Chasing an Iron Horse Part 20

He disappeared up-stairs, and soon returned with two half-worn coats and two pairs of old shoes, which he insisted upon presenting to the fugitives.

"They belong to my son, who has gone to the war," he said, "but he'd be glad to have such patriots as you use them. How did you both get so bare of clothes?"

"We had to swim across a stream, and leave some of our things behind,"

explained Watson. He spoke but the simple truth. He was glad that he did, for he hated to deceive a man who stood gazing upon him with such gentle, unsuspecting eyes.

It was not long before Watson and George had gone into the kitchen, where they found a table laden with a profusion of plain but welcome food.

Waggie, who had been given some milk, was lying fast asleep by the hearth.

George looked about him, when he had finished his supper, and asked himself why he could not have a week of such quiet, peaceful life as this?

Yet he knew that he was, figuratively, on the brink of a precipice. At any moment he might be shown in his true light. But how much better he felt since he had eaten. He was comfortable and drowsy. The minister and his family, who had been bustling around attending to the wants of their guests, began to grow dim in his weary eyes. Watson, who was sitting opposite to him, looked blurred, indistinct. He was vaguely conscious that the old gentleman was saying: "These are times that try our souls." Then the boy sank back in his chair, sound asleep. He began to dream. He was on the cowcatcher of an engine. Andrews was tearing along in front on a horse, beckoning to him to come on. The engine sped on faster and faster, but it could not catch up to the horseman. At last Andrews and the horse faded away altogether; and the boy was swimming across the Chickamauga River. He heard a great shout from the opposite bank--and awoke.

Watson had risen from the table; the pipe of tobacco which the minister had given him as a sort of dessert was lying broken on the hearth. There was a despairing look on his face. It was the look that one might expect to see in a hunted animal at bay. Near him stood the old man, who seemed to be the incarnation of mournful perplexity, his wife, who was no less disturbed, and the two daughters. One of the latter, a girl with dark hair and snapping black eyes, was regarding Watson with an expression of anger.

On the table was an opened letter.

"I am in your power," Watson was saying to the minister.

What had been happening during the half hour which George had devoted to a nap?

"Poor, dear boy, he's dropped off to sleep," murmured the minister's wife, when she saw George sink back in his chair. She went into the sitting-room and returned with a cus.h.i.+on which she proceeded to place under his head.

"He is much too young to go to the war," she said, turning towards Watson.

"There was no keeping him from going South," answered his companion. "He would go." Which was quite true.

The minister handed a pipe filled with Virginia tobacco to Watson, and lighted one for himself.

"It's my only vice," he laughed pleasantly.

"I can well believe you," rejoined the Northerner, as he gratefully glanced at the spiritual countenance of his host. "Why should this old gentleman and I be enemies?" he thought. "I wish the war was over, and that North and South were once more firm friends." He proceeded to light his pipe.

They began to talk agreeably, and the minister told several quaint stories of plantation life, while they smoked on, and the women cleared off the food from the table.

At last there came a knocking at the front door. The host left the kitchen, went into the hallway, and opened the door. He had a brief parley with some one; then the door closed, and he reentered the room. Watson thought he could distinguish the sound of a horse's hoofs as an unseen person rode away.

"Who's coming to see you this kind of night?" asked the wife. It was a natural question. It had once more begun to rain; there were flashes of lightning and occasional rumbles of thunder.

"A note of some kind from Farmer Jason," explained the clergyman. "I hope his daughter is not sick again."

"Perhaps the horse has the colic," suggested one of the girls, who had gentle blue eyes like her father's, "and he wants some of your 'Equine Pills.'"

"Who brought the letter?" enquired the wife.

"Jason's hired man--he said he hadn't time to wait--had to be off with another letter to Farmer Lovejoy--said this letter would explain everything."

"Then why don't you open it, pa, instead of standing there looking at the outside; you act as if you were afraid of it," spoke up the dark-eyed girl, who was evidently a damsel of some spirit.

"Here, you may read it yourself, Cynthia," said her father, quite meekly, as if he had committed some grave offense. He handed the envelope to the dark-eyed girl. She tore it open, and glanced over the single sheet of paper inside. Then she gave a sharp cry of surprise, and darted a quick, penetrating glance at Watson. He felt uneasy, although he could not explain why he did.

"What's the matter?" asked the minister. "Anything wrong at the Jasons'?"

"Anything wrong at the Jasons'," Miss Cynthia repeated, contemptuously.

"No; there's something wrong, but it isn't over at Jasons'. Listen to this!" She held out the paper at arm's length, as if she feared it, and read these lines:

"Pastor Buckley,

"Dear Sir:

"This is to notify you as how I just have had news that a party of Yankee spies is at large, right in our neighborhood. They stole a train to-day at Big Shanty, but they were obleeged to jump off only a few miles from here. So you must keep on the lookout--they are around--leastwise a boy and grown man have been seen, although most of the others seem to have gotten away. One of my sons--Esau--caught sight of this man and boy on the edge of the river late this afternoon. He says the boy had a dog.

"Yours, "Charles Jason."

After Miss Cynthia finished the reading of this letter there was a silence in the room almost tragic in its intensity. Watson sprang to his feet, as he threw his pipe on the hearth. Waggie woke up with a whine. The Reverend Mr. Buckley looked at Watson, and then at the sleeping boy in a dazed way--not angrily, but simply like one who is grievously disappointed. So, too, did Mrs. Buckley and her blue-eyed daughter.

Finally Miss Cynthia broke the silence.

"So you are Northern spies, are you?" she hissed. "And you come here telling us a story about your being so fond of the South that you must travel all the way from Kentucky to fight for her." She threw the letter on the supper-table, while her eyes flashed.

Watson saw that the time of concealment had pa.s.sed. His ident.i.ty was apparent; he was in the very centre of the enemy's country; his life hung in the balance. He could not even defend himself save by his hands, for the pistol which he carried in his hip-pocket had been rendered temporarily useless by his pa.s.sage across the river. Even if he had possessed a whole brace of pistols, he would not have harmed one hair of this kindly minister's head.

"I _am_ a Northerner," said Watson, "and I _am_ one of the men who stole a train at Big Shanty this morning. We got within a few miles of Chattanooga, and then had to abandon our engine, because we were trapped.

We tried to burn bridges, but we failed. We did no more than any Southerners would have done in the North under the same circ.u.mstances."

It was at this point that George awoke. He saw at once that something was wrong but he prudently held his tongue, and listened.

"You are a spy," reiterated Miss Cynthia, "and you know what the punishment for that must be--North or South!"

"Of course I know the punishment," said Watson, with deliberation. "A scaffold--and a piece of rope."

The minister shuddered. "They wouldn't hang the boy, would they?" asked his wife anxiously.

Mr. Buckley was about to answer, when Miss Cynthia suddenly cried, "Listen!"

Her sharp ears had detected some noise outside the house. She left the room, ran to the front door, and was back again in a minute.

"Some of the neighbors are out with dogs and lanterns, looking, I'm sure, for the spies," she announced excitedly, "and they are coming up the lane!"

The first impulse of Watson was to seize George, and run from the house.

But he realized, the next instant, how useless this would be; he could even picture the boy being shot down by an overwhelming force of pursuers.

"They are coming this way," said Mr. Buckley, almost mournfully, as the sound of voices could now be plainly heard from the cozy kitchen.

"We are in your hands," said Watson, calmly. He turned to the minister.

"You are fighting against my country, which I love more dearly than life itself," answered Mr. Buckley. "I can have no sympathy for you!" His face was very white; there was a troubled look in his kindly eyes.

"But they will be hung, father!" cried the blue-eyed daughter.

"I'm ashamed of you, Rachel," said Miss Cynthia. Mrs. Buckley said nothing. She seemed to be struggling with a hundred conflicting emotions.

Waggie ran to her, as if he considered her a friend, and put his forepaws on her dress.