The Courier Of The Ozarks Part 38

Lawrence pa.s.sed several, but he gave them no heed. He had but one thought, to find Jerry Alcorn. At last he saw him mounted on his magnificent gray horse. He was shouting to the men to take to the woods--to abandon their horses--to save themselves if possible.

Lawrence bore down upon him. Jerry saw him coming, and with a roar like a cornered beast, turned to face him. He raised his revolver to fire, but Lawrence was first and the revolver dropped. He was shot in the arm.

Defenceless, he wheeled his horse to fly. Again Lawrence fired. Jerry reeled in his saddle, but gathered himself together and urged his horse to greater speed. Close after him came Lawrence.

The chase was a wild one, continued for more than a mile. Lawrence had now drawn his sword and a few bounds of his horse took him to Jerry's side. "Surrender!" he cried with uplifted sword. "Surrender or die!"

Jerry turned to him, his face distorted with rage and fear. Blood was dripping from his right hand. He had dropped the reins and was struggling to draw a revolver from his right holster with his left hand.

"Surrender or I strike!" cried Lawrence, but before the blow could descend he felt a sharp sting in the side and his horse plunged forward and fell. Hardly had Lawrence touched the ground when he heard a voice hiss, "Turn, so you may see who sends you to h.e.l.l."

As if impelled by the voice, Lawrence turned his head and looked into the blazing eyes of Billy. Her face was distorted with rage and hate.

Her horse stood almost over Lawrence and her revolver was pointed at his breast.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Her revolver was pointed at his breast.]

But no sooner did her eyes meet Lawrence's than she gave a start of surprise. A change came over her face and her hand trembled. The muzzle of the revolver sank, was raised, but once more was lowered.

"You--you," she whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "Oh, G.o.d! How can I take your life.

You tried to save my father. You pitied me. You--" A softer expression came over her face. She seemed to forget where she was and she whispered, "Then--then I was a girl, an innocent girl, but now--" her voice rose to a shriek. "Now I am a devil; but live; I cannot shoot."

The sound of galloping horses was heard and shouts. Lawrence looked and saw Harry and Jack almost onto them, their revolvers levelled on Billy.

"Great G.o.d! don't shoot!" he shouted; and to Billy, "Fly! Fly."

She sank her spurs into her horse and bending low over his neck was away like an arrow, but no avenging bullet followed her.

In a moment Harry and Jack were at Lawrence's side and helped him to his feet. "Captain, you're wounded," cried Harry. "Your side is all b.l.o.o.d.y."

He tore away the coat and shirt.

"Thank Heaven, it's not deep," he exclaimed, "but bleeds freely. How did it happen?"

"I was about to cut down Red Jerry when I received this wound from behind. The same shot must have struck my horse in the back of the head, for he went down like a log."

"And the guerrilla who shot you was the same you told us not to shoot?"

"Yes. She was a woman and she spared my life. I will tell you all about it, but not now."

It was noon before all the men returned from pursuing the guerrillas. Of the band not more than thirty escaped, and most of these by taking to the woods.

When Lawrence gathered his little troop together he found that three had been killed and six wounded, three of them grievously. Of the guerrillas, twenty-five had been slain outright, as many badly wounded, and twenty prisoners had been taken.

Some of the men were for shooting the prisoners. "Red Jerry would not have spared us," they exclaimed.

Lawrence immediately put an end to such talk. "If any of the men have committed crimes that merit death," he said, "they should be convicted by a court-martial. No soldier has a right to put a defenceless man to death for revenge. Barbarity begets barbarity, while mercy appeals to the hearts of the most depraved."

He then told them how his life had been spared by the dreaded wife of Red Jerry.

There was no more talk of shooting the prisoners, and Lawrence noticed that not one of them was insulted or treated brutally.

The Federals remained on the battlefield for three days, caring for the wounded, and Lawrence had it given out that anyone who cared might come to claim the dead or carry away the badly wounded without being molested. The news spread and soon the camp was filled with weeping women and wailing children. Even some men came when they found they could do so safely. From the number of dead and wounded claimed, Lawrence thought Jerry's band must have been made up princ.i.p.ally from the neighborhood.

At the end of three days Lawrence began his return march. A couple of farm wagons were pressed into service to convey the wounded. With the slightly wounded who were able to travel he took back with him thirty prisoners and fifty-five horses.

Great was the rejoicing when Rolla was reached, and the success of the expedition became known. Lawrence received a congratulatory message from General Schofield, highly praising him. But there was one Federal officer who did not congratulate Lawrence. Captain Dunlay felt too mortified over his own failure.

Red Jerry still lived. Lawrence had wounded him not only in the arm, but in the thigh. Secreted in the fastnesses of the hills, and tenderly cared for by his wife, he nursed his wounds and thirsted for revenge.

Terrible were his imprecations against Lawrence and terrible would be his revenge if ever he got him in his power.

It was fated that he and Lawrence should never meet again. Jerry lived to organize another band and he became even more merciless than ever, and by his side rode his wife, as merciless as he. But there was one secret she never told her husband--that was, that she had spared the life of Lawrence Middleton.

CHAPTER XIX

MARK HAS A RIVAL

It was in September when Mark returned from his last trip. He was so thin and pale that Mr. Chittenden insisted on his taking a few weeks of absolute rest. These weeks were the happiest, as well as the most miserable, that Mark had ever spent. Happy because he was thrown continually in the company of Grace, miserable because he felt a great love springing up in his heart which must never be spoken.

A thousand times he resolved to flee. It would be so easy for him to go on one of his secret missions and never return. But he kept putting off the evil day; it was so near heaven to be near her, to see her every day. He believed he would be content if he could only live as he was always. In his imagination he had invested Grace with more than human attributes, and worshipped her from afar, as he would some angelic being.

Did Grace know the feeling Mark Grafton had for her? The eyes often speak more eloquently than words, and Mark's eyes told her the story of his devotion a hundred times a day. But this knowledge, instead of drawing Grace to him, piqued her. If he loved her why did he remain silent? In all the books she had read, lovers were not backward in telling of their love. But after all, she was glad he was silent, for she was doubtful of her father's approval, and there was that mystery that hung over him, a mystery she had not solved as yet.

"Mark, you are deceiving us," she said boldly one day. "You are not what you pretend to be."

Mark started, but soon recovered his composure. "What makes you think so, Grace?" he asked quietly.

"Because you have represented yourself as a poor, friendless, private soldier. Now, I know you were raised a gentleman. You need not deny it."

"Is that all? I thought--" he stopped.

"Thought what?" asked Grace.

"Nothing, only I am sorry you have such a poor opinion of me, Grace. In saying I am poor and friendless I have not deceived you. I am as poor and as friendless as I have represented."

"But in other things you are silent. You have never told me a word of yourself, of your early life. You only say you are an orphan. Mark, you are not what you pretend. You are holding back something, and I don't like it. Mark, what is it? You can surely trust me as you would a sister."

A look of pain came over Mark's face. "Grace, don't think evil of me,"

he faltered. "Think of me as a friend, a friend who would willingly die for you, but never anything more than a friend."

He turned away and left her confused, confounded. She saw that he was suffering, but she was angry. He had refused to confide in her. He had even hinted she might think more of him than was wise.

That night as she lay in bed thinking of what he had said, tears of hot anger filled her eyes, "Would die for me," she whispered, "but would never be more than a friend. Who asked him to be more? He is nothing but a presumptuous boy and should be punished." For the next two or three days she was decidedly cool to Mark.

By the first of November Mark felt he had fully recovered his health, and except for his arm he was as well as he ever would be. He told Mr.

Chittenden so, and that it was not right for him to stay longer. But Mr.

Chittenden asked him not to go, as he had some work he could help him in. He had orders to gather all the provisions and forage possible. A train was coming from Arkansas to get it. Then, some time in the month, a body of recruits from the northern part of the State were expected.

Supplies must be gathered for them.