Kitabı oku: «The Courier of the Ozarks», sayfa 15

CHAPTER XXII
MARK CONFESSES HIS LOVE

It was a day or two after the appearance of the fugitives from Powell's force that Mark Grafton returned to the La Belle. He seemed tired and careworn, but reported that his trip had been entirely successful.

When told of the disastrous defeat of Powell's force, he was astounded. "Had I expected such a result," he exclaimed, "I would have gone with him. Ran into an ambuscade, did he? I believe, if I had been with him, I could have prevented that, for I am used to fighting just such fellows, and am up to all their tricks."

"You seem to have a good opinion of yourself," remarked Grace, somewhat sarcastically.

What she said, and the tone in which she said it, cut Mark to the heart. "Your rebuke is just, Grace. No man should boast," he said, as he turned away.

That night Mark lay thinking. That Grace had changed, he could plainly see. It must be because he had refused to tell her his secret. "I must go away, and never return," he sighed. "It is the only way. If I could only stay near her, to see her every day, to be her slave, I would be contented."

Then the thought of Big Tom came into his mind. He knew there was real danger from that source. No one knew better than he what the guerrillas of the State were fast becoming – bands of robbers that preyed on friend and foe alike. He felt that Mr. Chittenden's being a Confederate would not save him. To go away and leave Grace exposed to such a great danger would be to him a torture.

Sleep did not visit him that night, and when morning came he was no nearer a decision than he was the night before. He arose; white and haggard. The lines in his face showed what he had suffered.

That night also seemed to have changed Grace. She came to him and, holding out her hand, said: "Mark, I'm sorry I spoke as I did last night. Forgive me." Then, looking at him, she cried: "Foolish boy! I believe you took to heart what I said. Mark, did it hurt you so?"

"There is nothing to forgive, Grace," he replied, gently. "I passed a restless night, but it was not what you said that caused it, but the thought that I had already remained here too long; and yet it is hard to go from those who are so kind to me."

"Why go at all?" asked Grace. "You belong here. Did we not bring you back from the very brink of the grave? I have heard father say he wished you would always remain. He has taken a great fancy to you."

A great light came into Mark's face. He took a step toward her, as if he would clasp her in his arms. "Grace! Grace!" he cried, then stopped and turned deadly pale.

"Mark, what is it? Are you sick?" asked Grace, anxiously.

"No; I did turn a little faint, but I am over it now. I will think over what you said."

He did think it over, and came to the conclusion that he must go; for, if he stayed, the time would come when he would have to confess his love for Grace. He trembled when he realized how near he had come to telling her. But it was not many hours before he was telling her.

A man came riding into the valley from the north. He was burning with fever, and reeled from side to side in his saddle. He was lifted from his horse, and carried into the house.

"I am afraid I am done for," he said, faintly, as he was gently placed on a bed. "I was told I would find a crippled Confederate soldier here, called Mark Grafton, who sometimes acts as the bearer of dispatches. Is he here now?"

"He is," answered Mr. Chittenden.

"I must see him – see him before it is too late. I feel the hand of Death upon me."

Mark was called, and the sick man, between gasps, told his story. He said his name was Paul Dupont, and he was the bearer of important dispatches to General Hindman. "I was sick at the time they asked me to carry them, and tried to beg off, but they said the dispatches were so important they could only be trusted to a brave and trusty man, and they knew I was one. 'Carry them as far as Judge Chittenden's, on the La Belle,' they said; 'then, if you are not able to go farther, deliver them into the hands of a crippled Confederate soldier there, by the name of Mark Grafton.' I can go no farther. The hand of Death is already on me. You will find the dispatches sewed in the lining of my coat. Take them and deliver them into the hands of General Hindman."

"To Hindman!" gasped Mark.

"Yes – don't fail!" whispered Dupont, as he sank back on his pillow, exhausted. He closed his eyes; his breath came shorter and shorter, and he soon passed away, without speaking again.

Mark stood as one confounded. A sacred trust had been committed to him – one that took him where he never wished to go – into Arkansas. No one except himself could realize the dangers that he would run.

When Mr. Chittenden heard of the dead man's request, he said: "Mark, will you go? Those dispatches mean much; they may mean the redemption of the State. But the danger – Mark, I hate to see you go."

Mark thought a moment, and then, drawing himself up to his full height, his face set and determined, he answered: "I will go. It is a sacred trust – it is for my country."

Mr. Chittenden and Mark searched the effects of the dead man, and found the dispatches as stated. They also found he had about one hundred dollars in Federal money and two thousand dollars in Confederate money on his person. Among the papers found was a pass from General Hindman, asking all good Confederates to aid the bearer all possible.

"No doubt Dupont was a trusty spy for General Hindman," said Mr. Chittenden. "Mark, you are stepping into dangerous shoes; yet, if you were my son, I should bid you go. As for the money, keep that; no doubt it was given Dupont for expenses, and you are now in his place."

Mark's preparations were soon made, but the roll which he strapped behind his saddle was much larger than he generally took. When he was ready, he sought Grace, to say good-bye. She was not in the house, and knew nothing of what had taken place.

He sought her in her favorite nook by the side of the La Belle, and there he found her gazing pensively into the water. Mark thought there was a look of sadness on her face. She looked up in surprise as he rode up.

"Going away so soon?" she asked.

Dismounting, Mark hitched his horse, and, going up to her, said: "Yes, Grace, I am going again, and on one of the most dangerous missions I ever undertook. I have come to say good-bye. If I never see you again, God bless you!"

The girl turned pale. "Why go, Mark, if it is so dangerous?"

"It is my duty."

"Mark, don't go!" Tears were gathering in her eyes.

He looked at her, his whole face eloquent with love. All the resolutions he had made were forgotten.

"Grace, I must say what I have told myself a thousand times I would never say. Grace, I love you – love you better than I do my own soul, and because I so love you, it is better that I go away and never return."

"I don't understand," she murmured. "You said things the other day I didn't understand, and you made me angry."

"Grace, you are fit to reign a queen in some palace. I am poor and unknown. But it is not my poverty that has kept me from declaring my love. It is because I am unworthy of you – because I have deceived you in some things. Grace, I am not worthy to kiss the earth you tread on."

A death-like pallor came over the face of the girl. "Mark, for the love of Heaven, tell me – tell me! Are you married, or have you committed some heinous crime?"

"Married! Why, Grace, I never thought of love until I saw you. I knew not what love was. Neither am I a criminal. Things are done in war that would be criminal in times of peace."

"Then why do you say you are so unworthy? Mark, it's that terrible secret you are keeping from me! Mark, tell me what it is?" She put her hands on his shoulders, looking yearningly in his face.

Mark Grafton shook like a leaf. "Grace! Grace!" he cried, "don't tempt me! You know not what you ask."

"Then you refuse to tell me?" She had taken her hands from his shoulders; there was an angry flush on her cheeks.

"I can't, Grace! Oh, God! if I could!"

"Go!" she said. "For once, you have told the truth, when you said you were not worthy of me. All the rest you have said are lies – lies. You love me, you say, better than your own soul, and yet you refuse to tell me what it is that would keep me from you. If you loved me, you would trust me, confide in me. By your actions you have shown yourself unworthy of the love of any true woman. I have loved you as a sister – nothing more – but even that love is gone now. Go! I never want to see you again," and she turned from him.

A moment Mark stood; then he said, gently: "Grace, good-bye. It is best that you feel as you do, for I now know that it is only I who will suffer. I love you, Grace, and always will, but it will be a pure, a holy love. Nothing you can say or do can take from me the blessed privilege of loving you. Grace, will you not say good-bye?" No answer.

Mark turned wearily, and mounted his horse. As the sound of the horse's hoofs came to her, Grace started as if from a dream. She looked. He was already riding away. She rushed toward him, with outstretched arms.

"Mark! Mark! Come back!" she cried. "It was I that lied. I love you! I love you!"

He did not hear, or, if he heard, did not heed, for he rode on without looking back. She watched until he had disappeared in the distance; then, pressing her hands to her heart, sank down. The wind rustled through the trees, and sent a shower of withered leaves down upon her.

"Like my hopes," she murmured, "withered and dying; yet, even in death, they are beautiful!"

She noticed the imprint of Mark's foot where he had stood when he declared his love. A leaf, all orange and gold, with a splash of red in the center, had fallen and half concealed the imprint. She stooped and picked it up.

"He said he was not worthy to kiss the earth on which I tread," she whispered, and she pressed the leaf to her lips; then, with a shudder, she threw it from her, for she noticed her lips had touched the splash of red, which to her looked like blood.

CHAPTER XXIII
INTO THE LION'S MOUTH

For a few miles after leaving Grace, Mark rode as if pursued by an enemy. Wild thoughts rushed through his mind; but at length he became calmer.

"No, no," he soliloquized, "I cannot leave Grace to the vengeance of Hobson, and I am sure he will seek vengeance as soon as he recovers from his wound. But am I not leaving her? Well do I realize the danger I am running. It is doubtful if I ever come back. An ignominious death may await me. I have put duty above love. But, Grace, if I live, my duty, after this, will be to guard and protect you. Unseen and unknown, I will be near you. To see you from afar will be heaven."

Mark soon halted by a pool of clear water, and undid the roll behind his saddle, from which he took various articles. Soon no one would have known him as the young man who had ridden away from the La Belle. He looked ten years older; the color of his hair was changed, and a fine mustache adorned his upper lip.

He studied his face for a while as he leaned over the clear water. "It will do," he said. "But what if I meet Colonel Clay?"

For three days after that Mark rode without an adventure, but on the fourth day he was chased by a squad of Federal cavalry. A lucky shot killed the horse of his foremost pursuer, and he escaped. Skirting the flank of the Federal army, he reached the headquarters of General Hindman at Van Buren, on the Arkansas River.

Here, behind the Boston Mountains, Hindman had gathered an army estimated at from twenty to thirty thousand men. Opposed to him was General Blunt, with an army of not over seven or eight thousand men. Hindman thought that by a swift movement he could crush Blunt before he could be reinforced, and then, meeting any reinforcements which might be marching to his relief, whip them in detail, thus wresting Missouri from the grasp of the Federals.

He was now only waiting dispatches from Missouri informing him of the number and position of the Federal troops in the State, and the number of recruits he could reasonably expect to join him, once in the State, and where.

It was these dispatches that Mark Grafton was carrying. If captured with them, Mark well knew what his fate would be. There were other reasons, known only to himself, which made it extremely perilous for him to enter the Confederate lines.

It was late in the afternoon when Mark was challenged by the outposts of the Confederate army. He stated that he was a courier from Missouri, with important dispatches for General Hindman, and demanded that he be conducted to headquarters at once. It was dark before headquarters were reached, but Mark was granted an immediate audience with the General.

"What is your name?" asked the General, as Mark handed him the dispatches.

"Grafton – Mark Grafton."

"I was expecting dispatches, important ones, but from another source. I wonder what these can be?"

He opened them and, glancing at them, exclaimed: "Why, these are the very dispatches I was looking for! I expected them to be delivered by a man named Dupont. How did you come by them?"

"Dupont is dead," replied Mark, solemnly.

"Dupont dead! Great God! How did he die? Was he captured?"

"No." Mark told the full particulars of Dupont's death, and how in his dying moments he had committed the dispatches to him.

"Poor Dupont!" sighed Hindman. "He was my most trusted spy, and he died in the discharge of his duty."

Then, scrutinizing Mark closely, he said: "You have made good time in coming from Chittenden's. Have any trouble?"

"Only once. I put one Yankee cavalryman out of commission."

"Good! How would you like to take Dupont's place?" asked Hindman, abruptly.

"General, I would make a poor spy. I could be identified too easily," and Mark touched his crippled arm.

"Where did you get that?"

"In one of the little partisan battles in Missouri," answered Mark, without hesitation.

"I am sorry," answered Hindman. "I wished to send some dispatches back with you."

"I can take them," promptly answered Mark. "And, if you wish, I can act as dispatch-bearer for you in Missouri. I am well acquainted in the State, and am known to most of the guerrilla leaders. It is through them I receive and deliver my dispatches. I am careful never to enter a Federal camp. I am at present staying at Chittenden's, and will cheerfully execute any commission you may send me. I have carried dispatches for Colonel Clay several times."

"Just the thing. Consider yourself engaged," cried the General. "I recall now that I have heard Colonel Clay speak of you. I am sorry the Colonel is away on special duty."

Mark was not the least bit sorry, but his looks did not show it. Clay would not have known him in his disguise, and would have denounced him as an impostor.

"General, one thing more," said Mark. "Mr. Chittenden, in looking over the effects of Dupont, found several little trinkets that his family might wish to have. There was also one hundred dollars in Federal money and two thousand dollars in Confederate money on his person. Here is everything."

"You can keep the Federal money. The Confederate will be of little use to you in Missouri. Here is another one hundred in Federal money, but remember this money is a sacred trust, and only to be used for expenses when on business for the Confederacy."

"It will be so considered," said Mark as he took the money. "General, will it be possible for you to have your dispatches ready by morning. Mr. Chittenden wished me to get back as quickly as possible. He is in trouble."

"Trouble? What trouble?"

"Why, haven't you heard? The valley of the La Belle has been raided by a force of Federals, the provisions and forage he had gathered captured, and four or five hundred recruits coming from the central and northern part of the State taken prisoners and paroled."

"I had not heard of it," said the General, greatly excited. "When did it happen?"

"Only a few days before I left. But that is not all. Just as the Federals left, Major Powell came up from Arkansas with a train to get the provisions and forage and escort the recruits. He pursued the Federals, but fell into an ambuscade and his command was cut to pieces."

"Do you know who commanded the Federals?"

"Yes, a Captain Lawrence Middleton."

"The devil! He had much to do with frustrating our plans last summer."

"Yes, and but a few weeks ago he almost annihilated the band of Red Jerry. We are trying to lay plans to capture him."

"Well, this is bad news, but we will try and turn the tables before many days. I will have my dispatches ready by morning. Make yourself comfortable until then." With a wave of the hand the General dismissed him.

The next morning Mark called early for the dispatches and found the General in close conversation with a thick, heavy-set man whose face showed both courage and determination. When Mark saw him he gave a start. "I know you, my friend," he thought, "and it will be an unfortunate thing for me if you recognize me."

"Ah, Grafton, is that you?" said the General. "Glad to see you. Allow me to make you acquainted with Mr. Spencer. Spencer, this is the young man I was telling you about. Grafton, Spencer is now my most trusted spy, since Dupont is gone. He will ride part way with you."

Mark extended his hand cordially, but there was no warmth or cordiality in the hand that Spencer gave him. Instead, he looked as if he would read the inmost thoughts of Mark's soul, but Mark met his gaze steadily and coolly, as if he did not know his life was hanging in the balance.

At length Spencer said, "Glad to meet you, Grafton. Excuse me for scrutinizing you so closely, but we are in the same business, and as I may have you for a companion sometime, I like to measure my man before I tie to him."

"Well, how do I measure?" asked Mark, with a smile.

"I reckon you will do."

"I trust so," rejoined Mark. "But you made a mistake in saying I was in the same business. I don't believe I have nerve enough to be a spy. I am simply a courier, and carry what others have gathered. It takes nerve to penetrate the enemy's camp. Nerve such as you have, Spencer."

Spencer's face lit up with a smile. "You rate me too highly, Grafton," he answered. "But I certainly have been in some tight places, and I reckon you could relate some startling adventures if you would."

Mark had been handed his dispatches, and was about to depart when General Frost was announced.

"Hold on a minute," said Hindman. "General Frost may have some word he would like to send."

"Sending a courier into Missouri?" asked Frost.

"Yes, the same young man who brought those dispatches last night, that Dupont should have brought. I am sorry to say Dupont is dead."

"Dead! Dupont dead! Did the Yankees get him?"

"No, he died of the fever. He arrived at Chittenden's in a dying condition and gave his dispatches to Grafton to bring on."

"Grafton? I think I have heard that name from Colonel Clay. Happy to meet you, Grafton. Let me hear the news from Missouri."

Much against his will Mark was forced to remain and again rehearse his story. When he told of the capture of the train and the defeat of Powell, Frost became very much excited.

"What Federal officer did you say was in command?" he asked.

"I didn't say, but I understood it was a Captain Middleton."

Frost sprang to his feet, letting out a volley of oaths.

"Where were you when this happened?" he then asked.

"I was absent from the valley. I was helping Mr. Chittenden in gathering supplies, and was away seeing about some that had not yet arrived."

Mark was now excused, but told to wait for Spencer. General Frost had taken him aside and they were engaged in earnest conversation. Every now and then they would glance at Mark, and he was sure they were talking about him. If he had heard what they were saying he would have known he was under suspicion.

"It can't be he," Frost was saying, "but every now and then there is something about him that makes me think of him. I hardly know what; certain motions, I think."

"I knew him well," answered Spencer, "and so far I have not seen anything that would make me think Grafton was he. I am to ride with him nearly a day's journey, and if I see anything suspicious – well you know what will happen."

All being ready the two rode away together. They had not gone far when Mark noticed that Spencer was watching every move he made. Instantly every nerve of Mark's body became alert, but to all appearances he was totally unsuspicious. To Spencer's request that he tell him something of his life, he responded that he did not have much to tell. He had been a member of a guerrilla band, was wounded and had found his way into the Ozarks, where he had been with Mr. Chittenden, who took him in when he was suffering with the fever. He had acted as courier for Colonel Clay, but had never met with many exciting adventures.

"Now, Spencer," he said, "tell me something of yourself, for I know you have faced a hundred dangers where I have faced one."

Spencer refused to be interviewed, and maintained a rather moody silence. At length they reached where they were to part and when they shook hands Spencer, as if by accident, drew the sleeve of his coat across Mark's face and his mustache came off.

"Damn you! I know you now," shrieked Spencer as he reached for his revolver, but quick as a flash Mark snatched a revolver from his bosom and fired.

Spencer's revolver went off half raised. He sank down in the saddle, then rolled from his horse, a motionless body.

Mark was about to dismount to see if he was dead when he was startled by the pounding of horses' hoofs and looking up saw a squad of Federal cavalry bearing down on him. Putting spurs to his horse and bending low over his neck he escaped amid a shower of bullets.

The only mark of the conflict that Mark could find was a bullet which had lodged in the back of his saddle.

After riding several miles, Mark met half a dozen guerrillas who said they were on their way to join Hindman. He told them of meeting the Yankee cavalry and that they would have to look out, and asked them to take a note to General Hindman for him. To this they readily assented and this is what Mark wrote:

General: I am sorry to say that just as Spencer and I were to part we ran into a squad of Yankee cavalry. Poor Spencer was killed and I only escaped by the fleetness of my horse. If Spencer had dispatches that will embarrass you, you can govern yourself accordingly, for they are now in the hands of the enemy.

As for the dispatches you entrusted to me, they are safe, and if they are never delivered you will know I have suffered the fate of poor Spencer.

Mark Grafton.

After parting from the guerrillas Mark, instead of riding towards home, turned his horse westward. In due time General Hindman learned that the dispatches he had entrusted to Mark had been faithfully delivered, but that Mark had disappeared. Mr. Chittenden looked for his return to the La Belle in vain.

General Hindman made anxious inquiries, for he had use for so faithful a courier as Mark had proved to be. But the weeks passed and nothing was heard, and it was thought he must have been killed, and he was numbered with the unknown dead.

Mr. Chittenden mourned him as such, but Grace maintained that he still lived, and she had good cause for her belief. She had never told her father of the love passage between Mark and herself, and how she had refused to bid him good-bye when he left. The memory of that parting was a secret, she felt, only to be held in her own heart, for she was not sure she would ever see or hear from Mark again.

One day a letter was placed in Grace's hands by a messenger who hurried away before she had time to thank him, much less question him. Much to her surprise and joy the letter was from Mark.

"He lives! He lives!" she cried rapturously as she pressed it to her lips. Grace had forgotten all her resentment towards Mark, forgotten that the secret that lay between them was still unsolved. She only knew that she loved him. Eagerly she read the letter, which ran:

Grace: Lest you believe me dead, I write this. It was foolish in me to tell you of my love, but I had to do it. Now that you know, I am content. I ask nothing, deserve nothing, in return. Just the thought of loving you is like thinking of heaven. When I went away I rode as it were into the jaws of death, and escaped as by a miracle. Grace, it is best that I see you no more. Think of me only as one who takes joy in loving you. Only one thing will ever call me to your side, and that is if you are ever in grave danger. To defend you I would come from the ends of the earth.

I think you have read Longfellow's Hiawatha, for I have seen it in your library. Do you remember that when Minnehaha lay dying she called for Hiawatha, and, although he was miles and miles away, that cry of anguish reached him. And so great is my love for you that I believe that if you should call me in a time of danger I would hear. Remember this if trouble comes, though I hope it never will.

Farewell.

Mark.

Grace read and re-read the strange letter. Hiawatha had just been published when she was at school in St. Louis, and it had been a great favorite of hers.

What could Mark mean by intimating that some great peril might be impending? She knew not. But Mark lived; he still loved her, would always love her.

She placed the letter in her bosom next her heart and there it rested. Her secret was her own; why tell it? If Mark never came back, no one would ever know. But she believed he would come back, and her step grew lighter, her face brighter, her laugh merrier. In fact, she became her old self, and her father rejoiced, for he had noticed a change in her since Mark went away.