They reached the stable wall and stood there. The guns were silent.
Eagerly every one was gazing. Was the fire dying down? One long minute, and then a dull explosion. A column of flame shot high into the air, a rain of fire spattered down upon the church, and the roof was ablaze.
The white men, ready with their guns, heard a trampling and the smothered cries of horror; and then the church door flew open and out poured Mayo and his men. Three times they charged an opening in the line about the fence, but unseen foes sprang up and mowed them down. But at the last, fighting, desperate, yelling, they broke out of the slaughter-pen and once more were in the woods. And now it was not even a chase. It was a still-hunt.
CHAPTER XXVI.--CONCLUSION.
Late in the afternoon, the news of the rout and the slaughter was received at the Cranceford home. All day Wash Sanders and his men had been sitting about, speculating, with but one stir of excitement, the boom of Mayo"s cannon. But this soon died away and they sat about, swapping lies that were white with the mildew of time. But when news came they sprang astir for now they knew that each man must look after his own home, to protect it from fire. Some of them offered to remain, but Mrs. Cranceford dismissed them, a.s.suring them that her house, being so public, was in no danger. So she was left, not alone, but with a score of women and children.
Afar off the guns could be heard, not in volleys, but the slow and fatal firing of men taking aim. The sun was nearly down when a man climbed over the fence and cautiously walked toward the house. In his hand he held a pine torch. Mrs. Cranceford grabbed a gun and ran out upon the porch.
"What are you doing there?" she demanded.
Larnage, the Frenchman, looked up at her and politely bowed.
"What are you doing there?" she repeated.
"Ah, is it possible that Madam does not suspect?" he replied, slowly turning his fire-brand, looking at the blaze as it licked the stewing turpentine.
"Yes, I do suspect, you villain, and if you don"t throw down that torch this instant I"ll blow your head off."
She brought the gun to her shoulder. He saw her close one eye, taking aim, and he stepped back and let his torch fall to the ground. "It shall be as Madam wishes," he said.
"Now you get out of this yard."
"Madam has but to command."
He pa.s.sed through the gate and turned down the road; and upon him she kept a steady eye. She saw him leave the road and go into the woods.
Not far away was a potato-house, built over a cellar. To this frail structure he set fire. The dry timbers soon fell into the pit, and he stood there as if to warm himself. Night was his time for real work and he would wait. The sun was almost down. He turned away, and looking along the road that wound through the woods, he saw old Gideon coming.
Quickly he hastened to the road-side and stood behind a tree, with a knife in his hand. Gid came slowly along. And just as he came abreast of the tree, his pop-eyes saw the fellow. He threw up his arm and caught the knife on the barrel of his gun; then leaping, with the gun clubbed, he struck at the Frenchman, but the fellow was too quick for him. "Oh, if I only had a cartridge!" the old man said with a groan, running after him. "I"d rather have a load of shot right now than a mortgage on Jerusalem. But I"ll follow you--I"ll get you."
Larnage was running, looking back, expecting to be shot; and stubbing his toe he fell--head-long into the potato-cellar, into the pit of red-hot coals. Ashes and a black smoke arose, and with frightful cries he scrambled out, and with his charred clothes falling off him, he ran to the bayou and plunged headforemost into the water. Gid saw him sink and rise; saw him sink again; and long he waited, but the man did not rise again.
Down along the bayou where negro cabins were thickly set, fires were springing up; and there, running from place to place, following white men who bore torches, was Father Brennon.
"Don"t burn this house!" he cried. "It belongs to the church."
"d.a.m.n the church!" a man replied.
"But this house belongs to an innocent man--he would not seek to kill the whites--he"s gone to the hills."
"I reckon you are right," said the man, and onward he ran, waving his torch, the priest keeping close behind him.
From the woods the men were coming, and as Gid drew near to the Cranceford house he saw Jim Taylor pa.s.sing through the gate; and a few moments later, turning a corner of the porch, he found the giant standing there with his arm about--Louise.
"Ho, the young rabbit!" the old man cried.
"Frog," she laughed, running forward and giving him both her hands.
"Why, how did you get here?" he asked.
"I heard that the militia had been ordered home and I got here as soon as I could. I have been home about two hours and mother and I--but where is father?"
"Hasn"t he come yet? Why, I thought he was here. We"ve all been scattered since the last stand."
"I will go and look for him," said the giant, taking up his gun from against the wall.
"I"m going with you," Louise declared. "Go on in the house, Uncle Gideon, and don"t tell mother where I"m gone. Now, you needn"t say a word--I"m going."
Down the road they went, and out into the woods. Far away they saw the cabins blazing, on the banks of the bayou, and occasionally a gun was heard, a dull bark, deep in the woods.
"You"d better go back," said Jim.
"No, I"m going with you. Oh, but this must have been an awful day--but let us not talk about it now." And after a time she said: "And you didn"t suspect that I was doing newspaper work. They tell me that I did it well, too."
"I read a story in a newspaper that reminded me of you," he said. "It was called "The Wing of a Bird." It was beautiful."
"I didn"t think so," she replied.
"Probably you didn"t read it carefully," said he.
"I didn"t read it carefully enough before I handed it in, I"m afraid,"
she replied.
"Oh, and did you write it?" He looked down at her and she nodded her head. "Yes, and I find that I do better with stories than at anything else," she said. "I have three accepted in the North and I have a book under way. That was the trouble with me, Jim; I wanted to write and I didn"t know what ailed me, I was a crank."
"You are an angel."
He was leading her by the hand, and she looked up at him, but said nothing.
Just in front of them they saw the dying glow of a cabin in coals. A long clump of bushes hid the spot from view. They pa.s.sed the bushes, looking to the left, and suddenly the girl screamed. Not more than twenty yards away stood the Major, with his back against a tree--gripping the bent barrel of a gun; and ten feet from him stood Mayo, slowly raising a pistol. She screamed and s.n.a.t.c.hed the giant"s gun and fired it. Mayo wheeled about, dropped his pistol, clutched his bare arm, and with the blood spouting up between his fingers he turned to flee. Two white men sprang out in from of him, and the Major shouted: "Don"t kill him--he is to be hanged on the public square. I was trying to take him alive--and had to knock down two of his men. Tie him."
He held out his arms to Louise, and with her head on his breast and with mischief in her eyes, she looked up and said: "I have more than a daughter"s claim on you. I have the claim of gallantry and upon this I base my plea."
He rebuked her with a hug and a kiss, saying not a word; but big Jim, standing there, turned about, laughing.
"What are you snorting at, Goliath? Has a David at last sunk a joke into your head? Come, let us go to the house."
"Father," said Louise, "I am going to show you how much I love you. And oh, how I longed to rest in your arms the time you held them out to me, in that desolate hall, the night of death; but I knew that if I yielded I would go back to the nest with my wings untried. I had to go away. I will tell you all about it, and I know that you will not be ashamed of me."
Silently they took their way homeward, choosing a shorter route; and coming upon an oozy place in the woods, Jim said to Louise: "I"m going to carry you in my arms." He did not wait for her to protest, but gathered her in his arms, and her head lay upon his shoulder.