I could never marry him—David, I mean—
it wouldn’t make any difference about
Charlie. No, I couldn’t marry Charlie—
never!’? The abhorrence written on her face
gave emphasis to the words. She looked
away, brooding, while the father watched
her, tracing the trend of her thoughts as
she mused by turns on David and Goins by

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 157

the changing play of her features from light
to gloom.

After a long interval, the chief put a ques-
tion. As a matter of fact, he had no doubt
as to the final answer of that question. He
was sure that no man could prove insensible
to the beauty and charm of his daughter.
He interrogated her now rather for the sake
of learning her own attitude than for any
other reason.

“‘An’ ’im, now? What about ’im—this
feller fr’m some’eres up beyon’? Is ’e a-say-
in’ as how ’e loves you-all, "Liz’beth?”?

The girl looked at him, startled, with wide
eyes.

‘Does this-hyar feller, David, love ye???
he demanded again.

A shadow of fright dimmed the radiance
of the face which had been joyous a moment
before. Thus far, in the newness of the
great emotion excited in her by the stranger’s
coming, she had hardly let her thoughts
dwell on what his feelings for her might be.
On the occasions when the idea had occurred
to her, she had somehow taken it for granted
that his feeling must be like hers. Now,
confronted with the blunt question, she found

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

158 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

herself suddenly overwhelmed with doubt.
She realized that she had no actual knowl-
edge of his heart. She had had hope, but no
certainty. He had uttered no least word of
‘love to her—only the expressions of a natural
gratitude for the service she had rendered
him. Now, hope seemed blasted by the crude
clarity of her father’s question. Her face
went white.

She answered tremulously, yet with the
courage that was characteristic of her.

‘“Why, pappy,’’ she said very low, and
there was a childish quiver of the curving

red lips, ‘‘why, I—I don’t know!”?

CHAPTER XV

EXT morning early, Elizabeth mounted
her pony and rode to the hunting
lodge. She was brimming with delight at
the manner in which her father had received
her confession the night before. She had
thought that he would be at least greatly dis-
tressed over her refusal to accept Goins as
a husband. She had even feared that he
might fly into one of his red rages, and insist
on the exercise of his authority to compel
her acquiescence in the marriage. Thus his
tractability in the matter had surprised her
as much as it had gratified her. She was
somewhat at a loss to understand this unac-
customed adaptability on his part. But she
was not minded to disturb herself over rea-
sons why. She was content with the relief
afforded, and took joy of it. To add to her
happiness, there was the fact that her father
showed no disfavor over the presence of
David within his territory—seemed rather
159

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

160 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

to welcome the young man, as was proven by
a ready invitation to his own home.

Hlizabeth found David and the soldier
sunning themselves and smoking comfortably
on the level of rock before the cavern. Both
men arose as the girl came hurrying down
the path from the top of the bluff, and David
strode quickly forward to greet her, his face
alight with pleasure. He smiled for sheer
Sympathy as his eyes took in the radiance
of her expression. Elizabeth put out both
hands, which he seized in a warm clasp, as
their glances met and mingled. For a long
moment neither spoke while they thrilled
under the contact of hand to hand and eye
to eye in a delicious intimacy of emotion.
The impulse to draw her to him was strong
on David, and he sensed in her a yielding
as if she were ready to give herself to his
embrace. But, once again, the mountaineer
fought down the passion that assailed him,
‘though his gaze, charged with tenderness,
could not deny his heart, and answered the
adoration that shone in hers.

The princess recovered herself first. Some-
thing of her usual poise returned to her
manner as she drew her hands from David’s.

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 161

There was still a deeper color flooding the
golden tint of her cheeks, and her expression
revealed the delight that filled her heart.
Her first words explained the cause of her
mood.

“*Tt’s all right, David. I told pappy, as
I said I would, and he didn’t make any fuss
at all—you know, about Charlie.’’ She had
lowered her voice at the name, lest Morris
overhear. ‘‘And I told him about you, too,
David.’’ She spoke shyly now. ‘‘He was—
oh, so interested! I didn’t know—I thought,
perhaps—’’ She broke off, in confusion, but
controlled herself, and went on speaking
more quietly. ‘‘Pappy wants you to visit
him at the camp. You must come at once.’’

“T ought to be on my way,’’? David pro-
tested, half-heartedly. ‘‘Ye’ve done enough
fer me already. I ain’t sick now, an’ I don’t
"low I’ve got much of any excuse fer visitin’
yer pappy.’’

Elizabeth dismissed his objection with the
imperious petulance of the true princess.

‘““Nonsense!’’ she exclaimed. ‘‘You’ll do
as I say, and come home with me right off.’’

The voice of Morris sounded querulously,
with a suggestion of alarm in it.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

162 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

“‘And what about me, miss? What’s goin’
to become of me?”’

“Oh, you!”’ The girl lifted her eyes, and
regarded the man disdainfully. “Why,
you’re to come, too. My father will not in-
terfere with your escape, though he hates
your kind. And I reckon you’d better be
starting pretty soon after we get to the camp.
You can have a guide. If he stayed around
long, some of the tribe might get to playing
tricks on him,’? she explained to David.
‘“They naturally despise those Northerners,’?

Morris scowled, but ventured no comment,
and followed the two as they set forth for
the Croatan encampment, the girl riding and
David walking beside her.

On their arrival at the settlement, David
was both astonished and pleased at the
warmth of friendliness in the chief’s greet-
ings. While Morris was gruffly dismissed to
another place in the little village, the moun-
taineer was taken into Lowrie’s cabin and
most hospitably entertained there. The chief
gave him a share of his own bed, and in
_ every way treated the newcomer as a favored
guest. His personal interest in this stranger
was witnessed by the constancy of his as-

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 163

sociation, which was such as to annoy Eliza-
beth, who missed the intimacy she had so
enjoyed in the cavern. It was evident that
the chief took pleasure from the outset in
the society of this new companion, and his
instantaneous liking rapidly developed into
a warm regard. The two talked together
freely, for David, in his turn, was attracted
by the powerful personality of this autocrat
in the wilderness. He responded frankly to
the elder man’s searching questions, until
there was nothing more to be told of his
simple history. And all that he learned
pleased the chief hugely. But he kept strict
silence as to those plans for the future in
which David and his daughter were alike con-
cerned so vitally.

Morris was eliminated from the scene on
the day he reached camp. Lowrie gave him
in charge of one of the older men to be guided

‘to those Union sympathizers who would fur-

ther his escape.

“He'll git ye t’ the undergroun’ railroad,
an’ then yer friends kin look arter ye. Ye’ll
be safer with them than hyar-abouts. My
boys mostly hain’t got no likin’ fer sich

varmints as you-all.”’

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

164 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

And Morris, frightened by the sullen
hatred so plainly visible on the faces of the
Croatans, was thankful to be quit of sur-
roundings equally uncongenial and danger-
ous. He hastened off without even a word
to David or Elizabeth, each of whom had
succored him in the hour of need.

On a Sunday afternoon, Lowrie and David
sat chatting and smoking in the living-room,
while Hlizabeth busied herself with braiding
strands of rawhide into a long whiplash. A
group of the younger Croatans was engaged
in trials of strength and skill on the level
strip of sward that stretched before the
chief’s cabin. The main attraction was the
wrestling bouts where the rivalry was keen,
and many of the competitors displayed
marked ability. David, who from the circum-
stances! of the case had a particular interest
in Charlie Goins, observed with some sur-
prise that the lieutenant took no active part
in the wrestling. He questioned Lowrie.

‘“Why don’t yer lieutenant, that Goins, try
a fall? He looks plumb powerful.”’

Lowrie nodded.

“‘Charlie’s right-smart strong,’? he de-
clared; ‘‘pretty nigh strong’s I be. ’E ain’t

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 165

wrastlin’? none, ’cause ’s too good fer the
other boys.’’ He cast an appraising glance
over his guest’s stalwart form. ‘‘Mebbe so,
you-all kin wrastle some yerself.’’

David grinned sheepishly, with a muttered
word of deprecation concerning his own
prowess. As a matter of fact, his excep-
tional strength and quickness, together with
his mental shrewdness, had won him fame as
the champion wrestler of his county. Lowrie,
after a second and longer scrutiny of the
young man, spoke again. There was a trace
of eagerness in the rumbling voice, and, too,
just a hint of anxiety, as if his suggestion had
a graver import than the mere words seemed
to justify.

“‘T ’low now ye wouldn’t wanter take a
try with Charlie yerself.’? Then he added,
hastily, as though in answer to a smothered
ejaculation from Elizabeth: ‘‘Course hit
hain’t no disgrace t’ be throwed by Charlie.
Ain’t nobody kin put ’im on ’is back ’cept
me.’?

Though he spoke so lightly, the chief was
already regretting the impulse that had led
him to suggest this match. He realized fully
that its consequences might jeopardize his

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

166 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

whole project of making the mountaineer, as
his daughter’s husband, his successor in the
chieftainship of the tribe. The ruler of the
Croatans must be their proven master physic-
ally as well as mentally. If Goins were to
vanquish David in the presence of the tribe,
the stranger’s prestige would suffer a-fatal
blow from the defeat. The dismay in Eliza-
beth’s exclamation had brought the truth
home to Lowrie. He studied David’s form
once again as the young man stood up, and
what he saw encouraged him to risk the issue,
though he was at pains to avoid the reproach-
ful glance of the princess, who expostulated
indignantly:

“*Why, pappy, David isn’t well again yet.’?

But David himself shook his head in ve-
hement denial of her assertion.

‘‘Shucks, now!’’ he asserted. ‘‘If I was
feelin’ any better, they’d have t? put a ring
in my nose, an’ lead me on a rope.’? The
confidence in his glance cheered the girl,
though she still feared for the outcome.
“‘T’m willin’ t’ try yer champeen,’’ he added
to the chief.

The matter was speedily arranged, and
David and Goins, stripped to the waist,

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 167

faced each other with mutual respect, if not
liking. David did not make the mistake of
underestimating his opponent. He guessed
that the Croatan’s strength was superior to
his own, and determined to place his reliance

‘on excelling in quickness and strategy. To

him, however, there was no crisis in this
meeting beyond a natural desire to win
against one whom he instinctively disliked,
and whom he actively detested on Hlizabeth’s
account. Goins, however, was overjoyed at
this opportunity of meeting in combat the
man whom he regarded as his rival, an inter-
loper threatening his whole scheme of love
and life. Neither Lowrie nor his daughter
had said anything to imply a change in the
lieutenant’s status, but Goins was not lack-
ing in intelligence of a sort, and he was able
to make a shrewd estimate of the possibili-
ties. The public worsting of his antagonist,
while it would by no means satisfy his hatred,
would go far toward reéstablishing his men-
aced supremacy in the tribe.

The chief boomed a command, and the two
contestants set themselves to the struggle.
For a few moments, they circled each other
warily, eying each other alertly, seeking an

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

168 THH HOMEWARD TRAIL

opportunity. Then there came a swift inter-
play of movements, and the two men were
on all fours, grappled. The action was rapid,
unhesitating, for each knew just what he
meant todo. The circle of Croatans and their
chief watched in tense silence, thrilled by a
display of force and skill in which the two
seemed equally matched. There came grunts
of exultation from the members of the tribe
when their champion secured the scissors
hold, famous for the adversaries it had van-
quished,

Goins straddled David’s back. His legs
locked under his enemy’s thighs. Then the
constriction by the powerful muscles across
the belly would drive the breath from his
foe, crumple him to limp helplessness. But
David knew his danger—knew his powerless-
ness within that crushing grip, once the full
strength of it was exerted against him. In
the instant that Goins secured the hold, the
mountaineer acted with every atom of speed
and energy which he possessed. His hands
elutched the other’s toes, and wrenched at
them savagely. The shock of the pain forced
the Croatan to relax his locked ankles; the
legs fell apart. Still in that same instant,

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 169

one of David’s arms shot up under the lieu-
tenant’s shoulder and clasped over the back
of the neck; the other slipped to a crotch hold
from below. Mighty as his muscles were,
Goins found them impotent within that clutch,
for the suddenness and sureness of the at-
tack took him at a disadvantage, without a
counter. The pressure on his neck weakened
him. His frantic effort of resistance was
pitifully futile. In a frenzy of impotent
rage, he felt his shoulders bent lower and
lower toward the ground. Came a heave
from the arm at his middle, followed by the
impact of the other man’s full weight as his
body turned, and he crashed full length on
the turf, shoulders and hips unmistakably
touching the ground before the eyes of all the
startled circle.

SoMa }??

The chief’s bellowed word snapped the ten-
sion. The spectators broke into groups, mut-
tering excitedly, their faces glad or sullen
according to their individual feeling toward
the beaten wrestler. David got up quickly,
and stood regarding Lowrie somewhat self-
consciously, his chest heaving from the vio-
lence of his exertion, his forehead wet with

 

 
 

 

 

170 THH HOMEWARD TRAIL

perspiration. From her place in the window
of the living-room, whence she had watched
the encounter in tremors of alternating hope
and fear, Hlizabeth looked down on the form
of the man she loved, and the adoration of
her heart was told by her eyes for all the
world to see. Goins, rising heavily, saw, and
the rage over his defeat swelled to a black
hatred that there and then took oath of
vengeance against the stranger.

Lowrie spoke with the voice of author-
ity, though he smiled as he met David’s

eyes.
“‘Now, youngster, I’ll jist take ye on my-

self.’’

‘‘But—’’ David began.

The chief interrupted.

‘Got t? down ye, er the boys’d think I was
gittin’ old.”’

The subsequent event astounded David by
its unexpectedness. He found his skill and
agility of no avail now. At once Lowrie

wrapped him in an embrace that could not '

be broken. He was as helpless as a child
within the iron arms of the elder man, who
stood like a rock, unshaken in any degree by
the violent writhings of his victim. It was

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 171

almost with gentleness that Lowrie laid the
young man on the ground, while the tribes-
men—all save Goins—roared acclamations

to their chief.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVI

Gos CIDENCEH is only a mystery to us

by reason of our ignorance concerning
eauses. The most extraordinary event is
easily explained by a knowledge of all the
facts. Thus the meeting of three principal
characters in this story, two days after the
wrestling, was indeed a coincidence, but that
coincidence was the inevitable effect of cer-
tain causes working on the wills of the trio.

There was a certain likeness between the
moods of Hlizabeth and David. Bach of
them experienced the distress due to a love
thwarted. The girl realized daily more and
more the fact that some barrier stood be-
tween her and the man to whom she had
given her heart. She was sure by her wo-
man’s intuition that he loved her, and yet
he spoke no word. She grieved in silence.
The only assuagement was to hope still, even
against conviction of the truth. David, for

his part, knew what the barrier was that
172

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 173

reared itself between him and this woman of
his longing. Hach of the two lovers was eon-

strained in the presence of the other, fear-
ing a more explicit self-revelation. Each
was inclined to seek relief from the strain
in solitude. Each mused with peculiar ten-
derness on their time together in the first
period of their association. That gloomy
cavern in the cliff above the Yadkin River
became the sanctuary of fondest memories.
Naturally, then, each thought of the place
as a refuge to be sought for melancholy medi-
tation.

On this autumn morning, Elizabeth, more
than ever unhappy over the aloofness of
David, determined to ride forth alone. She
had just finished attaching the whiplash she
had braided to a handle of hickory, which
had been deftly fashioned for her by old
Amidas Durr, the expert hewer of ax helves
for the tribe, who had dyed the wood to a
rich red with pokeberries, and had carved

the knobbed butt cunningly. :
“Just for a ride,’’ she explained to David,

as she went out. She trembled with hope
that he might offer to accompany her, but
he did not. She rode slowly over the wood-

 

 
 

 

 

174 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL’

land trail until she came to the river bluff.
There she dismounted, and, descending to
the cavern, entered the chamber, and gave
herself to bitter-sweet meditations.

She had hardly gone from the encamp-
ment, when David, too, slipped away by him-
self. And his steps were drawn by the same
magnet that had guided her. He walked
swiftly with the elastic, loping stride of the
mountaineer, and his course led straight

5
along the woodland trail over which Eliza-

beth had just ridden.

Between these two went a third traveler
through the forest. Goins had been watch-
ing for an opportunity to speak privately
with Elizabeth, in the hope of pressing favor-
ably his claims as her suitor. When he saw
her ride off, he determined to follow, and
did so on horseback. He was careful to
maintain a considerable distance between him
and the girl, so that she would not be aware
of his pursuit. It had rained during the night,
and the Croatan’s trained eyes easily picked
out the hoofmarks of the princess’ pony on
the soft ground. Despite his carefulness, he
came near being discovered by the girl, since
she rode at a pace much slower than was

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 175

usual with her, so that he came in sight of
her unexpectedly. He reined his horse into
a place of concealment, behind some chin-
quipin bushes beside the trail, and then,
after a considerable interval, proceeded more
slowly. When he found that she was evi-
dently bound for her secret retreat in the
cliffs, he rejoiced exceedingly. It seemed to
him that fate was playing into his hands by
providing this chance of an interview safe
from the possibility of any interruption. At
last, he would be free to speak his mind in
full. He felt a savage glee at the prospect
of being able to intimidate the girl accord-
ing to his will. In his experience of women,
brute strength had proved the best subju-
gator. He would not hesitate to take violent
measures, should gentler persuasions fail.
Elizabeth had seated herself on the floor
of the cavern, with her back against the bunk,
in the posture that had become familiar dur-
ing the days there with David. Now, the as-
sociation of her surroundings recalled memo-
ries of him so vivid and so tender that they
filled her heart with a poignant anguish as
she realized how they were apart, not merely
as a matter of the miles that lay between at

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

176 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

this moment, but apart by reason of that
barrier of which she knew nothing beyond
the dreadful fact of its presence.

The princess lifted her face, which had
been buried in her hands. Through the
shadowy sadness of her expression flashed a
gleam of hope. The crunching of heavy
steps had sounded from without. Could it
be—David? Had he, after all, followed her?
She stood up, her dark eyes aglow with ex-
pectation, the curving graces of her form
tensed, as she gazed toward the entrance of
the cavern. Then the light of the opening
was obscured by a bulky shadow. The first
glance sufficed to tell that her fond hope was
vain. The silhouette had neither the height
nor the elegance of David’s figure. It was
broader, but much shorter, almost squat, with
the huge hands dangling from the long arms
almost to the knees. It needed no more than
the black outline to announce the presence of
the one man in the world whom she detested
—Goins. Hlizabeth uttered an ejaculation of
disgust as she recognized the unwelcome
visitor. His coming meant that the privacy
of her retreat was destroyed. How he had
chanced upon the place she could not guess,

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 177

but she deemed it quite possible that he had
spied upon her. The coming of Goins into
this her sanctuary filled her with anger. He
profaned the spot sacred to her tenderest
memories. She resented his intrusion as an
audacity that merited harshest rebuke. Both
wrath and contempt were in her voice as she
spoke:

‘“‘What are you doing here?’’

Goins came forward before he replied,
until he stood close to the girl, facing her.
His small eyes were blinking in an effort of
adjustment to the dim light of the interior.
His loose lips were twisted into a complacent
smirk, which still further incensed the girl.
Had his vision been clearer, perhaps he
might have read the storm signals in the
princess’ sparkling eyes, drawn brows and
straightened lips. Or perhaps, even after
his eyes had become aceustomed to the dim-
mer light, he would still have been blinded
by the vanity that is characteristic of his
type. He was a leader among his fellows.
He had had some successes with women of a
sort. His physical strength gave him cause
for self-glorification. He had no knowledge
of his faults, and his egotism was unalloyed.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

178 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

It was inconceivable to him that he could
be abhorrent both physically and mentally
to the purity of the princess, for of purity
he knew nothing at all. He had no doubt
that, given the opportunity, he could domi-

nate the girl. And the opportunity was.

here. So, he answered her question now with
conceited insolence:

“I "lowed ye must be pinin’ fer yer Charlie,

honey. This is a right-snug place fer lovers’

, cuddlin’.’”? There was a venomous signifi-

cance in the latter sentence, for he was think.

ing of the time that Elizabeth and David

had passed together in this retreat.

Elizabeth understood the allusion, and re-
sented it as an insult. She spoke with a
cold quietude that should have warned the
man before her, but did not.

“This is my private place. I choose my
own guests. Ido not choose you. Go, please,

and never come back.?’

Goins laughed boisterously. It was a joke
that she should speak to him like this, as if
he were to be put out of countenance by
high-and-mighty airs. She needed to be
taught a few things, and he would be the
teacher. He had let her play with him long

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL alge

enough. It was time for her to learn what

was what.

“‘Show!”? he exclaimed, in a tone of rough
joviality. ‘‘This ain’t no nice way fer a gal
+? talk +? her husban’ what’s t’ be. Ye been
standin’ off quite a spell now, Liz ’beth,”’ he
went on, with a harder note in his voice.
“An? I don’t aim +’ let ye git rambunctious
with ary other feller, nuther. "Tain’t fitten,
noways. You-all an’ me is promised, an’ I
eal’late as how ye got t’ run straight, er it’ll
be the wuss fer ye.’’ He thrust his lowering
face close to the girl’s, and scowled at her,
and the flabby lips were lifted in a snarl.

Elizabeth did not draw back, but stood un-

daunted, her eyes meeting the challenge in
his with a supreme scorn, as he concluded:

“‘T "low we-all better kiss, an’ make up.’’
“Kiss you!’? the girl retorted; and the
loathing in her voice brought a flush to the
man’s cheeks, thick-skinned as he was. “Td
rather kiss a rattler. You’ve never kissed
me yet, Charlie Goins, and, what’s more, you

never will.’’
The fellow’s face grew black, and the little,

bead-like eyes shone dangerously.
“‘Ye’r? my promised wife, an’ thet’s by

 
 

180 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

the chief’s say-so. Thar hain’t no goin’
back 0’ thet. I ‘low a few o’ my kisses’ll
wake ye up a mite, an’ warm ye inter bein’
more lovin’-like. An’ I aim t+’ give ’em t’
ye.”?

The determination in the girl’s face should
have made him pause. But he was mindful
only of the gross passion that burned in him
at sight of her loveliness. He was sure that
his own brutal resources, employed here in
this isolated nook where no interruption was
possible, would mold her to his desire, would
win from her that responsiveness which he
craved. He lunged forward. The long arms
swept out to embrace her. But the princess
had divined his attack. She eluded it by a
spring to one side. At the same time, she
swung the dogwhip. The lash hissed through
the air, and fell across Goins’ face, over the
eyes. He yelled an oath, and staggered back,
blinded. The princess would have fled, for
an idea as to the peril to which she was ex-
posed shook her accustomed self-reliance.
But the man was between her and the mouth
of the eavern, and she feared to place her-
self within his reach. That this fear was
justified was proven a few moments later,

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 181

when the mumbling curses were broken off,
and Goins turned toward her the blurred,
bloodshot eyes, from which the tears were

streaming.
“T’]] hev ye now, damn ye!”’ he shouted,

and jumped toward her.

Elizabeth dodged, and fled toward the exit.
But she was not quick enough. The man
whirled, sprang after in a mighty leap,
caught her. He held her crushed to him
in a vice-like embrace, and bellowed tri-
umphantly.

‘¢Ye’r’ mine!’ he gloated. ‘‘I’ll show ye,
ye damn’ little spitfire! I ‘low Tl take
them-thar kisses. I’ll l’arn ye how t’ treat
yer promised man.’’

Even in her desperate plight, the girl’s
spirit was not broken.

“T’ll never marry you, Charlie Goins!’’
she gasped. ‘‘I’ve told pappy so. Never—

never!’?
Goins’ ugly face, so close to hers that she

felt the fetid breath of him in her nostrils,
was distorted by an evil grin, leering and
unspeakably malignant.

‘‘T reckin ye’r’ plumb shore t’ change yer
mind arter—’’ he paused significantly—

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

182 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

“farter we’ve done finished our lovin’ hyar
this mo’nin’.’’
Elizabeth shuddered at the implication in

the words. A dread that was like physical

sickness ran through her, and she went limp

within the constricting arms. She did not

gain the merciful relief of unconsciousness,
but she was wholly unnerved by the fright-
fulness of her situation, and so weak as to
be utterly helpless. Goins uttered a grunt
of satisfaction as he felt her form relax. He
lifted her easily, and bore her back across
the cavern.

Half-way between the entrance and the
bunk, Goins halted abruptly, and, still hold-
ing his burden, stood with his head turned
a little to one side, listening intently. He
heard now, as Hlizabeth had heard a little
while before, the crunching of heavy steps
that approached the cavern. They came

swiftly, too, and at the sound of them the
Croatan’s face changed its expression of

lustful cruelty for one of demoniac rage at
this interruption of his purpose. His fury
was even greater when the newcomer darted
into the chamber, and he recognized David.

The mountaineer had been on the top of

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 183

the bluff, about to descend to the hunting-
lodge, when he was startled by Goins’ cries,
first of pain and wrath, and then of triumph.
David had no idea as to the meaning of the
shouts. He did not identify the voice. But
the mere fact that they issued from the place
consecrated to Elizabeth beset him with ap-
prehensions of some unimagined catastrophe.
He had no suspicion of the girl’s visit to the
spot. Nevertheless, in some vague fashion,
he was filled with alarm, and before the
echoes of Goins’ exultant yell had died, he
was racing down the path.

Within the cavern, David stopped short,
confused for some instants by the dimming
of his sight. The Croatan improved the
momentary respite by dropping the girl from
his arms. ‘As she fell to the stone floor, he
leaped for his enemy.

There had been time for David’s eyes to
clear. He recognized the man and the girl
before him—understood something of the
horror on which he had stumbled. An anger
even greater than Goins’ own flamed in his
blood. It was greater, more deadly, because
it was righteous. The enormity of the man’s
offense against the woman he loved roused

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

184 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

David to a murderous frenzy. The brutal
carelessness with which the fellow cast her
from him maddened the mountaineer. Yet,
notwithstanding his rage, David’s mind
worked clearly. He had no intention of risk-
ing defeat by any imprudence. He admitted
to himself the superior strength of his ad-
versary, and he meant to keep free from the
grip of those arms. His helplessness in
Lowrie’s clasp was in hismemory. He might
find himself equally powerless should he fall
into Goins’ elutch. At all costs, he must
strive to avoid that risk. So, as the Croatan
charged, David swerved, and jumped outside
the sweep of the arms. But, as the other
man passed him, the mountaineer got in two
blows, which brought grunts of distress,
though they failed of other visible effect.
Thereafter for a long minute, it was ‘‘fist
and skull’? between the two. David was far
more skilful in his footwork, and placed
his blows with greater accuracy. But they
seemed wholly unavailing against the Croat-
an’s iron frame. And always he was ham-
pered by the necessity of avoiding the clinch
which his antagonist as constantly sought.
Sheer desperation at last drove him to

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 185

fiercer attacks, in which he was more careless
of his own safety. One of his blows sent
Goins staggering away from him, and he
closed in with the hope of a speedy victory.
He swung with all his weight for the jaw.
Goins ducked clumsily. David’s knuckles
glanced from chin to cheek. He lurched out
of balance. Before he could recover, the
arms he had dreaded locked about him, and
he found himself impotent, strangling under
the pressure of his ribs against his lungs.
He fought as best he could to wrench himself
free, though he knew the task was beyond
his strength. The only effect of his strug-
gling was to send the two reeling drunkenly
to and fro. There was no loosening of the
Croatan’s hold.

Elizabeth had been shocked out of lethargy
by the violence of her fall on the stone floor
when Goins spurned her. She sat up feebly,
and watched the combatants dully at first,
without any personal interest in the conflict.
Then, presently, her brain grew active again.
She remembered her own peril, and perceived
its sequel here in the fight between the two
men. She perceived as well that Goins must
be vanquished both for her own sake and for

 

 
 

 

 

 

186 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

the sake of the man she loved. And, as
realization came to her, she groaned in utter
despair, for she saw David wrapped about
by the gorilla-like arms of their common
enemy, and she knew that he could not win
clear. It flashed on her then that the sole
hope for the two of them rested in her. The
fighting spirit of her race burned hot within
her. She did not pause for thought, but
acted on instinct. As the two men staggered
past her, she crouched and sprang, and
caught Goins below the knees. There she
clung. The momentum of the men carried
their bodies forward, but the girl’s pull held,
and Goins erashed to the floor, dragging
David down with him. The under man’s
head was beaten against the rock. A moan-
ing sigh fluttered from between the coarse
lips. The mighty arms unfolded and fell
limply at his sides, as he lapsed into uncon-
sciousness.

Blizabeth sprang to her feet, exultant, re-
vivified by the downfall of the man she hated.
For a moment, she regarded the ugly, flaccid
face with mingled scorn and detestation.
Then she put her hand on the shoulder of
David, who was getting to his feet slowly,

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 187

rather at a loss to understand the sudden.
ness of his victory, just when he had aban-
doned hope. He was wholly ignorant of
Elizabeth’s part in the affair, and took it for
granted that his opponent had stumbled and
so fallen.

<‘Let us go,’? Elizabeth said gently. There
was coldness in her tones as she spoke again.
‘He'll recover in time, probably. His sort
is hard to kill.’? ;

The two went forth from the cavern to-
gether. As they came into the clean, clear
light without, it was as if they shook off from
their souls a miasma bred by that other’s
presence.

“‘Your coming saved me, David,’’ the girl
said very softly, and the music of her voice
was vibrant with tenderness; ‘‘saved me
from worse than death.’’

It was true that his coming had resulted
in her salvation. It was true, also, that his
coming would have availed nothing at all
without her interposition at the crucial mo- -
ment. But of that she said nothing to him—
either then, or ever. ;

 

 
 

 

 

CHAPTER XVII

HE two covered the miles almost in
silence. Neither dared speak much con-
cerning what had just occurred from fear of
self-betrayal. Each of them was drawn
closer to the other by the peril to which the
girl had been exposed. To Elizabeth, after
contact with the vileness of Goins, the clean
manliness of David became more magnetic
by contrast. She longed for his embrace and
his kisses as an anodyne for the polluting
touch to which she had been subjected. But
she realized with a new and keener pang of
sorrow that the mysterious barrier still
reared itself between her and him. It seemed
indeed more than ever formidable, inexor-
ably shutting him away from her, making
him remote and unattainable. His face, when
she stole a look at it from time to time, was
sternly set, and his eyes were studiously
averted. Her first elation over having es-
caped in safety from a frightful danger,
188

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 189

subsided, and in its stead came a pervasive
misery. Her heart was aching for the solace
of love, which was denied her. A bitter

“spirit of revolt stirred in her. She was ,

tempted to ery out, to demand an explana- *:
tion from this man, who went with sealed
lips always, though he loved her. But she
fought down the impulse, and rode on in a
silence that was filled with despair.

David fought even a fiercer fight, and his
victory over himself was at the cost of quiv-
ering nerves and a tortured heart. The sight
of this girl in the arms of Goins had re-
vealed to him with a new and startling clarity
her preciousness to him. It was only because
for the time being his energies had been con-
sumed in the struggle with the Croatan that
he did not take her in his arms, and pour
out to her all his heart in words and kisses.
As his bodily strength was restored, his will,
too, recruited its forces, and he was able to
hold himself in mastery. His loyalty to
Ruth still persisted, and the power of it was
such as to curb any expression of the present
passion for another. The simplicity of the
mountaineer was incapable of solving the
puzzle offered by his own nature. He was

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

H

190 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

utterly baffled by the problem of his moods.
He still thought as tenderly as ever of Ruth.
It seemed to him that he loved her as dearly
as before. Yet here he found himself all
tremulous with longing for this other woman.
His primitive mind knew nothing whatsoever
of subtleties concerning magnetisms and
propinquities and the mounting instincts of
his own manhood. He went in silence, since
silence seemed the only decent thing for him,
but the effort to maintain it racked his soul
with anguish.
The two had come almost to the encamp-
ment when the princess spoke decisively.,
‘‘Don’t say anything about this to pappy.”’
“‘But—’’ David would have expostulated.
Elizabeth, however, interrupted him.
**Charlie has had his lesson,’’ she declared,
confidently. ‘‘I told him I’d never marry
him. So he knows now. There’s no telling
what pappy might do if he knew about it.’’
David was doubtful as to the wisdom of
the girl’s decision, but he accepted it. His
own opinion by no means coincided with that
of Elizabeth. He regarded Goins as quite
capable of making further mischief, and that
of the gravest sort. He said nothing of this

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 191

to the princess, however. She was already
on her guard, and to excite additional alarm
could serve no good purpose. He had half
a mind to tell the facts privately to Lowrie
in spite of the daughter’s prohibition, but
finally decided that to do so would be in the
nature of treachery to her.

So, the chief remained in entire ignorance
of his lieutenant’s evil conduct. He was only
a little disgusted with the fellow’s clumsi-
ness, when, next day, Goins turned up in the
encampment with a bandaged head, which he
explained by a bad fall on the rocks—the
exact truth, without details. He had re-
turned in much trepidation, fearful as to
what might befall him at the hands of an
outraged father, and his relief was corre-
spondingly great when he discovered that
the chief was in ignorance of what had
occurred at the cavern. But he wondered
mightily as to the cause of this reticence on
the girl’s part—for he rightly attributed the
result to her decision. And soon his specula-
tions found food for vanity. It occurred to
him that his violence had, after all, affected
the princess in his favor. His abnormal
egotism found nothing absurd in this fancy.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

192 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

On the contrary, it seemed quite reasonable
to his warped mind. He cherished it until
it became a fixed delusion. He recognized
. that the stranger was still a rival to be
reckoned with. But he convinced himself
that, with this obstacle removed, he would
be able to establish himself easily enough in
the girl’s good graces. He took much com-
fort from the fact that in the contest with
David he had proved himself the better man
before the eyes of the princess. She had
seen him with his adversary practically at
his mercy, and she could have had no doubt
as to the issue of the battle between them
but for her interference. For Goins had been
aware of Hlizabeth’s action against him,
which had been the cause of his overthrow.
He cherished no grudge against her on that
account, but rather an increased admiration
for her strength and daring. The result of
his slow and difficult cogitations was to leave
him certain that he could win the girl to his
will, once David was removed. How that
removal was to be effected thenceforth en-
gaged his whole attention, and he plotted
with the unscrupulousness that was char-
acteristic of him.

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 193

For that matter, David himself was simi-
larly occupied in planning his own removal
from the scene. He feared for his strength
in the constant struggle of self-repression
which he was waging. It seemed to him that
hourly his powers of resistance were lessen-
ing. It became momently more difficult for
him to refrain from full confession to Hliza-
beth. He distrusted the stability of his will.
He did not hesitate in his loyalty of purpose
toward Ruth, but he became suspicious of
his weakness. It occurred to him that his
only safety lay in flight. Once this idea took
possession of him, he dwelt on it as offering
the one possible solution of his perplexities.
He considered the matter for a day, and be-
came assured that only by such a retreat
could he safeguard himself from despicable
treachery. He chose to make his purpose
known first to the father, rather than to the
daughter, in order to avoid complications.

He took an opportunity to speak when he
and the chief were alone together. The old
man heard him through patiently, but his
comment disconcerted the mountaineer.

“<Jist stuff an’ nonsense!’’ he rumbled, and
his voice was edged with disdain. ‘‘Thar

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

194 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

hain’t no call fer ye t’ think about movin’ on
fr’m hyar fer quite a spell yit.’’

“‘But there’s reasons why I got t’ go,’’
David protested. He decided that a part
of the truth might serve to convince his
hearer. ‘‘There’s a debt what I’ve got t’ pay
right soon. I set out t’ earn that-there
money, an’ it’s time I was busy a-doin’ of
Tte2

‘*Tf thet’s all thet’s a-bitin’ on ye,’’ Lowrie
responded with a guffaw that set the crock-
ery on the shelves to dancing, ‘‘why, by
eripes, I’ll fix ye out right hyar. I was jist
a-thinkin’ 0’ offerin’ t’ hire ye, an’ hyar
ye come a-tellin’ as how ye want a job. I
kin use a young feller like you-all. How’d
thutty dollars a month an’ yer victuals strike
ye?”’

The words fairly stunned David. He
stared aghast at the chief, unable for the
moment to formulate any response. Nor did
reflection suggest any method of extricating
himself from the dilemma presented by
Lowrie’s offer. Apart from the complica-
tions caused by his feeling toward Elizabeth,
this opportunity to earn the money he needed
would have been altogether satisfactory, for

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 195

the wages were much beyond what he could
have expected elsewhere. He could hit on no
adequate excuse for a refusal. There was
indeed no reason for objection to the proposi-
tion, save the secret one, that it would hold
him in an intolerable situation. But he
could not explain the full truth to the girl’s
father, and, because he could not, he was left
defenseless against the elder man’s satisfac-
tion in the project as one already settled on.
He could only mumble a few false phrases
of grateful acknowledgment, which Lowrie
took for acceptance. The chief attributed
the young man’s obvious confusion to a
natural embarrassment over the boon so un-
expectedly conferred. For a fleeting instant,
David did think seriously of making known
the predicament in which he was placed. But
he dismissed the idea promptly because,
somehow, it seemed to savor of injustice to-
ward both the girls concerned. His decision
might have been different, had he known that
Lowrie was already aware of his love for
Elizabeth. With the fatuousness customary
among lovers, he nourished the delusion that
he had kept the secret of his heart to him-
self. He could not guess that the piercing

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

196 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

eyes beneath the old man’s shaggy brows had
read the scroll of his emotions like a printed
page.

David, thus thwarted in his first purpose

of an open departure from the encampment,
was driven to determine on a surreptitious

flight. Such a method was repellent to his
native honesty. It seemed an ignominious
thing to do. But he could discover no other
way. He resolved to leave the encampment
the coming night. Every hour near the
princess now increased the strain upon his
will, and it was very near the breaking point.
He was confirmed in his plan by a sudden
suspicion as to the chief’s attitude toward
him. That suspicion was provoked by Low-
rie’s final utterance concerning their future
relations.

‘‘Thutty dollars is a lot 0’ money, but I’ve
got plenty salted away, an’ so be I mought
spend some on hit a-boostin’ along a young
feller what I took a shine ter. You-all ’pears
t’ me a pretty-likely sort 0’ chap, David.’?
He chuckled contentedly. ‘‘No tellin’ how
fur ye might git, boy, with Henry Lowrie t?
back ye.’’

David found an opportunity, later that day,

 

THH HOMEWARD TRAIL 197

when he was alone in the living-room, to se-
cure a sheet of notepaper and a pencil. Then
he went away. by himself into the forest, and
there, with a smooth stone for a desk, he
wrote a note to leave for the father and
daughter, whom he meant to desert by
stealth, The composition of the missive
taxed his ingenuity to the utmost, and, when
he had finally finished the writing, he was
disgusted with the result, yet quite unable
to devise anything better. He put the mes-
sage in his pocket, and went back to the en-
campment, feeling like a criminal. He found
the cabin empty, and improved the occasion
by a raid on the larder, where he gathered
together scant supplies of bacon, fiour and
coffee. He took the least possible allowance,
feeling like a thief the while. He knew that
he had no choice, however, for nothing of
his own was left from the river, not even
his rifle. He made a small parcel of the food,
and concealed it where it would be unlikely
‘to be discovered against the time of his de-
parture.

Lowrie, on his return to the cabin, was
boisterously merry, in high feather over hav-
ing come to an arrangement with the young

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

198 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

man. When Elizabeth appeared, he made
the fact known to her in manifest expecta-
tion of enthusiastic approbation on her part.
Nor was he disappointed—at the outset. The
girl regarded David’s acceptance of her
father’s offer as a proof that the barrier
between them would be somehow removed,
and she was filled with delight as new hope
flooded her. She turned to David with shin-
ing eyes and her lips bending into a happy
smile.

‘Oh, that will be splendid, David!’ she
said simply. The cadences in her voice were
very tender. ‘‘I am so glad!”?

David could do no more than stammer an
unintelligible acknowledgment. He felt more
than ever like a criminal—the thief of this
girl’s heart.

Elizabeth wondered over the lack of re-
sponsiveness in David, at first without par-
ticular concern, but soon with a suspicion
that, after all, things were not quite as they
should be. The suspicion grew into a cer-
tainty as the time passed, and the young
man appeared taciturn and distrait. He
plainly avoided her attempts to draw him
into conversation; refused even to meet her

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL LOD

glances. The father’s good spirits blinded
him to his guest’s somber mood, but the lov-
ing eyes of the daughter took note of every
detail, and again her sorrow weighed heavily
upon her, for she perceived that the barrier
still stood between her and David; a barrier
of which she knew nothing except that it was
sinister and impregnable. It was with a new
and stronger despair pressing upon her
spirit that she early said good-night, and
went to her room; there to wrestle with her
trouble in that infinite and terrible loneliness
which comes to one who loves in vain.

‘And the despair in David’s soul, as he
watched her go, was neither greater than
hers, nor less, but like unto it; for he ex-
pected never to look on her face again.

 
 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVIII

HAT same night, Charlie Goins sat late
alone, holding communion with him-

self and seeking inspiration for nefarious
schemes from frequent drafts of colorless
moonshine out of his brown jug. But the
inspiration failed of an effect satisfactory to
him, though he drank deep, as was his habié
often. His iron body showed no ill effect
from his excesses. The fiery liquor seemed
to do little more than quicken his movements
and stimulate his brain, so that wild ideas
came thronging. Hach in turn, however, was
speedily rejected for one reason or another.
It was his purpose to remove the stranger
from his path, but he meant to do this in
such a manner as to avoid the chief’s suspi-
cion of his having any part in the affair.
Hate counseled murder, but prudence for-
bade. It was near midnight when, at last,
he hit on a plan that promised to be ade-
quate. He decided that, with the help of his

200

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 201

most intimate crony, Jeames Viccars, he
would ambush his enemy, take him prisoner,
and deliver him up to the authorities at
Salisbury as one who had been actively en-
gaged in assisting a Union soldier to escape
from the prison. Goins reflected that in this
way he would dispose of his rival for an in-
definite time, and perhaps be paid a sum of
money in addition. He gulped down a huge
swig of the spirits in celebration of his hav-
ing finally reached a decision, and started to
awaken Vicears, who shared the cabin with
him, in order to make definite plans for the
morrow.

The sudden barking of a dog caused Goins
to stop, and listen, for the sound came from
close at hand, and he recognized the note of
Lowrie’s favorite hound. He blew out the
candle, and, going to the door, pushed it open
softly, and peered out. The moon had just
risen. By its light, he made out a shadow

- moving a little within the doorway of the
. chief’s cabin, which was next to his own.

The dog had ceased barking. Goins could
hear the hiss of a whisper, and, a moment
later, he saw the form in the doorway ad-
vance, the dog beside it capering in friendly

 
 

 

 

 

 

202 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

fashion. He could make out that the night
prowler was a man. He knew, too, that the
figure was not Lowrie’s. While it was im-
possible to distinguish clearly in the gloom,

he guessed that this could be no other than _

the stranger. He was surprised and puzzled

by the occurrence. He could not surmise the —

visitor’s object in this mysterious night
sortie. Then he held his breath, for David
was passing within a yard of him. It was now
that he saw the parcel which the mountaineer
carried. At sight of it, partial understand-
ing came to the Croatan. It was plain that
the visitor was making a stealthy departure
from the encampment. The fact would have
been incredible, but for the evidence before
his eyes. It seemed that, without any effort
whatsoever on his part, he was to be rid of
his enemy.

Goins was, notwithstanding, by no means
content. On the contrary, he was made furi-
ous by the thought that his foe should escape
punishment at his hands. He watched
eagerly, fairly shaking with the rage that was
onhim. He could distinguish David’s course
down the ecabin-lined street of the encamp-,
ment, which would lead on into the river

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 203

trail. Abruptly, the Croatan came to a de-
termination. He pushed the door shut, and
sprang to the bed on which Viccars lay
snoring.

‘‘Wake up, mon!’’ he exclaimed harshly,
under his breath.

A few rough shakes added to the exhorta-
tion brought the sleeper to a sitting position,
blinking and gaping. Under the insistence
of Goins, Viccars was soon thoroughly awak-
ened. He hurried into his clothes, while the
other made rapid explanations.

‘‘Thet-thar cussed galoot is a-skinnin’ out,
an’ I hain’t aimin’ t’ "low ’im t’ sneak off
without gittin’ what’s comin’ t’ ’im. We'll
chase arter ’im, an’ ketch ’im. Hurry!’’

It was hardly a minute after David’s pass-
ing the door, when the two men sallied out
into the night in pursuit. They ran swiftly
down the encampment street, but, when they
reached the river trail, moved with noiseless
tread, though still rapidly. From time to
time they paused to listen. In one of these
intervals, after they had gone half a mile or
more through the forest, they heard the
sounds of David’s advance, as he went care-

lessly without any suspicion of being fol-

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

204. THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

lowed. The pursuers now moderated their
pace, so as to keep within hearing distance,
but sufficiently in the rear to escape detection.

‘Well foller till ’e halts,’? Goins decided.
“‘Then we’ll steal up on ’im, an’ jump ’im
together. I got rawhides in my pocket, an’
while I hold ’im, ye’ll tie ’im up.”’

‘¢An’ then what ye goin’ t’? do with *im?’’
Viccars demanded, in a hoarse whisper.

‘None o’ yer business,’’ Goins growled,
in surly rebuke. ‘‘An’ besides, I hain’t made
up my mind yit.”’

At the fork in the trail as it came near the
river, David swung into the branch that led
southward, and behind him the pursuers
kept their place. The three traveled steadily
throughout the remaining hours of the night,
and Goins had ample time in which to formu-
late his further plans. He confirmed his
earlier decision to take his enemy to Salis-
bury as a prisoner, and made known his pur-
pose to his assistant. Yet the virulence of
his hatred made this project unsatisfactory
to him, since he lusted to wreak vengeance
with his own hands on the man who had
humiliated him in the presence of his fel-
lows. As he shambled forward, his heavily

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 205

muscled fingers twitched from time to time
in reflex from his fierce desire to be at the
stranger’s throat.

Dawn was breaking when, at last, David
made his camp within a sheltered glade at
some distance from the trail itself. Goins
and Viccars, moving with increased precau-
tion, concealed themselves behind a shelter
of thick-growing shrubs on the side of the
glade furthest from the spot where David
had established himself, and thence they
watched his operations, in readiness to seize
the most favorable moment for attack.

“We'll jump ’im when ’e’s busy cookin’,
an’ bent over, an’ with ’is back t’ us,”’ Goins
whispered. ‘‘When I nudge ye, come on

There was no hitch in the execution of the
plan. David was on his knees before the
4re which he had kindled, holding the sauce-
pan over the flames, when the two men stole
forth from their hiding place, and crept
across the glade, their moccasined feet mov-
ing soundlessly on the turf. It was not until
they were almost upon him that David, un-
warned by any noise, sensed their presence,
and turned, startled. But it was too late.
Even as his eyes took in the twin shapes

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

206 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

bulking darkly behind him in the gray light,
the assailants leaped upon him. It was only
a matter of seconds before his capture was
fully effected. At the first onslaught, Goins
clutched him in arms that were like bands of
steel. David remembered that embrace, and
realized, with a quick sensation of despair,
that, for some inexplicable reason, he had
fallen into the possession of Goins. The
utter unexpectedness of the attack, too, dis-
heartened him, so that, though he fought
desperately, he had no hope of victory. He
struggled the harder when he felt his hands
drawn together by Goins’ assistant, but he
was powerless to prevent the binding of the
rawhide around his wrists. His one moment
of satisfaction was when the fellow attempted
to tie his ankles together, and David caught
him with a kick in the pit of the stomach,
which doubled him up, gasping and groan-
ing for five minutes before he could recover
his breath, while Goins cursed him for his
clumsiness. In his second attempt, however,
Viccars was more cautious, and presently the
two men let go of their victim, who lay help-
less, bound hand and foot.

“Thar, damn ye!’’ Goins shouted, his voice

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 207

rasping with vindictive triumph. ‘Take
thet!?? he added, and struck a coward’s blow
full in David’s face. ‘‘I’ll Varn ye a thing
er two, afore I’m done with ye, ye whelp!’’
He swaggered around the prostrate man,
belching threats interlarded with oaths and
obscenities.

David listened in silence wntil, finally,
Goins wearied. Then, he spoke for the first
time, with a contemptuous drawl.

‘¢ *Pears like ye must be a heap fonder of
me than what ye say, if ye’r’ aimin’ t’ keep

me here jest as I was a-leavin’.”’

“‘T "low they’ll do the keepin’ o’ ye fer
me down +’ Salisbury prison,’’ Goins re-
torted. ‘They’re honin’ t’ git a holt on sich
Yank’-runners as you-all.’”? He added a list
of unprintable epithets, to which their object
appeared to give no heed whatsoever.

As a matter of fact, David was occupied
with an intense endeavor to evolve a method
of extrication from this new trouble into
which he had fallen. Goins’ words had made
him realize for the first time the danger to
which he was exposed at the hands of the —
Confederate authorities for having aided the
escape of a Union prisoner. Hitherto, he

 
 

 

 

 

208 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

had carelessly regarded the affair with Mor-
ris as a matter between him and his own
conscience. Now, however, he was forced to
recognition of the fact that his impetuous
act in assisting the fugitive was a disloyal
procedure, for which he might have to pay
a serious penalty. It was evident that, in
order to avoid danger from this source, he
must first of all contrive to escape from his
present captivity. How to accomplish this,
however, was a question beyond his powers
to answer. He stopped his ears to the taunts
and jeers of Goins, while he concentrated his
whole mind on the problem, but he could find
no way out. There were two against him;
he was bound and helpless in their power.
His final conclusion was that he must wait
with what patience he could command in the
hope of an opportunity being offered some-
where along the way. At least, he reflected,
his captors must untie his feet before setting
forth on the long march to Salisbury.

Presently, despite his intention of not
listening, David caught something that Goins
was saying.

“‘A puny darn’ pup what has +? git a
woman t’ fight fer ’im!’? were the words that

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 209

arrested the mountaineer’s attention, He
flared instantly, for he was sure that some
reference to Elizabeth was meant, although
he could not understand the implication.
‘cWhat’s that?’? he demanded sharply.
Goins grinned evilly, pleased over having
provoked his prisoner to a display of meet
“JT was tellin’ ye what a wuthless kind o
critter ye be,’’ he declared truculently. ‘‘Ye
wa’n’t able t? stan’ up t’ me like a mon, but
hed +? beller fer he’p fr’m a gal.”’
<That’s a lie!?? David answered; and he
believed that it was.

Goins sneered.
<‘Thar in the cliff I hed ye as I wanted ye.

T’d ’a’ bust ye in a minute more, if so Me
‘Liz’beth hedn’t kotched me by the leg, an

3
trun me—the sassy cat!’
“Tt’s a lie,?? David repeated. But now his

voice lacked conviction, and the Croatan was
quick to notice the change. He stared at his
captive malevolently, and then his loose lips

i i isive grin.
twisted in a derisi .
“‘Cussed if I don’t believe ye never knew

she grabbed me.”? He roared with laughter,
the mockery in which brought a ae
flush to David’s cheeks. ‘‘An’ she never tol

 
 

 

 

 

210 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

ye. She sure ig a buster, thet-thar gal. She
let ye go on thinkin’ ye was quite some
punkins fer a fighter, Why, ye blasted
sucker, I kin lambast the tar out 0” ye any
day in the week with one han’, An’ ye
thought ye licked me all by yer lil’

Ho! ho! ho!”

The burst of scornful laughter was echoed
by the faithful Viccars,

There was a sincerity in the Croatan’s
voice that compelled belief on David’s part,
reluctant as he was to admit the truth, that
he had been saved in the conflict by the in-
tervention of the princess. But out of the
whirling confusion of his thoughts an idea
stood forth for use in this emergency. He
acted upon it without an instant of delay.
His voice when he spoke again had a different
tone, resonant with insolent challenge.

“Ye’r? jest a natural-born liar, Goins. I
showed ye up afore yer whole tribe. An’
ye’r’ lyin’ ’bout what happened in tho cave,
where I whipped ye good an’ fair, so ye come
crawlin’ home next day with yer head in a
rag. An’ when ye come arter me now, ye
had to bring somebody t’ he *pye. Ye hain’

got sand t’ tackle yer dirty work alone arter

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 211

the lesson I give yer there in the cave. Ye’r’
a liar an’ a blowhard, an’ ye can’t fight fer
shucks. I know, ’cause I’v fit ye, an’ licked
ye, an’ tain’t no man’s job, nuther.”’

Goins became apoplectic under the gibes.
He was wounded in his most sensitive part,
vanity over his physical prowess. The re-
sentment that flamed hot in him destroyed
all discretion. He gave way to a frenzy of
murderous hate.

“‘T’ll show ye!l’? he screamed. ‘‘I’ll Varn
ye what Charlie Goins kin do. I’ll kill ye
with my two han’s, an’ chuck yer body igus
inter the river ye come out on. I say, I'll
kill ye, damn ye t’ hell.”’

‘“When I’m tied up, an’ with yer man t

*p ye,’’? David sneered.
ae bat drove the Croatan distracted.
He threw off his coat, and leaped upon it.
His face was black with rage, the features

i orribly.
ew hes jose? he shouted to Viccars.

“‘Oh, hell!’? David drawled, with an in-
flection of contempt calculated to madden ue
Croatan still further. ‘‘Quit yer bluffin :
Ye don’ dast. Ye’r’ plumb scairt 0’

me.’’

 
 

 

 

 

212 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

“Cut ’im loose—cut ’im loose!’’ Goins re-
peated furiously.

Viccars went forward obediently, though
with evident reluctance. He would have ven-
tured a protest, but Goins silenced him. A
moment later, the blade of his clasp-knife
sheared through the thongs at David’s wrists
and ankles. Viccars sprang aside, as the re-
leased prisoner came to his feet with a bound,

and in the same instant Goins bore down with
a shriek of triumph.

The mountaineer had not been in duress
long enough to stiffen the muscles, and he
easily stepped aside from the Croatan’s rush.
The momentum of his plunge carried Goins
for a rod or more across the glade before
he could check himself. As he turned to at-
tack again, he heard a wild ery from Viccars.

Facing about, he halted in his tracks, and
stared, astounded. His henchman was danc-
ing about in wild excitement, yelling unin-
telligibly. There was no one else within the
glade. The prisoner had vanished.

 

CHAPTER XIX

Se man is a fool who lets vanity stand
in his way at a crisis. David was no
fool. He had never been a coward; he had
never fled from a foe. But, when the great
idea sprang up in his brain, he welcomed it,
and acted upon it without a thought of ig-
nominy. He played upon Goins’ foible. He
deliberately taunted the fellow into a frenzy,
in the hope that this frenzy would lead to
folly, as it did. David knew that his strategy
exposed him to the peril of death at the
hands of the Croatan. The risk did not daunt
him. He accepted it gladly because it offered
the sole possibility of escape. He matched
his wits against his enemy’s brute force. He
had no feeling of shame over his device,
which was based on running away from the
danger. Shame did not touch him then or
thereafter for his preference of flight to de-
struction. So, when Goins hurled himself
forward, David, having dodged the rush,
213 ~

 
 

 

 

 

 

214 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

took to his heels in the opposite direction.
Before Viccars had divined his purpose, he
had crossed the glade, and was swallowed
‘up in the wood. By the time Goins had
learned the truth, his intended victim was a
full two hundred yards off. The Croatans

gave chase as best they could, but their pace .

was slow compared with that of the fugitive,
and Goins wasted his breath in squealing
anathemas on him who fled.

David was a swift runner. Accustomed to
the woods as he was, he had no difficulty in
traveling fast and far. His best speed was
maintained steadily for a half-hour. At the
expiration of that time, he was convinced
that he had eluded his pursuers, and that
with due precaution against surprise he
would be safe. His exertions had strained
him to the utmost, and he sought a retreat
within the shelter of a clump of bushes,
where he might be undiscovered even by any
one passing within a few yards of him.
There he stretched himself on the turf to
rest his heaving lungs and aching muscles.
When he had rested sufficiently, he went for-
ward again, treading quietly and with eyes
watchful for any emergency.

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 215

David’s course was chosen with reluctance,
but, once the decision was made, he advanced
resolutely, despite the qualms that assailed
him. He had determined to return to the
Croatan encampment. There were a number
of reasons for this. In the first place, sordid
necessity compelled him. His small quantity
of supplies remained behind him in the glade
where he had been set upon by Goins and
Viccars. To return in search of the food
would be to invite another encounter with
the Croatan. Moreover, he doubted his
ability to retrace his steps to the glade.

As a matter of fact, however, the lost ra-
tions hardly figured in his calculations. His
attention was given, rather, to the necessity
of making known all the facts to Chief Low-
rie. His adventure had given him a new
knowledge of Goins’ dangerous qualities.
He regretted his promise to Elizabeth of
silence concerning the lieutenant’s attack on
her in the cavern. He meant to break that
promise at the earliest opportunity. For the
girl’s sake, the father must be warned.

David realized that it would be necessary
also to explain his own secret departure. He
hated the confession this would involve, but

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

216 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

he was in no mood for half-measures, and
vowed to make a clean breast of it. The
truth might be—indeed, would be—trying to
all concerned, but it offered the only

means of relief. There must be no further ,

deceit.

David’s first rapid flight had led him north-
ward toward the encampment. Afterward,
he walked swiftly, and it was not yet noon
when he approached his destination. He was
just rounding a bend in the river-trail less
than half a mile from the settlement, when
he was startled by a sudden clatter of hoofs,
and a horseman came galloping toward him.
It was Chief Lowrie himself, who, at sight of
David, pulled his horse to its haunches, and
let out a great roar of joyous greeting.

“‘Why, David boy, consarn ye!’’ he rum-
bled. ‘‘Whar in Tunket ye been?’’ The
heavy features were radiant with welcome.
‘““We jist mnacherly cal’lated ye was
plumb losted. Whar in all ’nation hev ye
been?’’

David answered promptly, though his em-
barrassment was painfully evident in his
flushed face and in the hesitant tone with
which he spoke.

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 217

“T set out t? leave the camp last night,’’
he explained. ‘‘There’s reasons why I
couldn’t take up with yer offer. I left a

,note fer ye an’ ’Liz’beth. But I didn’t
rightly tell ye all my reason in that-there

writin’.’’

“‘Fust I’ve hearn tell 0’ any note,’’ Lowrie
asserted. His features had become forbid-
ding. ‘‘Mebbe ’Liz’beth come on hit, an’
was aimin’ not t’ tell me anythin’ till she
got good an’ ready.’’

“T "low I'll have t? tell ye all about it,’
David returned miserably. ‘‘But first I want
+? warn ye ’g’inst that-there pesky Charlie
Goins.”’

‘‘What the devil is Charlie Goins t’ you-
all??? The chief’s manner was now suddenly
menacing.

“Tt’s a devil of a lot t? you-all,’”? David
retorted, with spirit. ‘‘I come on him over
there in *Liz’beth’s cave, where he’d fol-

‘lowed her, unbeknownst to her. She’d kind

o? fainted like, an’ he was carryin’ her in
his arms when I got there. He drapped her,
an’ we fit, an’ went down together, an’ he
got his head broke agin the rock, an’ so
’Liz’beth an? me come away.”’

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

t
|
|
1
f

 

a Rr

 

 

 

 

 

218 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

The chief’s face was contorted with rage,
and the black eyes blazed.

‘‘Why didn’t ye tell me this afore?’ he
demanded.

‘* Cause "Liz’beth made me promise not
t’? say anything about it,’? David re-
plied.

“Tl Varn ’im t’ lay han’s on my darter—
an’ ’er unwillin’,’? Lowrie said, less loudly
than he usually spoke; but his voice was
ominous. ‘‘Hain’t seen nothin’ o’ ’im t’-day.
So be, ye didn’t ’appen t’ run inter ’im any-
whar, did ye?’’

David smiled wryly.

“Not edzakly,’? he stated. ‘‘But he run
interme. Fact is, he kotched me, an’ planned
t’ take me t’ Salisbury, an’ give me up there.
But I got away.’’

“‘T don’t understan’ hit a tall,’’ Lowrie re-
sponded, frowning heavily. ‘‘But I under-
stan’ enough t’ make me want %’ git my
hooks on thet-thar snake, an’ scotch ’im.'
Got an idear whar’s ’e’s at?”?

David shook his head.

‘¢Some’res off there, I reckon.’’ He waved
his hand toward the south. ‘‘I ‘low he an’
the feller with him are some fur behind,

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 219

bein’ as how I streaked it right smart arter
I got away.”’

<‘T’ll round ’im up mighty soon,”’ the chief
grated. With the words, he wheeled his
horse, and went clattering back toward the |
encampment.

David followed at a leisurely gait. He
had gone less than half a mile, when he drew
aside from the trail in order to let a caval-
cade of the Croatans sweep past him. Hach
of the horsemen carried a rifle, and at the
head of the company rode Lowrie himself,
his massive features set in lines of vindictive
purpose.

The party passed without paying any ap-
parent heed to the wayfarer. David went
forward again, and soon reached the encamp-
ment, where he entered the chief’s cabin. As
he pushed the door shut behind him, he saw
Elizabeth sitting at the little table, with her
head bowed on her arms. She looked up at
the sound of the door closing. Then she
sprang to her feet, and stood staring, her
eyes darkly luminous through a film of tears,
her cheeks pallid beneath their golden tint.
She neither moved nor spoke during long
moments, while David, too, stood motionless,

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

220 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

regarding her with all his heart in the stead-
fast gaze. At last, the girl’s breath exhaled
in a long-drawn sigh where many and poign-
ant emotions mingled.

“David!” she whispered doubtfully. It
was as if she could not believe yet in the
reality of his presence there with her.

David went toward her. He went slowly,
almost as if reluctantly, as if compelled
against his will by some invisible force that
was stronger than he. Yet, for all this seem-
ing of reluctance, a supreme delight thrilled
in his blood. He had thought never to look
on her face again. And now she was there
before him. His glances could feast their fill
on her loveliness. The joy of the moment
shone in his expression. The sight of it
warmed her like a rich wine of life. She
knew that this was no phantom conjured up
by her longing, but the man himself in the
flesh, the man whom she loved; and she knew

as well that he loved her. She took a step

to meet him, and then, without any intention

on the part of either, they were in each

other’s arms. Elizabeth’s hands were clasped

about David’s neck. He held her close, and

their hearts beat together in the rapture of
&

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 221

that embrace. Hlizabeth’s face was hidden
in his bosom. David bent his head, and his
lips touched the dusky tendrils of hair, whose
fragrance steeped his senses in ecstasy.
There was no word between them for a long
time, nor any further caress.

Presently, Elizabeth stirred, and sighed
again—a sigh of exquisite happiness. Then,
very slowly, she withdrew herself from
David’s arms. She looked up at him, her
eyes aglow with adoration, her lips curving
in a smile of infinite content.

‘‘T read your letter. It said you must go.
I thought I’d never see you again, David.
T couldn’t understand anything—only I suf-
fered—oh, so horribly! And now you’re
here, David! And I am—oh, so happy!’’

Somehow, her frank expression of pleasure
in his presence awoke the mountaineer from
his dream of bliss. He recalled, with a sick-
ening dismay, the obligation that must hold
him apart from her who had so gladly come
into his arms. The radiance went out of his
face; it became drawn and haggard.

The girl, watching him so intently, saw
the change, and was terrified by it. She saw
the despair looking out at her from his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

222 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

‘A like despair fell on her heart, and blotted
out all its joy. She knew that the barrier,
which for a few blessed moments she had

wholly forgotten, still stood, immutable, be-
tween her and him.

 

CHAPTER XX

Dee, fairly ached for the relief of full
explanation to this girl, whom, he felt,
he had wronged by his silence hitherto. But
he found himself tongue-tied, stricken dumb
by the suffering written on her face. There
followed a period of painful indecision on
the part of both, in which no word was
spoken. It was Elizabeth who, at last, shook
herself free from the spell of constraint that
held them mute. She turned toward David
with a look of reproach, and spoke in a voice
of cold accusation.

“You told pappy about Charlie—there in
the cave. You promised you wouldn’t.’’

David welcomed the diversion to any topic
rather than the one that so troubled his spirit.
He felt no reproach in this matter of having
advised the chief of the truth concerning
Goins, and so answered confidently.

‘‘T jest had t? tell yer pappy, ’cause that-
there Goins ain’t noways a safe critter t’

223

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

224 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

have around loose. When I found he was
willin’ t’ kill me, I woke up enough t’ know
as how he might be dangerous fer you-all,
too.’

At the mountaineer’s words, Elizabeth’s
hands went to her bosom in a gesture of
alarm. Her eyes dilated as she regarded the
speaker with new apprehension in her gaze.

‘Charlie tried to kill you?’? she asked
hurriedly. Her voice was trembling.

“Why, yes,’’ David replied. ‘‘I low there
ain’t no manner o’ doubt about that. Didn’t
yer pappy tell ye?”’

Elizabeth shook her head.

““No,’’ she declared; and her tone carried
an inflection of dismay. ‘‘He was just boil-
ing over about Charlie, but it was all about
what happened over there at the river. I
didn’t know anything about this other matter
between you and Charlie. Tell me,’’ she in-
sisted, ‘‘what was it???

David related the story of his adventure
‘with Goins and Viccars. He was curious to
know how Elizabeth would regard the ruse
by, which he had succeeded in making his
escape. He was gratified by her comment
when he came to the end.

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 225

“Thank God,’’ she exclaimed tensely, ‘‘you
were able to outwit him!’’ She was silent
for a few moments, thinking deeply, and from
the expression on her face it was clear that
her thoughts were not pleasant ones. When
she spoke again, her voice was bitter. Her
eyes flashed with a light that was stern, al-
most cruel in its suggestion. ‘‘Charlie has
gone far enough, now,’ she said evenly.
‘You can leave him out of your calculations
for the future. Pappy will attend to him.”’
She smiled, and her face softened. ‘‘You
see, David, it was because I know pappy so
well that I made you promise not to say any-
thing about what Charlie did. I thought
Charlie had had his lesson, and would behave
himself. I didn’t want him punished by
pappy in one of his rages. But now, since
he’s tried to kill you’’—her face grew for-
bidding again—‘‘why, I don’t care what
pappy does to him. He can’t be punished
worse than he deserves.’’

‘‘Shucks!?? David expostulated. ‘‘What
he done +’ me wa’n’t nothin’ so much t’ git
seairt about. I ‘low I wouldn’t have been so
terrible afeared o’ him—even if I did run

5 : iBieg i
away from him this mornin’.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

226 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

But once more Elizabeth shook her head
emphatically.

“‘Charlie’s not your sort,’’ she responded.
Her lips were bent in a smile that was very
tender, in spite of its sorrowful droop. ‘‘You
couldn’t fight him, because he wouldn’t fight
fair. Likely as not, he’d shoot you in the
back next time.’’

Brave as he was, David shuddered. It was
not pleasant to think of himself as treacher-
ously done to death by this villainous enemy.
Yet he knew that the girl spoke truly, and
that he was exposed to a very real peril. He
welcomed the distraction afforded by the re-
turn of the chief, who at this moment thrust
open the cabin door, and burst into the room
noisily.

“Got *im right smack off,’? were his first
words, roared out in savage triumph. ‘ ’Im
an’ Viccars, both!’? He shot a glance at
David. ‘‘They wa’n’t fur behind ye, young
feller.’?

“Then they’ve been brought in??? Hliza-
beth questioned. She was plainly heartened
by the news that the offender against herself
—and David—had been captured.

The chief nodded.

 

 

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 227

‘‘Both hyar in the camp, under guard, an’
waitin’? fer me t’ pronounce jedgmint agin
’em. Which same shall be jist as soon’s I
git over my mad—which I hain’t done yit by
a dum’ sight. But I'll be ca’m putty quick,
an’ then I’ll administer jestice on them-thar
two skunks. An’ may God A’mighty ’ave
mercy on their souls!’’

The Croatan girl, who was busy preparing
the noonday meal, called to Elizabeth. The
two men were left alone together at one end
of the long room. David improved the op-
portunity to address the chief in tones care-
fully lowered, so that the princess should not
overhear.

“T’ve got t’? do some explainin’ t’ you-all,
chief,’’ he said, with very evident embarrass-
ment. ‘‘I said in that-there letter I wrote
as how I had t’ go away. I didn’t say right
out why. Now, I ‘low as how I ought t’ tell
ye the whole business, an’ I want a chance
+? speak my mind when Elizabeth ain’t about,
seein’ it has somethin’ to do with her.”’

Lowrie fastened a piercing stare on the
mountaineer, who avoided it, and was mani-
festly ill at ease under the scrutiny.

‘‘T aim t’ hear all what ye got t’ say,’’ he

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

228 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

mumbled. ‘‘But this-hyar other thing has
got t’ be ’tended ter fust. I reckon I’m
putty-nigh cooled off enough now t? act as
jedge. Leastways, I cal’late I kin keep my
han’s off thet-thar snake when ’e stan’s up
afore me—which is a heap more’n ’e’s got
any right t’ expect arter layin’ ’is dirty
fingers on my gal.’’ At the words, the black
eyes flamed with such wrath that David real-

ized in a measure the mighty passion which
was held in restraint.

The chief said nothing more, but turned
and strode out of the cabin. The mountaineer
followed him, partly to avoid being left with
Elizabeth, since he did not yet feel able to
make his revelation to her; and partly in
order to be a spectator at this scene of primi-
tive justice which was about to be enacted.

Lowrie came to a halt on the level stretch
of sward before the cabin, and gave an order

to one of his men, who was waiting near at
hand.

“‘Bring out the pris’ners.”’

The fellow addressed passed the word
along. There was a stir among the group of
men gathered before one of the cabins a little
way down the line. The door was opened,

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 229

and the two captives appeared, shambling
along, their hands tied behind their backs,
surrounded by armed guards. When the
party reached the chief, it came to a stand-
still, with the two guilty men facing the auto-
erat. They stood with hang-dog mien, slouch-
ing forlornly, their eyes on the ground. It
was plain that they had no hope of mercy.
David, from an inconspicuous position be-
hind the circle of Croatans, could see Low-
rie’s face, and he winced at sight of the
ferocity that showed there. It was on Goins
that the chief’s fierce eyes were fixed. Not
once did he glance toward the cringing Vic-
cars. The other members of the tribe awaited
the outcome in a mixture of emotions—be-
wilderment and pleasure being the most con-
spicuous. All of them were deeply impressed
by the disgrace of Goins, who, after their
leader, had been the principal man. in the
tribe. A few particular friends of the lieu-
tenant were genuinely distressed over his

‘downfall, but for the most part his fellow

tribesmen were gratified by the calamity
fallen on one who had harshly lorded over
them. Lowrie explained as much of the mat-
ter as he chose with blunt directness.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

230 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

‘“‘T made this-hyar skunk, Charlie Goins,
my lieutenant, ’cause I trusted ’im. Now,
I’ve l’arned ’e hain’t fitten t’ be trusted.
’E’s sneakin’ an’ treacherous an’ plumb
ornery. las’ night ’e an’ ’is man, Jeames
hyar, jumped on the young feller what’s been
visitin’ me. Jist what ’e meant +’ do with
"im, I dunno, an’ I don’t keer. Hit’s enough
thet ’e meant mischief t? my guest. ’H’ll be
punished fer thet. They’s other thin’s, but
I hain’t aimin’ t’ say nothin’ ’bout them.’?
He was silent for a few seconds, his features
working convulsively. But he controlled
himself, and, as he spoke again, the booming
notes came without a tremor. ‘‘I hereby
sentence Charlie Goins and Jeames Viccars
to be flogged—fifty lashes each.’? He turned
to aman standing near. ‘Bring three mule-
whips,’’ he ordered.

Not a sound broke the quiet during the
short interval until the whips were brought.
Then, Lowrie took the whips, which were of
the usual sort, with short stocks, tipped with
two yards of braided rawhide. He stepped
forward, and held out one of the whips to
Goins, who took it mechanically, as if doubt-
ful of the chief’s purpose. A second whip

 

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 231

was taken reluctantly by Viccars. The chief
himself retained the third whip. He re-
turned to his former position, facing the men
from a little distance.

‘‘Now, stan’ two paces apart,’’ he con-

‘tinued.

The cowed men placed themselves obedi-
ently. Their faces displayed a growing appre-
hension. The encircling crowd of Croatans
grinned appreciatively as they guessed their
leader’s design. Lowrie spoke contempt-
uously.

“T don’t want none o’ the tribe +’ dirty
their han’s on sich scum as you-all. So, I
cal’late t’ ’ave ye whip each other. An’ ye’ll
make a good job of hit, er I’ll know the rea-
son why.’’

Goins’ spirit flared in a momentary revolt.
He looked up for the first time, and his
beady eyes were like those of a cornered

rat.
“JT won't do hit!’? he gritted between

clenched teeth; and, with a curse, he hurled

the whip to the ground.
Lowrie’s gaze met his lieutenant’s squarely.

Something in their depths warned the muti-
neer, and turned him coward again.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

232 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

‘Yell whip each other, and lay hit on good,
er I’ll flog the two on ye myself. An’ if I
do,’’ he added, and his voice roughened
savagely, as he swung the whip aloft, ‘‘by,
God, I’ll lay on with all my strength.’

There was a short period of hesitation,
during which the two condemned men eyed
each other askance. It was Goins who made
the first decisive movement, for he stooped
and picked up his whip. He had been thor-
oughly intimidated by what he had read in
the chief’s eyes. He knew that his outrage
against the daughter had come to the ears
of the father, and that only by strength of
will was Lowrie holding his wrath in check.
Goins felt those vengeful eyes still flaming
on him, though he held his face averted.
Under their influence, he was compelled to
obey the decree uttered by the chief. He
raised his arm, and struck. There was no
wilful energy in the action, but Goins was a
man of exceptional strength, and, without de-
liberate intention on his part, the lash hissed
sharply through the air, and fell heavily
across Viccars’ back. A stain of red showed
through the thin cotton shirt. The fellow
leaped high with a shrill ery of pain. The

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 233

whip fell from his hand; he volleyed curses
against his assailant.

“Pick hit up. Hit’s yer turn t’ strike,’’
Lowrie growled.

Of a sudden, Viccars’ wrath perceived its
opportunity. He snatched up the whip, and
swung it viciously, with all his might. The
rawhide twined about Goins’ body, and
brought the blood. The stinging hurt of it
made the lieutenant forget for the time be-
ing everything except the immediate cause.
His eyes glared murderously at his crony.
He struck his second blow with a will. The
lash bit deep into Viccars’ flesh, and evoked
a howl of anguish.

Angry before, the wretched victim was now
half-crazed. He screamed curses, plying his
whip the while with all the speed and force
of which he was capable. Nor was Goins less
violent and enraged. He, too, rained blows
with frantic cruelty. By reason of Goins’
superior muscles, Viccars suffered the more
punishment. He was a gory spectacle for
pity when, at last, the whip dropped from
his nerveless hand, and he crumpled down
on the ground, writhing and moaning in the
torture of his wounds. Goins, indeed, was

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

234: THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

not in much better case. The tattered rags
of his shirt were soaked crimson with blood,
and he must have been suffering torment
from the laceration of his flesh. But he re-
tained strength enough of will and of body
to stand rigidly erect, still holding his whip,
and scowling blackly.

The circle of watchers, which had been held
silent and motionless in the grip of excite-
ment, now stirred, and a babel of voices burst
forth. But there was an instant hush when
the heavy voice of the chief again sounded.

“Take ’em away,’’ he commanded. ‘‘Hev

the old women dress their wounds. Then

put ’em on the worst two hosses we got, an’
ride ’em ten mile down the river, an’ turn
’em loose.’? He stared balefully at Goins,
who refused to meet his eyes. ‘‘The both 0’
ye are done with the tribe, fer always,’’ he
said, with the measured slowness of an
authority that must be obeyed. ‘‘Ye’r’ t? go,
an’ ye’r’ never t’ come back—never!”’

He turned, and strode into the cabin, and
shut the door behind him, while the guards
closed in on the two thus formally banished
from their place and tribe.

David went quickly away from the spot.

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 235

He experienced a slight nausea from the
hideous scene he had just witnessed. He
realized, with a sudden rush of homesickness,
that these people were not his people, nor
their ways his ways. He thought of Ruth
and the peaceful beauty of the orchard where
he had kissed her. A great wave of longing
swept over him. ‘A vast loneliness settled
upon him like a pall. He felt himself an
alien, a stranger in a strange land, and very
wretched.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XxXTI

HILE David was strolling about the
encampment in mid-afternoon, ab-
sorbed in moody meditation on the wretched-
ness of his situation, a messenger came sum-
moning him to an interview with the chief.
The mountaineer found Lowrie alone in the
living-room of the cabin. He was greeted
with a curt nod and a sweeping gesture of
one huge hand toward a chair. No time was
wasted in unnecessary preliminaries. The
Croatan introduced the subject matter of the
meeting with his first words.

““Ye said ye hed somethin’ t’ tell me, young
feller, *bout ’cause why ye wanted t’ light
out o’? hyar so durn’ sudden like. Wall, suh,
now’s yer chance. Spit hit out.’’? The keen
‘eyes were fastened on the younger man in a
look that was neither kindly nor hostile,
rather it was coldly judicial.

The inquisitorial stare disturbed David.
There was no faintest trace of sympathy in

236

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 237

it; only an imperious demand for the truth,
without reservation or extenuation. And the
truth was not an easy. thing to tell—to the
father of the girl concerned. The guest felt
a strong presentiment that he would fail in

making a favorable statement of his case.
Nevertheless, he called on the remnants
of his courage, and began a rapid, some-
what incoherent narration of the essential

facts. ;
“Tg about yer daughter, *Liz’beth, her as

hauled me out o’ the river,’’ he began awk-
wardly. ‘‘She’sa mighty fine gal, an’ T think
a heap o’ her. *Tain’t jest that I’m grate-
ful +? her fer savin’ my life. There’s all that
—-an’ more. It was ’cause o’ that—’cause
I was afraid I might be gittin’ t’ care i
her too much that I made up my mind t
light out. Yes, that’s the reason T sneaked
off in the night.’? He halted, miserable and

ashamed.
Lowrie seized unerringly on

word that contained a clue. 8
‘< *Pyaid??? he repeated, with a frown.
s¢Mer why was ye afeared?”’

David met the issue squarely.
“J was afeared “cause I was pound al-

the single

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

238 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

ready.’’ His voice lowered, and there was a
reverent softness in it as he continued.
“‘There’s another gal back home. ‘We’re
promised t’? each other.’’

A period of silence followed, in which each
of the two men was busy with his own
thoughts. David supposed that, of course,
his explanation cleared up the affair. Not-
withstanding his embarrassment, he was con-
scious of a distinct sense of relief. His mus-
ings for the moment were wholly of Ruth,
and they were very tender. Then, he again
remembered Hlizabeth, and once more his
mind was in turmoil. He regarded his pas-
sionate dream of her as dead and done; but
there remained the difficult, the painful task
of making plain the fact to her. That would
be a trial far different from this talk with
the father. He knew, without vanity, that
he had all unwittingly engaged her affection.
The telling of the truth to her would be a
heart-wrenching thing. He felt guilty as
never before, blaming himself bitterly as the
cause of what this innocent girl must suffer.
The fault, he acknowledged, was altogether
his. He alone had been the active agent
whose unforgivable folly brought about an

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 239

intolerable situation. His careless yielding
to a sensuous mood had encouraged the girl
to bestow on him the priceless treasure of
her love. ‘True, he had not made direct
declarations in words. There had been no
need. He was well aware that every glance
of his eyes there in the cavern had told her
the thing she longed for. Afterward, he had
tried to play his part with more discretion.
His suffering in the effort—and the suffering
he had inflicted on her—had been sufficient
to deserve some good result, as it seemed to
him. Yet, in the end, the effect of his strug-
gle had been only that, at sight of her to-
day, he took her into his arms, and laid his
lips to her hair. At memory of those deli-
cious moments, David’s mood changed once
again. His pulses quickened, and his heart
warmed with desire for this woman, so beau-
tiful, so admirable in every way, 80 strong,
so sweet, so gentle, so winsome, who loved
him. Again, he felt the rapture of that em-
brace; again, the soft fragrance of her hair
was like incense in his nostrils. He quite for-
got Ruth—until the voice of Lowrie rudely
jarred him back to consciousness of the

present.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

240 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

The chief spoke gruffly, but still with his
judicial manner. He spoke, too, with de-
cisive emphasis, as one laying down the law,
as one whose authority was not to be denied
by any other person; least of all by the cal-
low youth there before him, who listened at
first in startled astonishment, then dum-
founded, as the argument penetrated his
brain, and filled his heart with a medley of
emotions.

“Thet-thar gal back in yer mountings is
out o’ hit now,’’ Lowrie announced suc-
einctly. ‘‘She don’t count no more—no more
a tall.’”? He paused for a few seconds to let
his words have their full effect on the hearer,
who stared uncomprehendingly.

“‘But—’’ David would have protested.

Lowrie interrupted with a strident ejacula-
tion of impatience.

‘Listen hyar!’’ he ordered; and the moun-
taineer perforce obeyed. ‘‘Don’t ye see?”’
he demanded, with evident contempt for the
other’s obtuseness. ‘‘Don’t ye understan’
the plain facts? When you-all sot out fr’m
hum, ye belonged t’ thet-thar gal 0’ your’n.
I don’t aim t’ deny thet none whatsoever.’’
The chief paused anew, as if to let his

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 241

phrases sink in. Then, presently, he re-
sumed speaking with ponderous gravity.
‘Since, they’s been things happenin’.
You-all got kotched in the river, an’ yer head
busted agin a stun. Ye come right-smart
cluss ¢? dyin’ right then an’ thar. Ye know

thet???
David nodded a wondering assent to the

question. B:

‘Wall, keep thet in yer mind,” Lowrie
charged. ‘‘Furthermore, they’s another p’int
¢? be considered. Hit was my darter what
pulled ye out o’ thet-thar river. So be, she
hedn’t seen ye an’ grabbed ye, ye’d ’a? been
a goner, sure pop! So, hain’t hit?’’

David nodded for the second time, while
Lowrie’s expression softened to complacency.
He appeared gratified by the shrewdness of
his own reasoning, which he was now about
to display to his less astute auditor.

‘““My darter saved ye fr’m bein’ drownded
over thar in the river. Thet-thar other gal
o’ your’n didn’t save ye none; she didn’t even
he’p none. So, ye see, thet-thar gal 0’ your’n
losted ye thar in the river. Fur’s she’s con-
sarned, ye’r’ drownded. Understan’? Ye’r’
dead t? thet-thar gal, an’ thar kain’t be no

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

242 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

resurrection fer ye—not so fur’s gittin’
spliced goes nohow.’’ The chief wagged his
massive head impressively, and ran his
fingers through the thick thatch of waving
gray hair, while David regarded him in mute
amazement. ‘‘Ye belong t’? somebody else
now. Hit’s fer ’er t’ ’ave the say-so bout
yer life, I cal’late. She saved ye out o’ the
river, an’ so ye’r’ ’er’n. If so be she wants
ye fer ’er husban’, why, thet’s hit. Then
ye’ll marry ’er. Ye see how ’tis, don’t ye?”’
The fierce challenging stare with which he
regarded his guest was disconcerting.
David strove to clear his muddled wits.
He was aghast over the extraordinary theory
so strenuously advanced by Lowrie. The
idea was essentially preposterous, but he
realized with dismay that it was enunciated
in all seriousness by his host. Already that
very day, he had seen the man display his
autocratic temper, and he had no reason to
suppose that this chief of a tribe would be
less stern in dealing with a stranger than
with any other who ran counter to his wishes.
He cast about in his mind for some means
of overthrowing the elder man’s argument,
but in the very simplicity of that argument

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 243

lay its strength. David guessed that the
finer points of personal honor involved in
this matter of abandoning one girl for an-
other would be deemed of no importance by
Lowrie. The Croatan had made plain the
fact that he would not refuse this stranger as
a suitor for his daughter’s hand. On the
contrary, he showed a disposition to weleome
the young man as his son-in-law. His lack
of scruples made it extremely doubtful if
he could be convinced that the man he
favored owed a duty to any girl other than
his own daughter. David gave up the at-
tempt to find a worth-while argument against
that advanced by the chief. His honesty
compelled him to make a blunt avowal of his
sentiments in the affair. He knew that he
could not make them appeal to his hearer,
nor did he try. Very reluctantly, for he di-
vined the hostility he would provoke by his
declaration, he stated his attitude.

‘Why, chief, I couldn’t go back on my
word. I’m pledged t’? Ruth. Whatever ye
say "bout my gittin’? drownded in the river,
an’ bein’ saved from it by yer daughter, I
can’t he’p knowin’ I’m still bound t’ Ruth.
She’s the gal I’m goin’ t’ marry.’’ He al-

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

244. THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

most added that she was the only girl in the
world whom he wished to marry, for just now
his exasperation against Lowrie extended in
some degree to the daughter. But discretion
checked the phrase on his lips. He felt that
it would be unwise to aggravate the man un-
necessarily.

It seemed as if the sense of the words did
not penetrate Lowrie’s understanding for a
few seconds. At least, there was no change
in his expression at first. When the change
did come, it was swift and menacing. The
brow and the bits of cheek above the high-
growing beard showed purple, and the veins
stood out in blue-black ridges, swollen with
blood. His big body grew visibly bigger,
expanding with the rage that welled up in
him. David could hear the grinding of the
teeth as the jaws clamped shut, and then
moved under the impulse of his wrath. But
the black eyes most proclaimed the fury that
possessed the man. They were flaming, dart-
ing the lightnings of hate as if to slay this
presumptuous youth, who thus dared to flaunt
his daughter. The great hands, resting on
the arms of his chair, clenched with such
force that the red and roughened skin over

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 245

the knuckles showed smooth and bloodless
white from the tension.

David experienced a moment of physical
fear. He expected that in the next second
the chief would leap upon him to crush out
his life in blood-Iust aroused by the insult to
the beloved daughter. He maintained his
position without outward flinching, but the
blasting look in those eyes seemed to shrivel
the soul within him. For a few horrible in-
stants, he was fairly sick with fear. He had
felt the grip of those arms once, when they
had held him in a clutch that was kindly,
yet of remorseless strength. Now, the might
of them would destroy him, for he had no
force with which to oppose their vast power.
He had heard talk of things the chief had
done when in a red rage. He had paid little
heed to the tales at the time, but now they
came surging into memory, and served to
weaken his spirit still further. David sat
without a change of feature, motionless and
' stolid to all appearance. But his heart failed
him. He expected no less than death.

For that matter, David was as close to
death that day in the cabin as a man may be
and live. For a little, Lowrie was indeed

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

246 THE HOMEWARD TRATL

mad with passionate resentment, by reason
of the dishonor, as he deemed it, put on his
daughter by the young man who owed his
life-to her. He had been wholly sincere in
his warped view of the case. He believed
that this youth’s future was at the absolute
disposal of Elizabeth. Since the girl had
chosen him as her mate, her mate he must
be. This resistance on his part was a
monstrous thing, unbelievable, unendurable.
Lowrie regarded David’s refusal to acquiesce
as nothing short of a crime. That crime
merited death. The young man had spurned
Elizabeth, had declared that he would not
marry her, that he would marry another girl.
The offense was supreme; it deserved the
supreme punishment.

Yet, the cause of David’s great peril was
also the cause of his escape from it—Hliza-
beth. In his wrath over the outrage against
his daughter, Lowrie was ready to do murder.
But, before he could yield to the impulse to
slay for her sake, there came a check on
that impulse—the thought that perhaps he
ought rather to spare, still for her sake.
There flashed on him a memory of the time
when he and she had talked together, and

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 247

she had told him so tremulously, yet so
bravely, that she loved this man who had
come to her from up beyond. And if she
loved him, the killing of him would hurt her.
Lowrie, with all his savagery, was not minded
to harm his daughter. She was the one
creature in the world whom he loved, whom
he would save from all pain, to whom he
would bring all happiness within his power.
While he thought of these things, the first
wildness of his anger passed. The crimson
haze that had risen from his heart to fog his
brain, lifted, and he was able to think clearly
again. It occurred to him that, after all, it
could not prove to be a very difficult thing
to bend this stranger to his will. The young-
ster’s foolish ideas of duty could be per-
verted easily enough. Surely, it could only,
be a question of time. And there was Eliza-
beth herself, whom, assuredly, no man could
resist. The purple hue died out of his
face, leaving the usual ruddy brown. His
mind considered the problem briefly, and
reached a decision. The hands on the chair-
arms unclenched. The fires still glowed
in his eyes; but the flames were no longer

deadly.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

248 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

David, watching furtively, saw that the
erisis was past, and he rejoiced with all the
lusty strength of his young manhood that the
life was still in him. He stirred for the first
time since he had spoken. He gave no other
outward sign of the emotion that had shaken
his soul.

But the first feeling of inexpressible relief
for his escape was speedily modified, and
David was beset with new cause for tribula-
tion. The chief’s voice sounded again, and
the listener realized that the issue hetween
them was by no means determined, only post-
poned.

“Tll give ye time t’ change yer mind,’’
was the harshly uttered decree. ‘‘P’r’aps,
sometime, I kin forgive ye fer what ye’ve
said, so bein’ as how ye’r’ young an’ fool-
ish. I’ll give ye a chance t’ see the light.
I’m sparin’ ye ’cause I love my darter, an’
hit might make ’er sorry if I was t’ kill ye
hyar an’ now. I cal’late a week orter be
enough time fer ye t’ git rid o’ yer fool no-
tions ’bout thet-thar other gal. So, I’ll give
ye a week t’ decide.’’

“T ean’t change,’’? David declared. He

spoke almost humbly, but with a certain in-

 

THH HOMEWARD TRAIL 249

flection of dogged resolution. ‘‘I’ve got t’
do what I think is right.’’

Lowrie did not flare in a new rage as David
had dreaded. The chief had himself well in

hand now, and he answered in almost his

usual manner.

“Ye’r’ t? ’ave a week. When thet’s up,
if ye hain’t seen the light, hit’ll be the wuss
fer ye.’’? He chuckled roughly. ‘‘But I ’low
thet ye’ll git yer eyes open afore the time’s
up. An’ now, ye kin hev yer ch’ice. I'll
hev ye trun inter the guard-house, an’ kept
thar safe an’ sound while ye’r’ doing yer
thinkin’, er ye kin stay right on hyar in the
cabin just as ye’ve been a-doin’, if ye’ll give
me yer word not t’ run away. I’ll take yer
word fer hit, boy, ’cause I think ye’r’ honest,
even if ye ’ave got some damn’-fool notions.
What say?’’

David had no hesitation in passing his word
that he would not attempt to escape within
the time limit of seven days. On the con-
trary, he welcomed this reprieve as offering
a hope of ultimate escape from his predica-
ment. He was sure that he could depend on
one strong agency in his favor—Hlizabeth.
His knowledge of the girl was such that he

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

250 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

had a fine respect for her high ideals of con-
duct. He was convinced that her estimate
of his duty would agree with his own, no
matter what the cost to her personal desires.
He felt that he could depend on the exertion
of her influence in his behalf as against the
despotic will of her father. He was only
anxious now to hasten that revelation to her
which hitherto he had so weakly postponed.
He was glad when Lowrie, without another
word, abruptly got up from his chair, and
left the cabin. David resolved to seek Eliza-
beth at once, to tell her all, to throw himself

on her mercy.

CHAPTER XXII

ILLIAM SWAIM’S conscience was ill

at ease after the departure of David.

Neither his wife nor his daughter accused
him openly for his part in the affair, but
the expression of their faces was a constant
reproach, as was their manifest avoidance of
any reference to the absent young man. He
was especially distressed by the manner of
Ruth toward him. There was a certain aloof-
ness in her air that was new in her treat-
ment of him. It was as if she meant de-
liberately to shut him out of her confidence.
And Swaim loved his daughter deeply. She
was the most precious thing in his life. Now,
he knew that he had wounded her sorely.
He feared lest his violence and injustice to-
ward David had alienated the girl’s affection.
The thought was very bitter. It was made
the more painful from the fact that his con-
science put all the blame on himself. To
add to his trouble, he experienced a sense

251

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

252 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

of personal loss from the departure of David.
In his own peculiar fashion, he had liked the
lad. He had come to regard him as his future
son-in-law, his successor in the cultivation of
the farm in which he took great pride. His
own hasty yielding to an angry impulse
threatened to destroy the whole fabric of his
plans for the future. Finally, Swaim was
distressed over the probable consequences of
his act in connection with Simmons, David’s
father. The man was his one close friend.
Swaim grieved to think that this friend might
be changed into an enemy when he returned
to learn how his son fared at his neighbor’s
hands.

It is not the custom of the dwellers in this
region to make apology even for known
faults, or to express regret, no matter how
sincere their penitence over some wrong deed.
Swaim, for the life of him, could not have
voiced his remorse over the treatment. of
David. He longed to restore himself to the
good graces of wife and child, more espe-
cially to reéstablish himself in the favor of
his daughter. But he was unable to speak
of the thing that lay so heavy on his heart.
He could not put his feeling in words. He

 

f THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 253

could only go about in a mute misery of ap-
pearance that was half-pitiful, half-absurd.
By every means in his power, except open
confession in speech, he made plain the fact
that he had done wrong and that he was ex-
ceedingly sorry for it. He went out of his
way to make innumerable suggestions for
the comfort and pleasure of his women folk.
He even carried this so far as to open his
purse-strings of his own accord, for the first
time in the history of the family. He dis-
played indeed what was to him—and to them,
for that matter—a truly lavish generosity.
The women, for their part, understood
very well the workings of Swaim’s mind and
heart. Both were aware of his project as
to a marriage between Ruth and David,
though the subject had never been discussed
except in strictest confidence by himself and
the elder Simmons. The wife and daughter
knew also how Swaim was now suffering from
the pangs of conscience. Whatever sym-;
pathy they may have had for the transgres-
sor was promptly stifled, or at least they did
not let it show to him in any way. It seemed
to them that this discipline was good for the
man who had hitherto been so niggardly.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

254 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

While they mourned the disappearance of
David, they secretly rejoiced in its effect on
the head of the household, and had no wish
to shorten his time of tribulation. So, Swaim
went about his daily tasks full of contrition,
constantly made greater by the demeanor of
his family toward him. He felt very sorrow-
ful and very lonely. In this mood of abject-
ness, when seeking by all means to make
amends, he even tried to render himself more
agreeable in his daughter’s sight by a com-
plete change in his treatment of the fawn.
Where before he had declaimed against the
wastefulness of feeding the useless ‘‘critter,’’
he now went to extravagant lengths in the
other direction. He carried tit-bits in his
pocket, which he offered whenever Mollie
came near. The effect was immediate.
Where formerly the fawn had been shy of
him, had usually fled at his approach unless
supported by Ruth’s presence, it now wel-
comed his advances greedily, and soon ran
to meet him whenever he appeared. It was
not long before the daughter, to her aston-
ishment, and much to her indignation, dis-
covered that Mollie would only come to her
after repeated calls—sometimes not then.

THH HOMEWARD TRATL 255

The fawn preferred mincing daintily in the
wake of the grim old man, in whose pockets
were wonderful stores of corn and sugar and
even—oh, irony of fate!—those limber-twig
apples, the cause of David’s downfall.

It seemed good to Ruth and her mother,
now while their wishes prevailed, that the
girl should go on a visit long planned, to her
maternal grandparents at Bethania. This
would include also a visit to a school friend
at Salem, where she might shop to advantage
while the father’s generosity was still un-

checked. ay
Ruth was especially glad to go at this time,
since she had a deep and reverent affection

for her grandparents, and in the atmosphere
of the home there was a serenity that always
laid a spell on her spirit. Ambrose King and
his wife were Quakers, and the peace in their
souls radiated out in soothing effect on whom-
soever came within the sphere of its influence.
Just now, Ruth craved that tranquilizing
solace for herself. David’s departure, fol-
lowing immediately on their mutual confes-
sion of love, left her a prey to a loneliness
unlike any she had ever known before, which
fairly bewildered her. She was by no means

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

256 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

all unhappy, but she was troubled and dis-

turbed by her present lack of that new thing
which had come into her life and for a few

. hours so filled it with joy. It was with the
hope of spiritual comforting that, on a day
about a fortnight after David’s going, she
mounted her horse at early morning, and
rode east over the score of miles that lay be-
tween the farm and the tiny Moravian village
of Bethania. And by a curious twist of fate,
she rode to find not the peace she longed for,
but pain and grief beyond any she had ever
known, beyond any she would ever know
again.

The aged pair greeted her warmly, and at
the very outset the calm of the home settled
upon Ruth’s spirit, and she was at peace, as
she had hoped to be. This endured for a
few hours. Then came the change—blasting
as a lightning bolt.

Ambrose King and his wife carried the
principles of their religion into every action
of their lives. Because they believed in peace
absolutely, they could not believe in war at
all. They admitted no justification for it,
they had no sympathy for it in any of its
aspects. In the vital struggle between North

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 257

and South, they held to an impartiality that
was complete because it was based on the
denial of any righteousness at all in warfare.
Tt was a natural outcome of their principles
that the pair should give succor to the war’s
victims, irrespective of local prejudice. It
became known to Union sympathizers that
they could be depended upon to give food
and shelter to any escaping from a Confed-
erate prison. So, it chanced that on the night
following Ruth’s arrival at her grandparents’
home, there came stealthily, as soon as dark-
ness had fallen, one of those fugitives thus
making his laborious way northward toward
safety by the underground railway.

Ruth was sitting in the living-room of the
little house with her grandparents, gossip-
ing over local matters, when a soft knock
sounded at the door. The old Quaker opened
it at once, and a man slipped furtively into
the room. Ruth regarded him with much
curiosity, for she immediately suspected
what manner of visitor this might be. She
saw that he was rather short, but broad-shoul-
dered, evidently one of considerable strength,
though now gaunt and weakened. His form
seemed even more attenuated than it really

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

258 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

was because the clothes he wore were much
too large for him. The emaciated face was
almost wholly concealed by a short, bristling
_ red beard, above which showed watery, blink-
ing eyes, with inflamed lids. The fellow whis-
pered a few words to King, and at a nod
from her husband, the wife busied herself
with setting out a substantial meal on the
table. Forthwith, the newcomer seated him-
self and ate wolfishly. But, when the meal
was ended, and he had accepted a pipeful of
tobacco from the old Quaker, Morris—for
such, he informed them, was his name—re-
laxed, and without any pressing proceeded to
relate his experiences. Ruth listened with
the eager interest of a girl whose life con-
tained few excitements. She was thrilled by
the fellow’s story of his leap into the river
when pursued by the bloodhounds, and his
subsequent adventures. She had no inkling
as to the identity of the ‘‘young feller’? in
the boat, until Morris spoke David’s name.
‘At the sound of it Ruth’s heart leaped, and
she sat quivering, greedy for news of the
man she loved. She did not speak. There
was no need to question. Morris was by na-
ture garrulous. He loved to talk of himself

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 259

always, and in this instance, talk necessitatdd
constant mention of his companion, David.
Luckily for Ruth’s powers of self-control, he
spoke throughout in friendly fashion of David.
It was only when he passed on to the second
period, the one spent in the hunting shack
on the cliff overlooking the river, that the
soldier allowed rancor to show. It was pro-
voked by the enmity which he still felt to-
ward the princess for the disdain with which
she had uniformly treated him. His feeling
toward her extended also in some degree to
David, when he thought of the two as they
were together. So, he sneered in his mention
of them, while Ruth listened, at first alto-
gether incredulous, then affrighted, half-con-
vinced. She would have cried out now to
accuse this vile Yankee of lying about her
David, but the rush of emotion held her dumb,
powerless to question or deny.

“That Injun girl was a fine-looker, if there
wa’n’t anything else good about her,’’ Mor-
ris declared. ‘‘This David chap got stuck on
her right smack off, an’ she got stuck on him
first off she set eyes on him. They had a
Jim-dandy time there in that cussed cave to-
gether. I kept out most of the time. That

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

260 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

suited me, an’ it suited them, too—you bet!’’
He tittered suggestively. ‘‘They made me
sick with their lallygaggin’. Her pa peeked
in an’ saw ’em there spoonin’. I thought he’d
have shot the cuss, but I guess he thought
it would be better all round to have a white
man for a son-in-law. Anyhow, he didn’t
make a row, an’ the next day the girl took
David home with her, bold as brass, an’ the
old Injun chief took him right into his own
cabin. He started me off the same day, an’
I don’t know nothin’ about what’s happened
since. But I miss my guess if David ain’t
married to that squaw by this time. Least-
ways, if he ain’t, he ought to be.’? Morris
snickered over his vicious innuendo. ‘‘One
thing certain, if that old sockdolager of a
chief wants that young feller for a son-in-
law, David ain’t got a chance in the world
of gettin’ away without marryin’ the girl.’’

There came a slight swishing, rustling
noise, a soft thudding sound. Startled, the
soldier and the two old persons looked
around. They saw Ruth lying huddled on
the floor, where she had slipped so quietly

from her chair in a dead faint.
% * F % *

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 261

Ruth, when she returned to consciousness
a half-hour later, found herself undressed
and in bed, with her grandmother hovering
about her in tender solicitude. She made
light of her attack, and was soon left to sleep.
But there was no sleep for her that night.
Throughout the hours of darkness, she was
tortured by the visions of imagination con-
jured by the evil words of the Northerner.
For the first time, she knew the anguish of
jealousy. She tried to hold fast to her faith
in David, but loyalty was sorely taxed, and
the effort left her weak with despair. She
pictured this savage princess as a vampire,
beautiful perhaps, with wanton lures, cruel,
conscienceless, hungry to devour the one she
held so dear, the one who was more than life
to her. Tales she had heard of the Croatans
came thronging into her memory now—tales
of rapine and plunder, and worse. She was
terrified by the thought that David was ex-
posed not only to the allurements of an un-

scrupulous woman who wanted him, but also to

actual perils from his new environment. She
thought of him as weak and helpless from his
hurt in the river, unable to free himself, even
should he so desire, from the wiles of the

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

262 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

woman and the physical restraints imposed
by the Indian chief. She felt her love threat-
ened with complete disaster. The prospect
almost maddened her.

Out of the confusion of Ruth’s thoughts,
a desperate plan was at last evolved. She
eraved action in this crisis. She could not
endure the idea of remaining passive while
her lover was being taken from her, either
willingly or by force. She determined to
learn the truth for herself. It would be better
to know the facts, even at their worst, with-
out a moment of unnecessary delay. The
suspense was not to be borne. She con-
fronted the possibility of finding David un-
faithful to his love for her. In that case, it
would be the end. Her heart would break.
But there was another possibility. It might
be that David was in duress. It might be,
too, that somehow, with the resources of love
equal to any task, she might find a way to
aid him, to release him, to bring him back to
home and her and love.

Ruth had no difficulty in carrying out her
rash project without attracting any suspicion
from those about her. She merely rode
forth next day on the road to the south,

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 263

ostensibly to visit a school friend and to do
her shopping in Salem, twelve miles away.
As a matter-of-fact, however, she halted in
Salem just long enough to purchase ample
supplies for a few days’ trip through the
wilder country to the southward. There-
after, she set forward resolutely over the
rough trail that led toward the Croatan en-
campment. It was a distance of full seventy-
five miles, as she had learned by inquiries,
but she faced it without a tremor of fear.
Her fear was all for the danger that waited
at the end of the trail, and this was a fear
not of physical ills, but of peril to her heart’s
happiness, of peril to the man with whom
that heart’s happiness was concerned. From
the few dwellers along the trail, she secured
such directions as she needed, evading as best
she could the frank curiosity of those whom
she encountered. She camped by night
bravely enough within the shelter of some
forest thicket, where she kindled a fire, and
cooked her meal over the blaze, and after-
ward rolled in her blanket, to lie restlessly,
wide-eyed through the long hours, or to
dream of dreadful things.

It was on the third day that she came into

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

264 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

the cross-trail—the river-trail, which ran
west from the main road to the Croatan en-
campment. She had gained information con-
cerning the distances here. When she had
come, as she judged, within a mile of the
settlement, she tethered her horse in the con-
cealment of a clump of old-field pines, and
went forward very cautiously on foot. When,
finally, she came in sight of the cabins, she
left the trail, and made a detour through the
woods to avoid observation. She advanced
cautiously, without being detected, close to
the clearing, where she halted within a cluster
of high-growing gallberry bushes. Here she
peered out to reconnoiter. Just in front of
her hiding place, not a rod away, a walled-in
spring bubbled from the ground, and the
stream from it ran purling daintily past her
where she stood tense and watchful.

Ruth saw two figures coming slowly across
the open space toward the spring. It seemed
to her that in this instant the heart within
her died. For one of the two was David,
and the other was a woman—a Woman
slender and tall, who walked with graceful
ease, whose head was poised haughtily, whose
face was beautiful.

CHAPTER XXTIT

AVID, returning from a short walk in

the woods, saw Hlizabeth enter the
cabin, and immediately reappear, carrying
the water pail. He knew that she was on her
way to the spring, which was a hundred
yards down the slope, on the edge of the
clearing. He realized that the opportunity
he desired was at hand. None of the cabins
was near the spring, so that there, though
plainly visible, they would be out of earshot,
and at this hour of late afternoon, they were
likely to be free from interruption. So, he
hastened to join the girl, who smiled wanly
in greeting as he approached, but spoke no
word. David, too, was silent. He walked
by her side in a mood of deep dejection,

pondering heavily on the things that he must
‘say to her, and wondering what effect his con-

fession would have on her. By tacit consent
of both, they waited before speaking until
they should come to the spring.
Elizabeth, too, was a prey to depression.
265

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

266 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

A single glance into the young man’s face
had sufficed to show how ill at ease he was,
how utterly wretched. She knew intuitively
that his trouble concerned her, that it had
to do with the mysterious barrier which
reared itself between them. Moreover, she
had read between the lines in the note he
had written, and understood from it that he
was compelled to leave her. She did not
quite know whether his departure was volun-
tary or not. She dared hope that his flight
had been caused by something against his
own will, which he was powerless to resist.
Then, at the moment of his return so unex-
pectedly, she had been too weak to withstand
the longing of her heart, had gone to his
arms. She had rested within that shelter in
a joy that was perfect, though so pitifully
brief. For a few glorious seconds her heart
had beaten in unison with his, with no thought
of things past or to come, but only the rap-
ture of the present.

She had felt the light touch of his lips as
he kissed her hair, and the exquisite thrill
of it stirred again in her memory now as she
stole a glance into his face. But she remem-
bered, too, her horrible awakening from the

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 267

dream of bliss, when the man she loved had
stood apart from her, and had let her go
from him without a word. She had realized
then that her happiness was seriously threat-
ened, if not already destroyed. Yet, she con- |
tinued to hope, because, as it seemed to her,
if she could not still hope, she must die. Now,
as she walked at his side, watching with
secret glances the face she so loved, the
somber expression of his features chilled her
with a fear of irreparable disaster. His
silence, the gravity of his air, the downcast
eyes and sternly compressed lips filled her
with dire forebodings. The oppression on
her spirits grew heavier. It required all the
strength of her will, which was not small, to
maintain the semblance of self-control. Her
soul was aching with desire for this man’s
love. For a few splendid days, she had be-
lieved that he belonged to her, that his need
of her was as hers of him. But afterward
the shadow had fallen between them. It lay
there still. Now as they walked onward to-
gether the gloom of it lay dark upon them,
and blotted out all the light of the world.
And still she dared to hope that he loved her.
It seemed to her that she could endure all

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

268 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

things—parting, even life without him, or
death, which would be easier—if only he
loved her. She feared somehow, with a subtle
woman’s instinct, that his heart was not after
all in her keeping. And still she dared to
hope that he loved her—else her heart must
break.

Ruth, from her place of concealment among
the gallberry bushes, saw the two come down
to the spring, but her ears caught no word
spoken by either as they approached. She
noted with a wonder that was half pleasure
their sorrowful faces. She wondered still
more when she saw this other girl seat her-
self on a fallen tree trunk by the spring still
in silence, while David, equally mute, stood
before her in an attitude of constraint. It
was a long minute before the young man’s
voice sounded. For a part of the interval,
Ruth’s eager glances studied his face fondly.
She rejoiced to see the hue of health in his
cheeks; she grieved over his careworn expres-
sion. She attributed it, and rightly, to the
woman beside him, and hatred quickened in
her for the one, corresponding to her love
for the other. Then her gaze went intently to
that woman, and rested there.

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 269

The sight of the other’s face worked a
curious spell on Ruth. The contempt and
loathing that had filled her were subdued
little by little as she surveyed the pure and
lovely face of Hlizabeth. Despite herself, the
girl recognized the essential nobility of her
rival. She struggled in vain against her
changing impressions. She was forced to
acknowledge against her will that here was
no wanton creature such as had been sug-
gested by the soldier’s slurring tale. She
could not deny the dignity and wholesome-
ness of this princess before whom David
stood in such humility. Clashing emotions
made tumult in Ruth’s bosom. She felt ut-
terly at a loss to understand this situation
on which she had intruded. Bewilderment
overcame her. She was sure only that she
had utterly misjudged this girl whom a
venomous tongue had slandered. She must
revise her judgment through and through.
But even as she admitted how great had been
her error in estimating the princess, Ruth
was terrified before the reality. She had
been prepared to war against a wanton, to
go to any length in order to rescue David
from his bondage. But now she found her-

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

270 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

self confronted with a task altogether differ-
ent and infinitely more difficult. She must
face and triumph over a rival who was both
beautiful and worthy. Ruth had little vanity
and less knowledge of her own loveliness.
In this moment of meeting, she had no doubt
that the other was her superior in every
feminine charm. She could not wonder that
David should prefer this gracious stranger
to herself. But the admission of her own in-
feriority left Ruth stricken. Black despair
fell on her. As she crouched in her ambush
and stared out on the two the look in her
eyes was that of a creature wounded to the
death. And then, at last, there came to her
ears the voice of David, speaking very
softly, brokenly.

“I’ve been with yer pappy. I told him
what the reason was why I ran away last
night.’? He raised his eyes for the first time
in a fleeting glance toward Hlizabeth, but the
expression on her face was inscrutable, and
gave him no assistance. He looked down at
the ground again, and resumed his attempt
at explanation. ‘‘Ye see, ’Liz’beth, ye’ve
been so kind t’ me that I know it ain’t right
fer me t’ go away without tellin’ ye why.

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 271

I’ve jest told yer pappy, an’ he’-— David
broke off in confusion. To quote the father
was to accuse the daughter of loving him un-
asked. An instinctive chivalry held his
tongue.

But now at last the girl herself helped him
a little by speaking for the first time. Her
voice, though faint, was firm and even, and
the eyes with which she contemplated him
were brave, despite the tortured shadows in
them.

“You told pappy? You must tell me,
David. Why must you go?”’

“T can’t stay here,’? was the answer,
spoken in a tone that was resolute for the
first time during the interview, ‘‘because I
belong some’eres else. There’s somebody
a-waitin’ fer me back up there, an’ I must
go back home t’ her.’? The final pronoun
was uttered after a slight pause and with an
inflection that was significant.

As she heard the word, Elizabeth under-
stood everything in a lightning flash of il-
lumination, and the pang of that knowledge
pierced her to the soul. Somehow, notwith-
standing her feminine intuition, she had
never suspected the presence of another

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

272 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

woman in the life of the man that she loved.
Even when she realized the existence of a
barrier between them, she did not guess its
nature. So, the truth came to her now with
a shock that racked her to the foundation of
her being. The simple statement from David
meant the end of everything for her. All the
light went out of her life, and left only a
darkness complete and impenetrable. Under
the golden tint of her complexion, a deathly
pallor showed. The lids sank heavily over
the eyes. It was as if her soul were exhaled
in the sigh that passed so softly from her
lips.
David heard the sound of that gentle
breath, and looked toward her again. He
saw her with shut eyes, swaying a little where
she sat. He took a step forward to clasp
her, fearful lest she fall. But he checked
himself, as he saw the form grow tense again
by the girl’s own effort of will. Yet, though
he held back from her, he was longing as
never before to take her into his arms, to
comfort her, to assuage the mortal hurt he
himself had given her, with words and kisses.
He did not yield to his desire because he knew
that to do so would mean in the end an in-

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 273

crease of the agony she must suffer. More-
over, he knew that he must restrain his im-
pulse for his own sake as well as for hers.
There was no thought in his mind now that
this girl belonged to a people strange to him,
whose ways were not his ways. There was
no feeling of revolt in his heart now because
of her father’s savagery. Once again, the
glamour was on him. Hven in her misery,
the magnetism of her presence stole upon
him, and held him in thrall. He tore away
his eyes from her face lest the pathetic ap-

peal of it should destroy his resolve. So,
he did not see her eyes unclose, did not know

the searching sadness in the girl’s long
scrutiny of him. Her voice startled him with
a question, spoken very feebly, yet with a
demand not to be denied. And it. was a ques-
tion that caught him in the moment when he
was least prepared. It came, though hardly
louder than a whisper, like a fierce ery from
his own conscience.

“‘Do you—love her?”’

It was his own cowardice that drove
David to answer promptly, decisively—fear
of his own weakness, which might still
further increase her misery. He spoke with

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

274. THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

a coldness that covered the effort of self-
restraint.

““Yes.’’ And then he added, as if to con-
firm a faltering purpose for his own sake:
“Yes, I love her—I love Ruth—my Ruth.’

It was as if the word held a spell to evoke

a vision of serenest joy. He saw again the -

orchard back there on the farm, saw the fawn
issue from the thicket and stand regarding
him with placid eyes, saw the face of Ruth
as she parted the branches, and looked out
from the frame of foliage at him. Then his
manhood had not known the rich gifts her
lips had to offer. Afterward he had learned.
The memory of their kisses came to him now.
The memory was a delight, and in it he for-
got all other longing in a poignant desire to
be with Ruth again.

Something in David’s expression must
have told the truth to Elizabeth. A spasm
of physical pain distorted her features for
an instant, which had its source in her heart.
Then she asserted her strength, and her ex-
pression became one of sorrowful resigna-
tion, yet with something in it that hinted of
@ soul undaunted, even though the heart were
broken. She stood up, as if to show that

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 275

there was no need of further discussion. And

her words were of like effect.

‘*You must go to her.’’

The brief utterance, spoken so quietly and
so unfalteringly, contained all of a woman’s
mightiest sacrifice. It was her renunciation
of her own happiness, her gift at a cost be-
yond words to that other, unknown woman,
who had first claim on the man she loved.
Perhaps Elizabeth believed her own powers
of attraction strong enough to draw this man
to her and to hold him against the world.
She knew nothing of the effect on him of her
father’s violence, which had included in-
directly a certain distaste for her, too, as
one of the same blood, as one of a people
strange to him, whose ways were not his
ways. But, though the princess might have
faith in her ability to rule David’s heart at
her will, and though every atom of her being
was vibrant to win his love, she rose above
all selfish desire from pure purpose toward
the right, and bade him go whither he was in
duty bound.

She had no need to pour out all her heart
in a torrent of words, to tell how deeply she
loved him, how tremendous was the suffering

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

276 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

inflicted by her sacrifice. It was all written
on her face, in the tremulous, drooping curves
of her scarlet lips, in the clouded deeps of
the eyes. David, shaken by clashing emo-
tions, did not see, for he could not bear to
look at her in this supreme moment. But
there was another who did see.

Ruth, from her hiding place, not only heard
every word spoken by the two, but her aston-
ished gaze noted every revelation of Eliza-
beth’s love and self-abnegation. The sight
filled her with penitence for the injustice she
had done this other girl in her thoughts. She
was filled with pity and sympathy for the tor-
ment of which she was so innocently the
cause. But chiefly it was shame that moved
her—shame that she should so have mis-
judged a fellow-woman, who suffered so
sorely, yet endured her suffering with such
nobility of character. All her personal
dread, grown greater at first sight of her
rival’s loveliness, had vanished on hearing
David’s declaration that he still loved her.
Her later emotion had little to do with self,
little to do with David. It was all concerned
with this other, whose misery Ruth could
understand out of her own agony in the last

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 277

few days. Of a sudden, she felt that she must
go to the girl, must try to help her in the
hour of need by tenderest sympathy.

Ruth acted on the impulse at once. She
issued from the concealment of the bushes,
and went swiftly toward the two by the
spring.

 
 

 

 

CHAPTER XXIV.

RIMSON burned in Elizabeth’s cheeks at

the first appearance of the figure from

out the sereen of flaunting-hued foliage, and,
her dark eyes flashed angrily. She thought
it was one of the Croatan girls, who had been
eavesdropping. But, in the same moment,
she perceived her mistake; for this was no
member of the tribe, but an utter stranger,
who came toward her so swiftly, with such a
resolute air. She was startled out of her
usual poise by the apparition of a white girl
there in the wilderness, who, as she noted
in quick, comprehensive survey, was well-
dressed and ladylike, beautiful of face and
of form. In her surprise, the princess uttered
a stifled ejaculation, which caused David to
look toward her. He observed the expres-
sion of amazement on her face, and turned
his head to follow the direction of her eyes.
He saw Ruth, hardly two yards distant from
him, coming forward with hurried steps, her

278

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 279

cheeks glowing, her violet eyes suffused with
tenderness as they met his. A mighty emo-
tion shook him, in which were blended aston-
ishment and delight. His face whitened for

‘a moment, and he trembled. He strode to-

ward her. Her name burst from his lips in
a shout of joy.

‘Ruth!’

The speaking of the name revealed much,
if not all, to Elizabeth. She understood that
somehow it had come to pass that the girl
to whom David was pledged was here before
her. How or why Ruth had come was a
mystery beyond her solving. But it seemed
to the princess just then that the reason mat-
tered not at all. The fact of her successful
rival’s being there was the only thing of im-
portance. In her present mood of despair
and renunciation, it seemed to BHlizabeth
that the coming of this other girl was indeed
a fitting climax to her talk with David. She
recognized with a pang of final hopelessness,

‘from David’s voice and manner as he went

forward, that he did in truth love this girl
to whom he was bound, that she herself had
neither part nor lot in his heart’s desire.
She had known it before, but she felt its

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

280 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

verity anew with an intolerable ache when it
was presented thus visibly before her eyes.
She saw Ruth swept into David’s arms, saw
their lips meet and linger. She turned her

gaze away, unable to bear the spectacle of

that fond meeting. She stood with brooding
eyes turned unseeing toward the western
horizon, where great banks of storm clouds
shut out the last rays of the setting sun. A
little breeze touched her with the chill autumn
air of nightfall. It seemed to pierce through
her heart with an icy coldness. She stood
bereft, solitary, in desolation. And in her
ears reverberated discordantly the hushed
murmurs of the iovers’ voices.

It was an eternity to Elizabeth while she
stood there apart, isolated in her anguish.
Yet, it was for no more than a few seconds
that Ruth forgot all else in the bliss of re-
union with David. Then she recalled the
purpose that had driven her out of hiding.
She felt again the impulse of atonement to-
ward this woman whom she had so bitterly
feared and condemned in her thoughts—and
so unjustly. Her own instinct taught her
how dreadful must be the suffering inflicted
on Elizabeth by witnessing this meeting be-

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 281

tween her and David. Ruth knew the secret
of the princess’ heart, though she knew, too,
that she must never betray her knowledge.
But by as much as her own happiness was
great, by so much her heart went out in pity
toward the one whom that happiness left for-
lorn. So, she withdrew herself from David’s
embrace, though he sought to restrain her.
She went straight to the princess, and threw
her arms about the wondering girl, and
kissed her warmly.

“‘T know,’’? she explained hastily, before
the other could summon a word of question,
‘‘you are the princess. I have heard. You
saved David from the river. I owe him to
you. I owe—everything to you.’’ The last
words came impetuously.

Perhaps Elizabeth divined in some degree
the significance contained in them. Perhaps
she gained from them a clue to Ruth’s ap-
preciation of the fact of her own renuncia-
tion. Anyhow, the warm gratitude of Ruth
brought to Elizabeth the first touch of com-
fort in her misery, and her words told her
appreciation frankly. “An instantaneous lik-
ing developed between the two, in spite of the
reasons that existed for mutual distrust and

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

282 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

jealousy. The nobility of the princess’ char-
acter raised her superior to blaming this
other girl for the grievous wound inflicted
on her by fate. And Ruth appreciated that
nobility, which she had learned through her
eyes and ears while in hiding, and trusted
to it, knowing that her happiness was safe
in the generosity of this other.

They were interrupted by David, who, un-
mindful of Elizabeth for the time, plied Ruth
with questions concerning her presence. It
was with judicious reserve that Ruth ex-
plained the reasons of her coming. She told
of the visit of Morris to her grandfather’s
home, and of hearing from him the story as
to David’s river adventure and Hlizabeth’s
part in it. She carefully avoided any refer-
ence to the vicious insinuations of the soldier
concerning her lover and the princess, or to
her own jealousy and alarm lest that lover
be stolen away from her. David was satis-
fied with the narrative, and did not guess

that aught was concealed. He exulted in this”

proof of his sweetheart’s devotion. It grati-
fied his pride that she should have thus taken
the hazards of a journey alone through the
wilderness. If Hlizabeth suspected aught

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 283

that lay beneath the surface of Ruth’s ac-
count, she showed no sign, either then or
afterward.

After a little, Elizabeth fell silent, ab-
sorbed in troubled thought, while the other —
two continued talking. She spoke presently
in a tone that arrested instant attention and
apprehension.

“T don’t like to say it,’? she began ab-
ruptly; ‘‘it seems so awfully inhospitable.
But there are reasons,’’? she went on hur-
riedly, rather shamefacedly. She did not
particularize beyond a vague statement.

“<Tt’s pappy, you know.’’
David uttered an exclamation under his

breath. For the first time since the appear-
ance of Ruth on the scene, he remembered
the plans to which the chief of the Croatans
was devoted, and he guessed immediately
the cause of the daughter’s evident concern
over the situation that had developed. But
he was at a loss as to what course should
be pursued, and waited for Elizabeth to con-
tinue.

“‘Pappy’s strange in some ways,’’ the girl
resumed, speaking with evident constraint,
as if her lack of candor made her explana-

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

284 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

tion difficult and distasteful. ‘‘I think—’’
she turned to David appealingly, as if hop-
ing that he might understand without more
explicit words from her—‘T think it would
be better for you two to go—to start away—
at once.”’

She noted the look of pained surprise on

Ruth’s face, and stretched out her hands ap- ©

pealingly.

“You can’t understand, of course,’’ she
said sorrowfully. ‘‘You must take my word
for it. I hate more than I can tell you to
send you away so. But it is best—safest.
It’s on pappy’s account. He has dreadful
rages sometimes. His red rages, the tribe
calls them.’’ The beautiful face flushed with
embarrassment. ‘‘He hates strangers—
sometimes! So, I think you ought to go away
together—at once. It will be safer so.’’

Ruth’s face still wore an expression of
hurt surprise, but she ventured no comment;
only glanced toward David inquiringly.
‘David, however, nodded assent. He appre-
ciated to the full the solicitude of the princess
in their behalf. He meant that her advice
should be followed in so far as it concerned
Ruth. In regard to himself, the matter was

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 285

altogether different. Such a simple solution
of the difficulty could not be applied in his
own case. Of this Elizabeth knew nothing,
for she had not yet learned of what had oc-
eurred between him and her father. He
would have preferred to keep silence as to
this interview, but that was now rendered
impossible by the necessity of immediate ac-
tion for Ruth’s sake.

This was clearly indicated in Hlizabeth’s
next utterance.

‘“‘Pappy mustn’t even see Ruth. I can’t
tell you just why. But I know—I know!’’

David spoke rapidly, his voice authorita-
tive.

“Yes, Ruth must go at once. The princess
is right,’’ he said to the astonished girl. ‘‘It
would be safer fer ye t’ go. Yes, Ruth, ye
must start out at once.’

“You mean, we must go,’’ the girl cor-
rected.

“Yes, both of you, of course,’’? Elizabeth
declared.

But David shook his head. His face was
set in lines of grim determination.

“‘No, Ruthie, I can’t go with ye. I hate
4? think 0? ye ridin’ all by yer lonesome

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

286 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

through the woods, but it can’t be he’ped.
I’ve got t’ stay on here fer a week yit.”’

Ruth cried out in indignant reproach. The
crisp ‘‘Why?”? of the princess cut through
the queries of the other girl, and David
turned toward her to answer. He spoke so
harshly that she winced; for the memory of
her father’s treatment of him filled him with
resentment.

“T give yer pappy my word t’ stay on here
fer seven days. I had t’ promise him,’’ he
added, with a vindictive scowl at the memory.

Elizabeth had no need of further explana-
tion. She surmised readily enough the essen-
tials of that interview which had resulted in
David’s forced giving of his parole. A hot
flush of shame mantled her cheeks as she
realized the indignity that her father, who
loved her, had all unwittingly put upon her.
She realized, too, to some extent at least, the
harm her father’s violence must work in
David’s estimate of her, the daughter. It
had seemed to her that she was experiencing
the acme of torment; yet at this thought she
felt a new pang. The harshness in David’s
voice as he spoke to her was like a lash on
her naked soul

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 287

Ruth felt her earlier indignation die. She
was influenced by the gravity of the other
two, distressed and terrified by the menace
of unknown perils. She was aghast that
David must remain exposed to those dangers
of which she had dreamed, from which she
had come to rescue him. But she was still
moved by the great relief from dread of the
worst danger—that of any evil from the
woman she had so misjudged. Nevertheless,
she was distraught at the idea of leaving
David, while she sought safety in flight.
She remonstrated vehemently, but to no avail,
She pleaded with her lover to accompany
her, notwithstanding his pledge to remain.
Elizabeth joined with her in entreaties. She
urged that his promise was not binding, since
it was given under duress. David, however,
was obdurate. He resisted both argument
and prayers. In the end, the two girls recog-
nized the fact that he was not to be turned
from his purpose of holding fast to his word. ,

Tt was Elizabeth who became convinced
first, and by her assurances Ruth was at last
prevailed upon to yield to the inevitable, and
to take her departure from the encampment
forthwith. For the princess pledged herself

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

288 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

to save David from any harm. She asserted
that she would have power to mold her father
to her will. While neither she nor any could
curb him in the frenzy of a red rage, she
‘would be able to soothe him and finally to
sway him as his wrath diminished. She gave

Ruth her promise to guard the young man, -

and to secure his speedy release from the
encampment, his speedy return to the sweet-
heart, who would be waiting so anxiously for
him.

There were kisses and tears between the
two girls at parting. Elizabeth had decided
it would be wiser for Ruth to go as she had
come, quite alone, without having David to
accompany her to where her horse waited;
since there were probably spies watching the
young man with instructions to prevent his
leaving the encampment. That she was cor-
rect in this supposition was soon to be proven
in disastrous fashion,

_ When Elizabeth and Ruth had finished
‘their farewells, the princess turned, and took
up the pail, and filled it at the spring, and
then walked with it swiftly through the
gathering dusk toward the cabin. She felt
that the limit of her strength had been

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 289

reached. It seemed to her that, if she were
to see them again in each other’s arms, she
must go mad. She had the strength of soul
to sacrifice herself, to give the man she loved |
to another; but she had not the strength to’
look again on their rapture.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXV,

HEN he returned to the cabin, after

his parting with Ruth, David found

no one in the living-room, which pleased him,
for he was anxious to be alone a little while
to meditate on the strange and vital happen-
ings of the day. His worst anxiety had been
relieved by Hlizabeth’s definite assurances
of securing his release. Freed from worry
on this score, he was able to enjoy to the full
the pleasure that had been caused him by
Ruth’s appearance. His heart was at peace
for the first time in many days, because he
no longer doubted his entire love for the girl
to whom he had plighted his troth. He filled
his pipe, and sat smoking with great content-
ment. Just then, he had little thought to
spare for the girl on whom he had involun-
tarily inflicted suffering so severe. He had,
indeed, little thought for himself. He was
thinking intently, with warm tenderness in his
heart, of Ruth, of the lovelight in her violet

290

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 291

eyes when she had looked at him, of the soft

sweetness of her lips when they had lain on
his.

David aroused with a start when the cabin
door banged open, and the chief stamped
noisily into the room. A single glance at
Lowrie was enough to shatter all of his new-
found tranquillity.

The leader of the tribe was in one of his
red rages. The man’s appearance left no
doubt of the fact. The great chest was heav-
ing convulsively like that of a man who has
just run a race. The huge hands were balled
into fists. But it was the face that awed the
mountaineer, and moved him to new fear for
his own safety. The skin was empurpled.
The muscles were twitching. The lips were
drawn back in a grin of ferocity. The eyes
were bloodshot, narrowed to slits, with the
pupils pin points of flame. He had left the
door open behind him, and David could see
gathered beyond the threshold a half-dozen
of the tribesmen, whose black eyes as they
watched gleamed with malevolence.

Lowrie halted a pace distant from David,
and stood for a moment glaring in fury.
Then his voice came in a bellow.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

292 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

“T’ll Varn ye t’ go a-kigsin’ gals round
hyar, ye damn’ whelp!: I’ll hev ye put whar
ye’ll be shet o’ thet.”? He beckoned swiftly
toward the men at the door. ‘‘Grab ’im, an’
throw ’im inter the guard-house afore I take
my han’s t’ ’im!’’

The men surged forward, laid hold on
David, and hustled him out of the room,
while the chief stood by, shaking with the
wrath that was on him, and cursing horribly,
but holding back by a mighty effort from an
actual assault. The mountaineer made no
resistance whatsoever. He was only anxious
to be quit of the frantic man before worse
befell. He did not see Hlizabeth, who in her
room had been disturbed by her father’s
cries, and had come out just as David was
dragged from the cabin.

The girl faced her father intrepidly.

“Hor shame, pappy!’’-«she exclaimed.
“You shouldn’t treat David so.’’

But Lowrie was past caring for aught save
the hate that boiled within him. Even Eliza-
beth had no power now to turn his anger
aside. He stared at her without any soften-
ing in the fierceness of his expression.

“Git inter yer room, gal!’’? he commanded.

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 293

“¢Git, if ye don’t want t’ be carried thar, an’
tied up.’’

Elizabeth turned, and went out in silence,
without any attempt at further protest. She
knew the heaviness of his hand, and she knew
that his threat was not idly spoken. Her
effort to influence him must await a more
fitting season.

David passed a wretched night, bolted
within the tiny, windowless cabin, which
served as a jail for the settlement. The dis-
tress of his situation was the worse by con-
trast with the high anticipations tkat had
filled him at the moment when the crash came.
Apprehensions as to what his fate might be
thronged upon him. It seemed to him that
his only hope lay in Elizabeth’s interven-
tion, but he despaired of success in this direc-
tion, for he had heard the manner of Lowrie’s
speech to his daughter. A surly jailer gave
him food and drink in the morning, but
would not answer a word to his questions.
The weary hours wore on with fearful slow-
ness until the youth was almost crazed with
the desperateness of his plight. For now
he feared, not only for his own fate, but for
what might menace Ruth. Evidently, the

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

294. THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

chief had learned of her presence. He might
have ordered her to be pursued, to be cap-
tured, to be reserved for any fate that his
insane malice might devise. With morbid
imagination, David could only guess as to
what might be happening, while he was shut
helpless within the walls of his prison.

Night came again. ‘Another meal was set
before him in silence. It was not until nearly
midnight, as he reckoned the time, that a
change came. Then he heard a murmur of
voices outside the cabin door. They ceased
presently. He heard the noise of the bolt
shot back, and the door opened. Elizabeth
entered, carrying a lantern, and shut the door
behind her.

‘*You are free to go, David,’’ she said
quietly, with an undernote of sadness in her
voice.

David sprang to her, and caught her free
hand in a warm clasp.

“*Ye’ve talked yer pappy over!’ he ex-
claimed. ‘‘I didn’t think it could be done.
I lowed they wa’n’t nothin’ could stop him—
not even you-all, ’Liz’beth.’? But his joyous
smile over the unexpected news faded as he
perceived the gravity of her face.

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL ~~ 295

The girl shook her head.

‘‘No,’’ she replied. ‘‘Pappy rode off some-
where this morning, and hasn’t come back
yet. Ilied to the guards for your sake, David.

'T told them that pappy had ordered your re-
lease. They believed me, because I have
never lied before. The way is open for you
now, David. But you must go at once.
There’s not an instant to lose. Pappy may
come any minute.’? Her tone was urgent,
with a tremor of anxiety in it.

*‘But will it be safe fer you-all?’’? David
demanded. ‘‘Won’t yer pappy take it out on
ye fer gittin’ me off this-away?”’

The girl shook her head once again.

“‘No,’’? was her ready answer. ‘‘Pappy
will be calmed down, I reckon, by the time he
gets back, and I’ll be able to smooth things
over.’? Then she spoke swiftly, with new in-
sistence. ‘‘But you must hurry, David. You
mustn’t waste time in talking. You must go
now—now! Do you hear?’’

He yielded, though somewhat reluctantly.
He was fearful for her, yet half-convinced by
her protestations. He failed to understand
that it was not so much alarm over the pros-
pect of her father’s speedy return that incited

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

296 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

her to hasten his going as it was the knowl-
edge that her self-control was near the break-
ing point. She had already endured so much
pain that it seemed more than she could bear
—this final parting from the man she loved.
She was all a-tremble with longing to throw
herself into his arms, to weep her heart out
on his breast. But she forced herself to
speak in passionless tones, to gaze at him
dry-eyed. Her manner showed nothing of
the torture within her. But that torture
sapped her strength, and so she ordered him
to be gone with all haste, before her strength
should come to an end. She guided him to
a horse, which she had in waiting a little
way out on the river-trail, with rations
fastened to the saddle.

‘You must hurry,’’ were her last words,
‘Cand overtake Ruth.’’

They parted with a handclasp. As he rode
away into the night, David’s heart was warm
with gratitude to Hlizabeth, warmer with
love for another. But the heart in the breast
of the girl whom he left behind him was cold
as she turned and walked back alone through
the darkness—cold with the coldness of
death.

 

CHAPTER XXVI

UTH was so tired by the excitement
through which she had passed that she
deemed it unwise to begin her long journey
that night. She was confirmed in this deci-
sion by the fact that it was almost dark when
she reached the spot where the horse was
tethered. She cooked her meal, and immedi-
ately afterward went to sleep in her blanket,
That she was indeed excessively fatigued
was proven by her sleeping soundly until
mid-forenoon of the next day. Then she
breakfasted hurriedly, and set forth. Yet,
though thus delayed, she did not force her
horse’s pace. Somehow, she found herself
unable to hurry the animal that was bearing
her away from David. So, she rode slowly,
pondering many things, and chief among
them the strange girl whose suffering, she
knew, was the measure of her own happiness.
She halted and cooked another meal late in
the afternoon, and onee more pressed for-
297

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

298 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

ward. It was near night when she noticed
the quick flexing of her horse’s ears, and in
the next second her own caught a moan that
sounded from somewhere beyond the under-
brush that lined one side of the trail. She
reined in the horse, and sat listening. The
moaning continued. It was plainly close at
hand. At first, a natural fear was begotten
in the girl by the mysterious noise. But the
indication of suffering was so evident that
soon sympathy triumphed over alarm. She
dismounted, and, after making fast the bridle-
rein to a branch, cautiously advanced in the
direction of the sound. As she stepped
through the barrier of bushes, she saw the
figure of a man lying on the ground amid
the long grass of a little open place in the
wood. He was of great size, and very power-
ful, she judged. There was something im-
pressive in the massive features and thick-
growing gray hair and beard. The lids be-
neath the shaggy brows were fast shut, and
he lay inert as if unconscious, but he moaned
continually. Ruth looked closer, and per-
ceived that one trouser leg was splotched with
a blackening crimson. The sight distressed
her, but it moved her to a more active display

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 299

of sympathy. She went forward, and knelt
on the turf by the injured man. Her ques-
tions, however, provoked no response. She
bethought herself of the flask at her saddle.
She hastily procured it, and managed with’
much difficulty to get a considerable quantity.
of the spirits down the man’s throat.

The effect was immediate. The lids un-
closed, and two black eyes stared balefully
up into her face. A sonorous voice came
rumbling roughly.

‘Who the devil be you-all?’’

‘‘Never mind about me,’? Ruth answered.
‘“<You’re hurt—wounded. You need help.’

“Yep. Shot through the laig. Gimme an-
other swig.’? He nearly finished the con-
tents of the flask before he would let it go
from his lips. The liquor revived him in-
stantly. Lowrie—for the wounded man was
indeed the chief—struggled into a sitting
posture, in spite of the agony the exertion
caused him.

“So be ye’r’ willin’ t’ he’p, ye kin tie a
piece o’ yer skirt round my laig t’ stop the
bleedin’.’? He pulled out a clasp-knife.
‘“‘Take this-hyar, an’ slit down my pants.’’

Ruth obeyed willingly and deftly, for she

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

300 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

was both kindly and resourceful. Soon the
wound was decently bandaged, and, after
finally draining the flask, the Croatan gave
a brief account of how he came to be in such
evil case.

‘Hit was thet-thar damn’ skunk, Charlie
Goins. I knowed ’e was thicker’n thieves
with some 0’ the tribe. Got a bug in ’is
head ’e could murder me, an’ hev things all
’is own way. Laywayed me, ’e did—damn
im t? hell! Flopped me out o’ the saddle.
’*H thought ’e ’d done killed me, ’cause I
lay still. ’K come a-runnin’. The long grass
hid my han’s fr’m ’im. I pulled my revolver,
an’ bored ’im through the heart as ’e come
up t’? me. Leastways, I cal’late I got ’im
plunk in the vitals, ’cause ’e didn’t even
squeak—jist tumbled down on ’is face like
’e was drunk, an’ ’e’s stayed thar ever
sence.’? He gestured over his shoulder.
“*H’s thar jist back 0’ thet log. No need
fer you-all t’ pizen yer pretty eyes with

Mookin’ at the ornery varmint. ’H’s jist
nacherly dead an’ gone t? hell.”?

Then a sudden change came over him. He
regarded the shocked girl fixedly, his brows
bending in a frown. He repeated his first

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 301

question, with a harsh command in his tone.

“‘Who be ye, gal?’? His expression hard-
ened. Before the girl could answer him, a
curse burst from his lips. His voice came
in a roar. ‘‘Ye’r’ a stranger hyar. Ye’r’
thet-thar gal they tol’ me ’bout what was
a-huggin’ an’ a-kissin’? on David. I know
ye now. Ye’r’ thet-thar slut—cuss ye!’’

Ruth, who was still kneeling beside the
man, sprang to her feet. For a moment, her
face blanched. Then the red of anger suf-
fused it. She threw back her head, and
stood posed contemptuously, looking down
with cold disdain on the man she had suc-
cored. Her voice as she spoke was metallic.

“And I know you. You’re that horrible
old Indian chief, who wanted to harm my
David. I’m right sorry I found you. I’ve
done what I could for you so far. It’s more
than you deserve.’’ 5

The bluster was gone out of Lowrie’s voice
when he next spoke, though he made no effort
to placate her. ;

<¢ An’ now ye’ve done yer duty, ye kin ride
away, an’ leave me t’ rot hyar. Wall, go
on—git out!’’

“I'll ride to your village, and bring help

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

302 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

back,’? Ruth said, without any hesitation. ‘‘T
hope you quite understand. I’m doing this
from a sense of duty, because I have to.”’
‘Abruptly, her eyes sparkled angrily. ‘‘I
hope,’’ she concluded fiercely, ‘‘you’ll be
dead before I get back.’’

The chief looked after her without resent-
ment as she rode away. Her spirit had
wiped out his wrath, had provoked him to
admiration. Moreover, in spite of his flare
of temper, he was profoundly grateful to the
girl to whom he owed any chance of life that
he might have. Ruth, unknowing Lowrie’s
later feeling toward her, put her horse to
a gallop, not so much for the wounded man’s
sake as to be the sooner done with a distaste-
ful task. The night fell as she rode back
over the way she had come, but the moon soon
rose, and she was able to proceed at a rapid
pace. She had covered perhaps half the
distance to the encampment when she heard
the sound of horse’s hoofs approaching. She
pulled her mount to a standstill, and waited
with a sensation of great relief. It occurred
+o her that she could guide this wayfarer to
the injured man, and so be quit of her duty
in the matter. She called out hello as the

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 303

horseman drew near. In the answering hail,
to her amazement and joy, she recognized
David’s voice.

The mutual surprise of the lovers over
this unexpected encounter could not mitigate
their pleasure in it, nor lessen the ardor of
their greeting. Ruth explained hastily the
reason for her presence, whereupon David
found himself confronted with a serious diffi-
culty. He was by no means inclined to re-
turn to the Croatan settlement. To do so
would be to run the risk of imprisonment or
worse. Nevertheless, his conscience spoke in
no uncertain voice. Like Ruth, he realized
perfectly just where his duty lay. He could
not leave even a dog to die unattended by his
voluntary choice, much less the man whom
he considered with justica, since Goins was
dead, his worst enemy. He did not feel that
he could permit Ruth to go on to the encamp-
ment without him, to seek other assistance.
There was, in addition, the matter of time.
It might be that a few hours’ delay would
cause the death of the wounded man. He
could not tell. But he had no right to sub-
ject another to such a risk unnecessarily.
Though he debated the question carefully

 
 

 

 

 

304 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

within himself, the issue was at no time in
doubt. He told Ruth his decision: That the
two of them should go to Lowrie, and bring
him on Dayid’s horse back to his home.

“¢ An’ I hate him like pizen!’’ David grum-
bled, as they rode off together.

“Me, too!’? Ruth admitted, with a smile.
“<He said horrid things to me.’’

On the tablets of memory David splashed
another black mark against the account of
the Croatan chief.

“But I guess I was as bad as he was,”’’
Ruth continued penitently. ‘‘Of course, I
didn’t really mean it. I told him I hoped he’d
die before I got back.’’

Despite the tragedy that hemmed them in,
David roared with laughter, in which, some-
what shamefacedly, Ruth presently joined.

* * * * *

The dawn was just breaking when the three
entered the Croatan encampment. Lowrie,
after the curse with which he had greeted
David’s appearance, had not uttered a word
throughout the tedious hours, although he
had acted obediently according to every sug-
gestion from the young man. The task of
getting him into the saddle had taxed the

 

THH HOMEWARD TRAIL 305

strength of the two to the utmost. Finally,
his weakness had become such that he could
not support himself unaided. Thereafter,
Ruth had walked, while David, mounted on
her horse, had sustained the chief in his
arms. As they rode up to the cabin door,
Ruth was tottering from fatigue; David was
almost equally exhausted from the long-con-
tinued strain of holding up the huge, inert
bulk of the wounded man. Lowrie himself
was unconscious.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXVIT

LIZABETH, who had not slept that
night, was speedily aroused, and at

once took efficient charge of the situation. A
tribesman, with some rude skill in surgery,
worked over the chief to extract the bullet,
and washed and dressed the wound. Ruth
was given a share of Hlizabeth’s bed. David
volunteered to watch with the sick man, in
spite of the weariness that weighed heavily
upon him. Lowrie throughout had main-
tained a sullen silence after regaining con-
sciousness, except for a string of mumbled
curses while the wound was being probed.
The stillness was too much for David’s re-
solve to keep awake. He fell asleep, pres-
ently, sitting in the chief’s big armchair, and
slept soundly until daybreak. He awoke to
find himself aching and cramped, but much
refreshed. He was relieved by the fact that
Lowrie also was asleep. He supposed that
the sufferer like himself had slumbered for

306

 

 

 

 

THH HOMEWARD TRAIL 307

hours. In truth, however, the chief, irritated
by the fever of his wound, had not closed his
eyes until almost daybreak. His brain had
been whirling with a confusion of thoughts
strange to him, and his heart had been curi-
ously stirred with new emotions. But he be-
trayed nothing of this. When he awoke, his
manner was still forbidding, surly and taci-
turn. David suspected no weakening in the
brutal animosity of the man toward himself
and toward Ruth. It may be, nevertheless,
that the more discerning eyes of the princess
were able to read the truth lying back of
that stern and gloomy exterior. It is cer-
tain, at least, that she had the courage to
confront him boldly, without pretense, or any
attempt at palliation of her audacity.

Ruth and David were talking softly to-
gether in one end of the room, while Hliza-
beth was at her father’s bedside. There was
no one else present. Hlizabeth beckoned
them to approach. They obeyed, much mysti-
fied, and stood hand in hand at the foot of
the bed. Lowrie glowered at them, but ut-
tered no word. It was his daughter who,
looking down on him with fearless eyes, only
a little dimmed by the great sorrow in her

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

308 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

soul, spoke very gently, the music of her
voice half-pleading, half-commanding.

“‘Pappy, David and Ruth are going now.
I want you to tell them for yourself, they’re
free to go.’’

The face of the prostrate chief purpled.
It was the first time in all his life that his
authority had been flaunted, had been usurped
by another. Resentment burned hot within
him. But only for a few seconds. Then the
color faded slowly from his face, and the
fires in the eyes he had turned on his daughter
were quenched. Yet he spoke no word, only
continued staring at her with questioning
gaze as if demanding more.

Elizabeth answered the mute inquiry. Her
voice now was colorless. She spoke in a
level tone, mechanically. It was as if she
reasoned coldly, without any trace of emo-
tion. It was thus only that she could speak
at all.

“You claimed David owed me his life, be-
cause I saved him. But you didn’t under-

stand, pappy. I don’t want David’s life—’’ |

she hesitated for an instant, with a catch of
the breath—‘‘T really don’t want David. He
belongs to Ruth, and he loves her. And it

 

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 309

would break Ruth’s heart to lose him, because
she loves him so.’’? She did not say that she
knew the truth of this from the anguish
within her own breast. ‘‘You see, pappy, if
it’s true that David owes me his life, it’s just
as true that you owe your life to Ruth.
But she doesn’t want your life. She wants
David’s. So, because you owe her a life,
you must give David back to her.’’

For a full minute, the chief rested motion-
less and silent, regarding his daughter with
somber eyes. Then his gaze shifted to the
two standing at the foot of the bed. The
grim face lightened a little as he studied
Ruth.

““Ye hoped I’d die afore ye got back. I
don’t aim t’ obleege ye none by dyin’,’’ he
rumbled. A hoarse chuckle followed the
words. ‘‘But I’ll obleege ye by givin’ ye
thet-thar feller 0’ your’n. An’ good rid-
dance!’? Having so said, Lowrie turned his
face to the wall without another word or
glance.

There were hasty farewells between Hliza-
beth and the lovers. The parting of the girls
was tender with kisses, and there were tears
in the eyes of both. But the parting of David

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

310 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

and Elizabeth was constrained, hastened and
made formal by the emotions which each felt.

As the lovers rode away down the street
and out of the encampment into the river-
trail, David’s heart was heavy within him.
Once again in memory came the thrill of those
wonderful hoars with the princess in the
cavern. Once again the glamour of that pas-
sion lay over him. By stern effort of will,
he turned his thoughts from such recollec-
tions, which were a treachery to the girl at
his side. But he knew that in the days to
come the memory would linger always—the
memory of a woman sweet and strong and
exquisite, who loved him. He sighed impa-
tiently. Then he remembered the chief, at
whose hand she had suffered so much. He
sighed again, with relief that he had seen the
last of the reckless and savage autocrat.
There was subtle comfort to him in the knowl-
edge that the princess, adorable as she was,
was one of a strange people, whose ways
were not his ways. He glanced at the radiant
face of the girl beside him; and his comfort
was complete. ‘After all, he loved Ruth, and
her only; and her people were his people, and
her ways, his ways.

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 311

The girl was bubbling over with delight.
Even sympathy for Elizabeth could not
weigh down the lightness of her spirits.
But she was not unmindful of the one
to whom she owed so much, as her words
proved.

‘‘Hlizabeth has promised to pay me a long
visit sometime.’? She laughed a little, a
ripple of music. ‘You know, David, I owe
the princess a life—yours, David. I’m go-
ing to pay with another life—the way she
made her pappy pay.’’

David looked puzzled, and Ruth laughed
again at his bewilderment. Then she ex-
plained, with the utmost seriousness.

“‘T’m going to find a husband for Elizabeth,
and give him to her to pay my debt. Any-
how,’’ she added indignantly, ‘‘she’s much
too good for any of those Indians.”’

And David, though he said nothing, agreed
with her.

“‘T feel pretty small, goin’? back t’ yer
pappy, Ruth,’’ David confessed, ‘‘without
the money t’ pay fer them apples.’’ His
face was lugubrious.

Ruth smiled on him reassuringly.

**T forgot to tell you, David. Pappy’s had

 
 

 

 

 

312 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL

a letter from your pappy. He’s been ex-
changed, and is coming home. And—and—’’
she hesitated, and her face grew rosy—‘‘ well,
he’s anxious to have you run things, and—’’
She broke off in confusion.

David smiled on her understandingly in his
turn.

‘“‘Wants me t’ marry an’ settle down,
p’r’aps?’’ he suggested quizzically.

Ruth nodded, her face even rosier than be-
fore.

“I’m sorry yer pappy’s got a grudge agin
me,’’ David said, with a return to serious-
ness,

But Ruth shook her head in vehement
denial.

‘‘Pappy hasn’t any grudge. He’s shown
how sorry he was to mammy and me—and
Mollie. You don’t need to worry about that,
David.’’

The sweet cadences of her laughter rang
again.

‘¢And I know what pappy’s going to give
you for a wedding present, David.’’

‘¢What?’’ he demanded.

‘¢A whole load of limber-twig apples.’’

“The same having already been deliv-

(

 

THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 313

ered,’’ David added, and joined in hex
laughter.

On a little rise of the road, by a common
instinct, the lovers drew rein, and looked
back toward the encampment, which nestled
snugly within the frame of woodland foliage,
now dimming from its autumnal splendors.
They could not make out the figure of the
girl who stood solitary and desolate by the
spring, looking with pain-blinded eyes toward
the vast spaces of the sky.

The lovers gazed back for amoment. Then,
without a word, their eyes turned to each
other in tenderness, and their lips smiled
from the happiness that was in their hearts
as they rode forward on the homeward trail.

THE END.

 
 

 

 

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The author has adapted the facts in the life
of Henry Lowrie to suit the purposes of the
story. Otherwise, references to the Croatans

are historically correct.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 
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