"My God, men!" he exclaimed, choking. "That's Harwood's nigger. Turn the body over, Green—ah! the poor devil was knifed. Here, a half dozen of you, unsling carbines, and follow me—there's been dirty work done. Sergeant, don't let your men destroy those hoof-prints in the road. Lively now, lads!"
I advanced with them up the driveway, fearful that if I held back, it might later be commented upon. The front door refused admittance, but we entered from the rear. Everything within was exactly as I had left it, and in the parlor, still dark because of closed blinds, lay the lifeless body of Harwood. Fox fell upon his knees beside the motionless form, ordering the windows thrown open, his hands touching the lifeless flesh.
"Dead for hours," he exclaimed in a tone of horror, turning his gaze upon me. "Struck from behind—see, Raymond. What in God's name can this mean?"
He began searching the pockets.
"Not robbery—for here is money, and a watch. But the papers are gone, every scrap of them." He looked about at the men. "The Major had his papers with him, did he not, Chambers?"
"Yes, sir," and the young, boyish soldier addressed straightened up. "I was with him when he put on citizen's clothes, and he slipped a big buff packet into his pocket."
Fox's bewildered glance met mine.
"Do you know what that packet contained, Captain?" I questioned.
"Only that it was entrusted to his care by General Ramsay, and its destination was the army on the Potomac."
"To be forwarded by this man Taylor?"
"I do not know. Harwood expected to meet Taylor here at Hot Springs, but I think there were others to be here also. The Major kept his own counsel, but something I overheard caused me to believe his engagement with Taylor was of a more private nature. Chambers was his clerk, perhaps he knows."
The lad shook his head, his eyes on the dead man.
"I'm certain those papers were not meant for him, sir," he answered slowly. "They were to be given to a scout named Dailey. It was some other business that brought the Major here all alone—but he never told me."
There was nothing further to be discovered, and Fox realized the necessity of haste. His orders were prompt. Four men were detailed to bury the body, and then rejoin the column as soon as possible. The others were marched back to the gate, and remounted. Taylor had apparently made no effort to conceal his trail, the hoof-prints of his horse showing clearly now daylight had returned. He had ridden south at a sharp trot, and Fox, satisfied as to this fact, ordered his men forward. The gait at which we rode rendered conversation impossible, although my horse easily kept stride beside the Captain. More and more clearly the strangeness of my position was borne in upon my mind—here I was in Federal uniform, in a column of blue-clad cavalry, riding desperately in pursuit of a fugitive. It was all a series of strange accidents, and I could not figure out how I was to extricate myself from the position I had been compelled to assume. I had been accepted without question, and there was no excuse I could urge for escape. And how would I better my condition if I discovered one? If Taylor was a Confederate he would head directly for Covington, and, as soon as this was determined, this little squad of troopers would abandon pursuit. He had several hours start, and it would be foolhardy to attempt to overhaul the fellow. But if the man turned west—and surely there must be a crossroad below—Fox would keep on indefinitely. The Captain was of bulldog breed, if I was any judge of character, and his one thought now was the capture of Harwood's murderer. Such a course would bring us into the very heart of Green Briar, where my connection with this squad of troopers would serve me well.
It was an hour later when we came suddenly to the fork, the south branch leading over a long clay hill, the west along a rocky ridge. Fox sprang to the ground, and followed the faint prints of the horse we were pursuing for a hundred yards on foot. Some cattle had passed southward, but there was a defect in the shoe of the animal Taylor rode clearly revealed in the clay. The Captain came back, a grim smile on his lips.
"The cuss was no Johnny Reb," he said shortly. "That was what I was afraid of, but now I know what to do. We'll save our horses, men, for this is going to be a long ride—that murdering devil is headed for the Green Briar. This is the lower Lewisburg road." He swung up into saddle. "Green, take three men ahead with you, and keep half a mile in advance. Watch out carefully, for there may be graybacks along here. Going with us, Lieutenant?"
"About the best thing I can do," I replied readily, "my orders were for Green Briar and Fayette."
"All right, then, but they had small respect for your life when they sent you in there. From all I hear it is like a menagerie of wild animals broken loose—good fighting anywhere. Only trouble will be there is so much at home there will be no need for the boys to enlist. However that's your affair, not mine." His eyes surveyed his men keenly. "Loosen carbines! Forward march! Trot!"
Silently, save for the jingle of accoutrements, and the thud of horses' feet, we rode westward, sunlight flecking the dusty uniforms. The pike dipped down into a hollow, and, climbing the hill beyond, appeared the figures of the four scouts. Far away was the haze of the mountains.
CHAPTER VI THE NIGHT ATTACK
THE incidents of that ride do not remain with me in any special clearness of detail. In fact it was comparatively uneventful, the road apparently little used at any time, and now absolutely deserted except for our party. In all probability the fugitive had chosen it for this very reason, aware of its loneliness. Taylor also must have held in contempt any possible pursuit, as he made no attempt at concealing his trail. We followed as rapidly as the condition of our horses would warrant, but we were soon aware that the murderer was steadily increasing the distance between. The man evidently knew the country, and had friends. There were few houses visible, and these were completely deserted on our arrival, yet at some of them the fugitive must have found food, and at one a fresh mount. We marked where the old horse, with the broken shoe identifying it, had been led aside into the bushes, and then the hoof-prints of another animal, of longer stride, appeared in the dirt road. The trail of the discarded horse led along the bank of a rocky creek, and disappeared utterly within a deep ravine. The print of a bare foot seemed to tell the tale of a boy at the bridle rein.
We rode steadily, keeping well together, conscious that in all probability we were watched by hostile eyes, peering out from behind rock and thicket. The road became rougher, more difficult to travel. There were paths, dim, shadowed by brush, leading off occasionally on either side—possibly to some cabin, and little clearing, hidden and obscure. We foraged through deserted shacks, finding poor reward, yet managed to subsist, although with hunger unsatisfied. The men grumbled, and Fox swore, as all alike realized the uselessness of attempting to overhaul the fleeing man. The impotent pursuit was a joke to him, already safe in the foothills, and guarded from surprise. Long before night came the captain comprehended the fact that we were on a fool's errand; that his little squad was being lured deeper and deeper into a hostile country, but no opportunity to turn aside presented itself. To return would only bring us closer to the Confederate lines at Covington, and we found no road leading northward. Fox's field map pictured one, however, close at hand, and in the hope of attaining this before darkness finally set in, we pressed the wearied horses desperately. The night overtook us in midst of a mountain solitude. The scouts had discovered a spring at the bottom of a rocky hollow, and there Fox reluctantly
