The Rock of Chickamauga: A Story of the Western Crisis. Altsheler Joseph Alexander

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СКАЧАТЬ torches were set, that the rain would have little effect upon the leaping flames, unless measures were taken at once, which he knew that the regiment would do, under such a capable man as Colonel Winchester. Meanwhile he was hot in pursuit.

      The trail which was not that of footsteps, but of a shadowy figure, ran between tall and close rows of grapevines so high on wooden framework that they hid any one who passed. The suspicion that Dick had held at first was confirmed. This was no stranger, no intruder. He knew every inch of both house and grounds, and, after having set the house on fire, he had selected the only line of retreat, but a safe one, through the thick and lofty vegetation of the garden, which ran down to the edge of the ravine in the rear, where he could slip quietly under the fence, drop through the thick grass into the ravine unseen by the pickets, and escape at his leisure in the darkness.

      Dick was so sure of his theory that he strained every effort to overtake the figure which was flitting before him like a ghost. In his eagerness he had forgotten to shout any alarm about the pickets, but it would have been of no avail, as most of them, under the impulse of alarm, had rushed forward to help extinguish the fires.

      He saw the fugitive reach the end of the garden, drop almost flat, and then slip under a broken place in the palings. At an ordinary time he would have stopped there, but all the instincts of the hunter were aroused. It was still raining, and he was already soaked. Wet branches and leaves struck him in the face as he passed, but his energy and eagerness were undimmed.

      He, too, dropped at the hole under the broken palings and slid forward face foremost. The wet grass was as slippery as ice, and after he passed through the hole Dick kept going. Moreover, his speed increased. He had not realized that the garden went to the very edge of the ravine, and he was shooting down a steep slope to the depth of thirty feet. He grasped instinctively at weeds and grass as he made his downward plunge and fetched up easily at the bottom.

      He sprang to his feet and saw the shadowy fugitive running down the ravine. In an instant he followed headlong, tripped once or twice on the wet grass, but was up every time like lightning, and once more in swift pursuit. The fugitive turned once, raised his pistol and pulled the trigger again, evidently forgetful that it was empty. When the hammer snapped on the trigger he uttered a low cry of anger and hurled the useless weapon into the grass. Then he whirled around and faced Dick, who was coming on, eager and panting.

      Dick’s own pistol was empty and he did not carry his small sword. He stopped abruptly when the other turned, and, in the dim light and rain, he saw that his opponent was a young man or rather youth of about his own size and age. When he saw the lad cast the pistol aside Dick, moved by some chivalrous impulse, dropped his own in the grass.

      Then the two stared at each other. They were far beyond the line of the pickets, and as they stood in the deep ravine there was no chance that any one would either see or hear them. As Dick gazed intently, the face and figure of his antagonist shaped themselves more distinctly in the dim light. He beheld before him a tall youth, extremely well built, fair of face, his brown hair slightly long. He wore rain-soaked civilian’s garb.

      He saw that the youth was panting like himself, but it was not wholly the result of flight. His face expressed savage anger and indignation.

      “You dirty Yankee!” he said.

      Dick started. No one had ever before addressed him with such venom.

      “If by Yankee you mean loyalty to the Union then I’m one,” he said, “and I’m proud of it. What’s more I’m willing to tell who I am. My name is Richard Mason. I’m from Kentucky, and I’m a lieutenant in the regiment of Colonel Arthur Winchester, which occupies the building behind us.”

      “From Kentucky and consorting with Yankees! A lot of you are doing it, and you ought to be on our side! We hate you for it more than we do the real Yankees!”

      “It’s our right to choose, and we’ve chosen. And now, since you’re talking so much about right and wrong, who may you be, Mr. Firebug?”

      Even in the dark Dick saw his opponent’s face flush, and his eyes flash with deadly hostility.

      “My name is Victor Woodville,” he replied, “and my father is Colonel John Woodville, C.S.A. He is the owner of the house in which your infamous Yankee regiment is encamped.”

      “And which you have tried to burn?”

      “I’d rather see it burn than shelter Yankees. You’d burn it anyway later on. Grant’s troops have already begun to use the torch.”

      “At any rate you’ll go before our colonel. He’ll want to ask you a lot of questions.”

      “I’m not going before your colonel.”

      “Oh, yes, you are.”

      “Who’s going to take me?”

      “I am.”

      “Then come on and do it.”

      Dick advanced warily. Both had regained their breath and strength now. Dick with two years of active service in the army had the size and muscles of a man. But so had his opponent. Each measured the other, and they were formidable antagonists, well matched.

      Dick had learned boxing at the Pendleton Academy, and, as he approached slowly, looking straight into the eyes of his enemy, he suddenly shot his right straight for Woodville’s chin. The Mississippian, as light on his feet as a leopard, leaped away and countered with his left, a blow so quick and hard that Dick, although he threw his head to one side, caught a part of its force just above his ear. But, guarding himself, he sprang back, while Woodville faced him, laughing lightly.

      Dick shook his head a little and the singing departed. Just above his ear he felt a great soreness, but he was cool now. Moreover, he was losing his anger.

      “First blow for you,” he said. “I see that you know how to use your fists.”

      “I hope to prove it.”

      Woodville, stepping lightly on his toes and feinting with his left, caught Dick on his cheek bone with his right. Then he sought to spring away, but Dick, although staggered, swung heavily and struck Woodville on the forehead. The Mississippian went down full length on the slippery grass but jumped to his feet in an instant. Blood was flowing from his forehead, whence it ran down his nose and fell to the earth, drop by drop. Dick himself was bleeding from the cut on his cheek bone.

      The two faced each other, cool, smiling, but resolute enemies.

      “First knockdown for you,” said Woodville, “but I mean that the second shall be mine.”

      “Go in and try.”

      But Woodville drew back a little, and as Dick followed, looking for an opening he was caught again a heavy clip on the side of the head. He saw stars and was not able to return the blow, but he sprang back and protected himself once more with his full guard, while he regained his balance and strength.

      “Am I a firebug?” asked Woodville tauntingly.

      Dick considered. This youth interested him. There was no denying that Woodville had great cause for anger, when he found his father’s house occupied by a regiment of the enemy. He considered it defilement. The right or wrong of the war had nothing to do with it. It was to him a matter of emotion.

      “I’ll take back the epithet ‘firebug,’” he said, “but I must stick to my purpose of carrying you to Colonel Winchester.”

      “Always СКАЧАТЬ