interposed Calhoun, “except to vessels at sea. It’s precious cold, I know; but – ”
“You’ll find it worse than cold, sir,” interrupted the young horseman, “if you’re not quick in getting out of its way. Mr Poindexter,” he continued, turning to the planter, and speaking with impatient emphasis, “I tell you, that you and your party are in peril. A norther is not always to be dreaded; but this one – look yonder! You see those black pillars?”
“We’ve been wondering – didn’t know what to make of them.”
“They’re nothing – only the precursors of the storm. Look beyond! Don’t you see a coal-black cloud spreading over the sky? That’s what you have to dread. I don’t wish to cause you unnecessary alarm: but I tell you, there’s death in yonder shadow! It’s in motion, and coming this way. You have no chance to escape it, except by speed. If you do not make haste, it will be too late. In ten minutes’ time you may be enveloped, and then – quick, sir, I entreat you! Order your drivers to hurry forward as fast as they can! The sky – heaven itself – commands you!”
The planter did not think of refusing compliance, with an appeal urged in such energetic terms. The order was given for the teams to be set in motion, and driven at top speed.
Terror, that inspired the animals equally with their drivers, rendered superfluous the use of the whip.
The travelling carriage, with the mounted men, moved in front, as before. The stranger alone threw himself in the rear – as if to act as a guard against the threatening danger.
At intervals he was observed to rein up his horse, and look back: each time by his glances betraying increased apprehension.
Perceiving it, the planter approached, and accosted him with the inquiry:
“Is there still a danger?”
“I am sorry to answer you in the affirmative,” said he: “I had hopes that the wind might be the other way.”
“Wind, sir? There is none – that I can perceive.”
“Not here. Yonder it is blowing a hurricane, and this way too – direct. By heavens! it is nearing us rapidly! I doubt if we shall be able to clear the burnt track.”
“What is to be done?” exclaimed the planter, terrified by the announcement.
“Are your mules doing their best?”
“They are: they could not be driven faster.”
“I fear we shall be too late, then!”
As the speaker gave utterance to this gloomy conjecture, he reined round once more; and sate regarding the cloud columns – as if calculating the rate at which they were advancing.
The lines, contracting around his lips, told of something more than dissatisfaction.
“Yes: too late!” he exclaimed, suddenly terminating his scrutiny. “They are moving faster than we – far faster. There is no hope of our escaping them!”
“Good God, sir! is the danger so great? Can we do nothing to avoid it?”
The stranger did not make immediate reply. For some seconds he remained silent, as if reflecting – his glance no longer turned towards the sky, but wandering among the waggons.
“Is there no chance of escape?” urged the planter, with the impatience of a man in presence of a great peril.
“There is!” joyfully responded the horseman, as if some hopeful thought had at length suggested itself. “There is a chance. I did not think of it before. We cannot shun the storm – the danger we may. Quick, Mr Poindexter! Order your men to muffle the mules – the horses too – otherwise the animals will be blinded, and go mad. Blankets – cloaks – anything will do. When that’s done, let all seek shelter within the waggons. Let the tilts be closed at the ends. I shall myself look to the travelling carriage.”
Having delivered this chapter of instructions – which Poindexter, assisted by the overseer, hastened to direct the execution of – the young horseman galloped towards the front.
“Madame!” said he, reining up alongside the carriole, and speaking with as much suavity as the circumstances would admit of, “you must close the curtains all round. Your coachman will have to get inside; and you, gentlemen!” he continued, addressing himself to Henry and Calhoun – “and you, sir;” to Poindexter, who had just come up. “There will be room for all. Inside, I beseech you! Lose no time. In a few seconds the storm will be upon us!”
“And you, sir?” inquired the planter, with a show of interest in the man who was making such exertions to secure them against some yet unascertained danger. “What of yourself?”
“Don’t waste a moment upon me. I know what’s coming. It isn’t the first time I have encountered it. In – in, I entreat you! You haven’t a second to spare. Listen to that shriek! Quick, or the dust-cloud will be around us!”
The planter and his son sprang together to the ground; and retreated into the travelling carriage.
Calhoun, refusing to dismount, remained stiffly seated in his saddle. Why should he skulk from a visionary danger, that did not deter a man in Mexican garb?
The latter turned away; as he did so, directing the overseer to get inside the nearest waggon – a direction which was obeyed with alacrity – and, for the first time, the stranger was left free to take care of himself.
Quickly unfolding his serape – hitherto strapped across the cantle of his saddle – he flung it over the head of his horse. Then, drawing the edges back, he fastened it, bag-fashion, around the animal’s neck. With equal alertness he undid his scarf of China crape[59]; and stretched it around his sombrero[60] – fixing it in such a way, that one edge was held under the bullion band, while the other dropped down over the brim – thus forming a silken visor for his face.
Before finally closing it, he turned once more towards the carriole; and, to his surprise, saw Calhoun still in the saddle. Humanity triumphed over a feeling of incipient aversion.
“Once again, sir, I adjure you to get inside! If you do not you’ll have cause to repent it. Within ten minutes’ time, you may be a dead man!”
The positive emphasis with which the caution was delivered produced its effect. In the presence of mortal foeman, Cassius Calhoun was no coward. But there was an enemy approaching that was not mortal – not in any way understood. It was already making itself manifest, in tones that resembled thunder – in shadows that mocked the darkness of midnight. Who would not have felt fear at the approach of a destroyer so declaring itself?
The ex-officer was unable to resist the united warnings of earth and heaven; and, slipping out of his saddle with a show of reluctance – intended to save appearances – he clambered into the carriage, and ensconced himself behind the closely-drawn curtains.
To describe what followed is beyond the power of the pen. No eye beheld the
crape – black silk or cotton material
sombrero – a broad-brimmed Spanish or Mexican hat made of straw or felt
