My Lady of Doubt Part 32

CHAPTER x.x.xI

I RUN ACROSS ERIC

I slept three hours, the dead sleep of sheer exhaustion, but felt refreshed and strong when roughly aroused. Before sunset I was across the river, where I found my little squad of Dragoons prepared for their night's adventure. Arnold had kept his word, the fresh horses being fine animals, the ammunition in excess of our needs. Conroy was enthusiastic, and somewhat loquacious, but I cut his conversation off rather sharply, and ordered the men into their saddles. With brain clarified by sleep I realized the importance of the work before us, and how imperfect my plans were. I could merely ride forth to Elmhurst, hoping to pick up some clew to aid me. As we rode rapidly along the deserted road leading to Farrel's I reviewed over and over again every remembered detail, only to conclude that I must get hands on Grant, and by threats, or any other available means, compel him to confess his part in the villainy. Dusk settled about us, succeeded by night, as we pressed steadily forward, the men riding silently, the only sound the thud of hoofs, and the slight jingle of accoutrements. As we pa.s.sed the black walls of Farrell's shop, I recalled the papers found in Grant's coat, and the reference in f.a.gin's note to a rendezvous at Lone Tree. Probably that was the spot where the two had been accustomed to meeting. If true in the past, why not now as well?

Suddenly it occurred to me that it was at a place called Lone Tree that the minute men had gathered for their attack on Delavan's wagon train.

Could this, by any possibility, be the same spot? I drew my horse back beside Conroy.

"Ever heard of a place called Lone Tree?" I asked quietly.

He rubbed his head thoughtfully.

"Not just about here, sir. We camped over east of there once, maybe a year ago, down in a hollow where there was one big tree standin' all alone, kind of an odd lookin' tree, sir, and seems to me, the guide said the place was called something like that. Say, Tom," to the nearest Dragoon, "do you remember that Lone Tree where we camped when we were out huntin' Tarleton?"

"Sure; in east of Medford. There was a farmhouse across on the side of a hill. I got some b.u.t.termilk there."

"Wasn't that what the guide called the place--Lone Tree?"

"Derned if I know, Sergeant. Don't recollect hearin' the guide say anythin' 'bout that, but the woman at the house told me her place was called Lone Tree Cottage--so I reckon he might."

This was a chance worth trying, and would require a detour of but a few miles. My decision was made quickly.

"We will take the first turn to the left, and have a look at the place,"

I said. "Conroy, you and Tom ride ahead, and keep your eyes open."

We reached the hollow where the big tree stood, about midnight, but found little reward. The house on the hill had been burned to the ground. Near the tree, however, we discovered evidence of recent camp-fires, one not yet cold, and apparently there had been quite a body of men camped there lately. Conroy manufactured a torch, and scouted about, finally reporting:

"I don't know how many were here, sir, altogether, but there was a lot o'

horses picketed over near the creek. I reckon the last of them didn't leave until dark to-night, an' they rode north toward the main road.

There was maybe a dozen in that party."

We followed the general direction the fellows seemed to have taken, Conroy and I on foot, scanning the trail by aid of a pine knot. The dust lay thick on the clay road through the cut, where we had charged the foragers, and it was easy to see the band had turned east. There was but one conclusion possible; if this was f.a.gin's gang of cutthroats, as I suspected, then they were either returning to their sand caves in Monmouth County after a raid, or else were starting forth on some new project near at hand. Whichever was true, Elmhurst lay in the direction taken. Determined to learn the truth, and wishing now I had more men at my back, we pressed forward, riding rapidly, yet exercising the precaution of keeping two scouts well in advance. It must have been nearly three o'clock when we reached the summit of the low hill within a few hundred yards of the house, and found the two scouts awaiting us.

My first glance across the ravine revealed the outlines of the house above the low trees of the orchard. All appeared peaceable enough, and I felt a sudden relief. There were lights burning on the lower floor, streaming through several windows, while up stairs one window was ablaze.

Late as it was, this illumination was not surprising, however, as the care of the wounded man would necessitate night watchers, while, no doubt, Claire would antic.i.p.ate my reaching there before morning. All this flashed over me, as my eyes hastily surveyed the familiar surroundings.

Then I became aware that the older scout was reporting.

"There's quite a bunch of horses picketed down there in the ravine, sir,"

he said, pointing toward the right.

"How many?"

"Oh, maybe twenty-five or thirty; Joe an' I couldn't get very close as there's a couple of men on guard on top of the bank. A hundred feet down you can see 'em plain against the sky."

"Wasn't what you saw a cattle herd?"

"No, sir," positively. "They're horses, picketed in line like a cavalry troop, and they've got their saddles on."

What this all meant could not be guessed at, but there must be some scheme of deviltry under way. There were no regular troops hereabout belonging to either army, yet the very condition of the country left an open field for the operation of outlaws. Arnold had barely men enough to garrison Philadelphia; Washington was facing Clinton; the militia had been withdrawn, and all this section left entirely unguarded. It was the very moment for f.a.gin and his kind to carry on their work of murder and pillage.

"Have either of you crossed the ravine?" I asked, endeavoring to reach some conclusion.

"Yes, sir, Joe did. He was up in the edge of the orchard."

"See any men?"

"Not a man, sir, outside," answered the other. "But I saw shadows against the curtains on that lower floor. I couldn't tell how many; they just come an' go, only they wasn't dressed alike."

One thing was sufficiently certain--we could gain little information remaining where we were.

"Sergeant," I said, determining swiftly on a course of action, "take your men, dismounted, across the ravine, and into the orchard. Keep under cover, but get as close to the house as you can safely. Picket your horses back there beside the road."

"And you, sir?"

"I'll take Tom with me, and we'll circle that horse herd, and come up to the house from the rear. I want to discover where those fellows are, and what they are up to. See this whistle, sergeant?"

"Yes, sir."

"It gives a sharp, shrill blast. If I blow it twice, get your men inside the house instantly. I'll not sound it unless I need you at once. We'll wait here until you get across."

They disappeared into the black depths of the ravine, moving cautiously and with little noise, Conroy leading, the others stringing along behind in single file. Tom led back the horses while I watched, until convinced they had attained the opposite bank, and the shelter of the orchard.

There was no sound of movement anywhere, yet it was not long until daybreak, and any further delay was dangerous. As soon as the Dragoon returned, I gave him a few words of instruction, and the two of us plunged down the steep slope, feeling our way through the darkness, but moving to the right, toward where the scouts had indicated the horses were being herded. We skirted these, creeping along the opposite bank behind a fringe of bushes, certain that the darkness concealed our movements from the two men on guard. Fearful of frightening the animals we dare not approach close enough to count them, but they stood head to head to a picket rope nearly across the narrow ravine. We crossed fifty feet above, gained the top of the bank, and crawled down, sheltered from observation, until we were directly above the two guards. Peering cautiously over we could easily distinguish the black outlines on the hillside below.

One man was standing up, leaning against the trunk of a small tree, while the other was sitting on the ground, his head bent forward, and his hat drawn low over his eyes. Neither uttered a sound, but as my eyes strained through the darkness I began to perceive details which awakened a new suspicion. The fellow standing up wore a cap and no coat, and his hands were clasped about a short, sawed-off gun. He had none of the appearance of a soldier, but the other man apparently was in uniform, although I could not distinguish its character. What instantly attracted my attention was the fact that his hands were evidently tied behind his back. If this was true then he was a prisoner, and the other had been stationed there to guard him, and not the horses. Tom perceived this as soon as I, for I felt his fingers grip my arm, and, when I glanced around at him, he pictured his suspicions in pantomime. I nodded agreement, sinking down behind the ridge, until my lips were at his ear.

"Creep around the edge of the rock there," I said, pointing. "That will bring you at his back, and not more than five feet away. Can you do it?"

He nodded grimly.

"Leave your weapons here," I added, "and when you spring, get hold of his gun so he cannot fire. I'll cover him the instant you strike. Go on."

He unbuckled his belt, and crept along to the right, so noiselessly that even I, watching his snake-like movement, could hear no sound. The guard did not move his head, and the other remained motionless, his face bent almost to his knees. Down below the horses stomped restlessly, and switched their tails. Watching each motion like a hawk, I saw Tom dip over the crest, and worm his way down behind the rock. Then he disappeared, until, as he cautiously arose to his feet, his head and shoulders emerged shadowy just beyond. Realizing he was ready, I got to my knees, gripping a pistol b.u.t.t. Without a warning sound the Dragoon leaped, his arms gripping the astounded sentinel with the hug of a bear.

He gave utterance to one grunt, and then the barrel of my pistol was at his head.

"Not a word!" I said sternly. "Unclasp his belt, Tom. Yes, take his gun.

If he moves, or utters a sound, shoot him down."

I wheeled to face the other, who had lifted his head, and was staring at us through the darkness. He was no longer a mere shapeless shadow, but a slender, straight figure, and my heart gave a sudden throb.

"Who are you?" I asked sharply. "Eric Mortimer?"

"Yes," he answered, in evident surprise. "Do I know you?"

"No," and I cut the rope binding his ankles. "But I was searching for you. I am an officer of Maxwell's brigade; my name is Lawrence. Tell me first what has happened,--why you are being held prisoner."

He stretched his cramped arms and legs, lifting his hat so that I saw his face dimly. In the gloom his resemblance to Claire was so remarkable that I involuntarily exclaimed: