CHAPTER IX.
THE CORPSE OF AN HONEST MAN.
The next morning dawned bright and fair, and the sun was ushered to the world by the merry carol of thousands of feathered songsters. Brightly it dawned upon the settlement on the hill; benignly on the merry, sparkling river; pleasantly over the valley; but never did it fall upon a busier little world than on Dead-Man’s Forest.
Busier?—scarcely. On the edge of the swamp lake were a dozen or more men, peering over at the silent island; angry looks they gave; in the island were the same (almost) number of men, equally reckless and bold, but far more wary and wicked. The dug-out in which Katie had escaped still lay where she had left it; and much Cato (who had rejoined the pursuers) marveled. He knew that something was wrong, else it would have been moored to the island, out of sight; and his eyes, familiar with the island, noted something was wrong there, too.
Usually a faint, blue wreath of smoke curled up from it, but now there was none. It was the hour for the matin meal, too.
Could they have left the island entirely—have disorganized and deserted the old rendezvous? That would account for the presence of the canoe on this side. If so, then his reward was gone, and his easy, vagabond life also, for he should have to hunt, fish and work for the settlers.
This idea was so distasteful to him that he grinned in vexation, and he resolved to “blow the hull t’ing” should it cost him his neck, for he knew the men would be enraged at his part in the abduction. And he had nearly done so when the words of a former speech of Downing’s came to his obtuse memory, “Think twice before you shoot once, and then don’t go off at half-cock.”
Cato the Creeper was a prodigy at pursuing a trail, but he was no thinker, and quite too apt to follow every impulse. So, you see, this little bit of memory was something wonderful. He profited by it.
Noticing a fish-hawk warily wheeling above the slimy black pond, he stepped out prominently upon the log where the trail ended, and gave a shrill cry, an exact imitation of that of the hawk. The bird did not notice it; such birds never do, and Cato, far wiser than sage men of nature, knew it.
But in a few moments another cry, an answer, came from the enchanted, dark-bordered island, low, long, and mournful. Then Cato knew they were still there, that his party was under sharp inspection at that moment, and that something was wrong.
It was well he kept his sable face immovable, for Sol, watching him, heard the answer and saw no corresponding fish-hawk, except that above the lake. However, he might be perched upon some tree on the island. But the sagacious old veteran kept his peace, his counsel, and his eye—on the negro.
“Ef I ain’t fooled, that thar island air what is called Shadder Swamp Island, aint it, Cato?” asked a young man.
“Dat’s de island,” tersely answered Cato.
“What’s this ’ere boat, Cato?” inquired the chief, eying him keenly.
“Dat, Mars’r Jacobs? dat am what am called de dug-out.”
“Wal, yer fool, don’t yer s’pose I know what a dug-out air? I’ve made more of ’em than yer black skin is years old. But I want ter know what it’s doin’ hyar, and who it belongs ter?”
“Mars’r Jacobs, dis niggah’s de igneramus on de subjec’,” he replied, idly tossing bits of sticks into the black water.
“How in thunder, then, did ye know the sign, the signal for them fellers over there?” indicating the island with his thumb.
“Wha—wha—golly, Mars’r Jacobs! am dey ober dare?” stuttered the negro, in perfect astonishment.
“You bet they air! and you giv ’em a signal,” declared Sol, sternly. The negro never lost his self-possession.
“Signal! golly, Mars’r Jacobs, I’se de fr’end ob de gang.”
“What gang? d’ye call them a gang? dum me ef it ain’t sootable.”
Walter here interposed. “For God’s sake, let us be going! where is the trail? have you lost it? Oh, heaven! this delay!”
“Yes, yes; we’ll all go on,” repeated the afflicted and stupefied parent, lighting up a moment. “We’ll all keep on.”
Old Sol glanced at them pityingly, then looked at the trail; they had reached its termination.
“Come, my boy, cheer up. We’ll hev her soon, you bet! we will go on. Hyar’s the eend of the trail, right hyar on this log. Thar’s a canoe—it must go somewhar. We’ll jump in, as many as kin. Air ye all ready, boys?”
“All ready! lead on!”
“All right; jump in, Cato, you’re the pilot.”
But Cato drew back, and leaped from the log, and stood there with an alarmed and perplexed face, looking now to the island, then back to Sol.
“Come; none of yer foolin’! jump in!”
Sol saw his perplexity and smelt a rat. The negro was in a quandary. If he went across with the men, the robbers, as a matter of course, would think he had turned traitor, and he would be shot dead before they had made half the passage. The prospect of being slaughtered by a sudden and unseen bullet was too glaring for him to face—he would rebel. On the other hand, he knew Sol suspected him of treachery, and would enforce his command. If he refused to enter the canoe and fled, he would be brought to a sudden drop by the lightning hand and murderous aim of the ex-Indian-fighter. What could he do? he was in a bad dilemma.
The men looked at him, some in surprise, others in wonder, and the rest, the majority, surlily. He felt that the eyes of both bands were upon him, and that both would kill him in a second if treacherous. He was betwixt two very slippery and bad stools, one of which would be sure to slip. He knew his danger and perceived his only chance—to parley.
“Now, Mars’r Jacobs, an’ de rest ob de berry kind and good mars’rs—don’t fo’ce de pore niggah wha’ nebber done ye harm, ter sich a ter’ble t’ing. Mars’rs, I’se a brack man—I’se one ob de berry best an’ de berry true ob yer fr’ends. I’se de fr’end ob de mars’rs.”
“What is all this tomfoolery?” hastily asked Walter, turning to go on. “Come; do as he tells you, immediately!”
“Oh, Mars’r Waltah, don’t force de pore niggah. Mars’r Waltah—dar’s death ober dar—fo’ God, dar am. Obeah, Mars’r Waltah—dar’s hisn’s place. I’se done b’en ober dar onc’t, mars’r, only onc’t. But dis chile nebber go ag’in. Fur de place am ha’nted, mars’r, by de mos’ ter’ble gosses, an’ ef dis chile done fo’ced ter go, he nebber come back a niggah, sure. Now, don’t, mars’rs—kind an’ berry good mars’rs!”
“Ghosts?” exclaimed several of the most superstitious. Cato saw his chance and doubled the dose. Sinking his voice to a shrill whisper he drew near the log, and glancing fearfully over at the island, muttered:
“Dis am de Forest ob de Dead Man—de man dat runs in de woods ob nights. Mars’rs, I’se done see’d him—I’se done heerd his’n voice. An’ he libs ober yender, an’ he don’ like fur no one ter pester him. He berry mad, mars’rs, w’en he am pestered, an’ he don’ want no one ter set dare foot on de island. He hates de brack man an’ he done swear he’d kill um. Oh, for de lub ob ebery t’ing, mars’rs, don’ send de pore niggah ober dare.”
Several looked at Sol, half-believing the negro’s assertions. That nettled the old veteran, and he thundered out:
“Air ye sech durned fools ter b’lieve his trash? I tell ye thar’s game over thar—thar’s whar we’ll find suthin’. Didn’t ye hear the voice, yesterday evening? Ef yer b’lieve in sperrits, what more can ye want? It told us ter come hyar, and we air goin’ over to that island with the nigger, ef it teks a leg from each man. Now, you mule, get in the canoe afore I make you!”
The negro trembled like an aspen and rolled out some unintelligible phrases, but Sol seized him and thrust him into the dug-out, then sprung in after him. There was room for four more, and these places he gave to Eben, Walter, Dunbar, and a tough, bold, squarely-built young fellow, Hettie’s brother—Jack Dunbar.
Ordering them to place their weapons in readiness he shoved off with the paddle.
“Now, yer fellows,” addressing the men on shore, “ef we’re fired on, jest blaze away at the inimy’s smoke, and watch out for a chance at knockin’ some one over. I b’lieve thar’s robbers over thar. Now keep well peeled!”
He submerged the paddle and began to force his way through the weeds, the water-lilies, and the debris of dismantled, water-soaked limbs and boughs, old and ugly snags, and rotten slime. It was a difficult job. There was a channel, or rather path, but it was known and noticeable only to the robbers and Cato. The latter was glad Sol did not enter it, for he desired to be as long as was possible in making the passage. But chattering with fear, and expecting every second to feel the pang of a robber bullet in his vitals, he sat in the stern, alternately groaning and blaspheming, while Sol paddled on, the others kept in readiness for an attack, and the men on shore were covering the island with their shining gun-barrels.
At last, after tedious and exasperating labor, they left the thick impediments behind, and bowled away in comparatively open water, half-way across. Still no shot from the silent willows, still no defiance shouted, still all was quiet.
They skirted around the fringe of willows until they found the regular landing-place of the robbers. Seeing it, Sol whistled.
“By Judas!” he declared, using his strongest oath, “hyar’s a reg’lar, beaten trail leading up from the water. Now I know thar’s been —— ter pay in these ’ere woods. Ef this air don’t say thar’s a band of rascals hyar, I’m a skunk. Look out, boys, look out, and mind yer eye!”
The dug-out, propelled by a few vigorous strokes, shot up to the landing, while Sol abandoned his paddle and took up his gun. The negro, he saw, was wild with nervous fear. His lips were of a dull, gray, leaden hue, and worked convulsively; his cheeks were sucked in; his ears went back and forth like those of a mule—at any other time a most ludicrous spectacle; while his eyes rolled and dilated, eagerly peering at the willows; Cato the Creeper was very alarmed and excited.
The boat touched the bank, and the occupants, with splendid nerve and coolness, kept their seats, with presented weapons, while the negro beat the air with his hands like a helpless idiot. But still the willows nodded and waved in the gentle breeze, still the men on shore covered them, and still there was no noise, no motion.
Sol rose and stepped ashore, then sinking on his knees beckoned the others to follow. They did so, and soon were all ashore, in a group, with the frightened negro in their midst, behind their bodies for protection.
Several minutes passed in silence, then as all was still, Sol ordered Cato to go back for more men. The negro, somewhat cooler, and thinking to escape when he reached the other shore, gladly availed himself of the opportunity, and getting into the canoe, paddled lustily away. He took the channel this time and was near the shore, congratulating himself upon his lucky escape, when the voice of Sol came to his ears like a knell:
“Bring Cato back with you, boys—don’t let him run off!”
So the negro was forced to sit in the boat while its human cargo was being loaded, though seized again with terror.
The boat was filled, and Cato was about to paddle slowly away when a voice rung out, where they knew not, only it was quite near.
“You had better go back!”
Away in the woods went the echoes, resounding from tree to tree. “Go back!”
Cato dropped his paddle with a yell; the others sprung to their feet, nearly upsetting the dug-out, and looked around. The other two parties heard the voice and were gazing round in surprise. But Cato’s fear was strong and violent, and he trembled; for the voice was the same magnetic, terrible voice he had heard at the Tree.
“Did ye hear that?” asked Jeffries, in a whisper. “Say, did ye?”
It was the same he heard the evening by Hans Winkler’s cabin. It had followed him wherever he had gone, at intervals ringing out its wild cry. What was it?
Cato landed the party, then went back for the few remaining. Then all assembled on the shore, on the border of the robber stronghold.
“Now, boys,” said Sol, “jest hyar’s the place whar them robbers air, I’ll bet money. P’rhaps they’re watchin’ us right now. Wal, boys, I reckon leetle Katie’s hyar, an’ we’d better skulk along toward the middle of the island.”
They crept stealthily on from willow to willow, Sol keeping the reluctant black before him. Suddenly one of the party drew back, with an exclamation, and pointed toward a distant object. Peeping through the saplings, they saw an open space cleared and stumpy. Almost in the center were two large cabins, one of a light color, the other dark. A man with a pale face was leaning in the doorway of the first building, apparently in a brown study, with a pipe in his mouth, evidently unlighted.
They watched the quiet scene before them for some little time; then Sol whispered:
“Thar’s the robber den; thar is a band of robbers, sartain.”
“Ay, but where are they?” asked Walter. “Only one man is visible.”
“Off on a devilish trip, no doubt; it’s durn quiet thar—just like the grave, an’ thet chap stands thar like a statoo. What in thunder makes all so quiet?”
“Pop,” whispered Eben, “p’r’aps thar’s a scheme a-workin’. Mebbe thar’s a dozen men tucked away in this here fringe of willows, awaitin’ fur us ter rush out; then they’ll jest mor’n pepper us.”
“Mebbe. Take two or three along with yer, and beat the bushes. Mind yer eye, now.”
Eben selected three sturdy friends, and they crept and skulked the entire circuit of the island, one party going to the right, the other to the left. They met on the opposite side, having seen nothing. Then they hurried back to the leader. He heard their story, cocked his gun, and said:
“Now thar’s got ter be a charge, and we’ll take ’em by surprise. When I shout and run, follow like wild-cats, but hold your loads. Now!”
He took a quick, true aim at the man, fired, and sprung out into the clearing, followed by the rest. Up the narrow path they dashed, ready to meet and vanquish their foe. To their surprise the sentinel did not fall nor move, neither did he raise his head, but still leaned in the door with his head down.
They rushed toward the cabin and were nearly there when their eyes beheld a sight which caused them to stop in their tracks, astonished.
They saw the cabins were empty; they knew no living robber was on the island; but what startled them more was that the mysterious man was already dead.
Dead! Stiff and cold, with a gashed throat, numberless knife-wounds in his body, with his clothing cut and torn—with a bullet-hole in his forehead, there stood Griffith the scout, propped against the door. He had not died without a struggle, they could see, as there were indications of extreme violence. Griffith was dead!
They searched the cabins through and through, but beyond some very scanty, poor furniture they were entirely empty. They were as far from Katie as ever, and Walter was frantic.
Suddenly, as they stood there in the bright morning sunlight, they heard a voice, seemingly far away in the forest, utter four words. The tone was singularly fierce and commanding, and they all recognized it as the Voice.
“Go back! go back!”
Immediately it was followed by a piercing scream from the pond near the ferry. This was followed by another, wilder and shriller, and in the unmistakable tones of the negro. With one accord they rushed down to the landing.
There they saw Cato paddling for dear life toward them from the center of the lake. His manner was that of one in extreme terror, and with rolling eyes and open mouth he worked with might and main. He was flying from some pursuer, no doubt, as he frequently glanced back nervously. It did not take him long to reach the bank, and as the bow of the craft touched the land, he sprung out and stood regarding the other shore, all on fire.
“What is it, Cato? What’s the matter?” and many others were the questions put to him. He did not at once answer, but, clasping his hands, stood trembling. At length he spoke:
“Oh, mars’rs, sech a ter’ble sight! Oh, ob all de sights dis niggah eber see’d, dat was de wust. Oh, mars’rs, dar’s tr’uble comin’, tr’uble comin’! Dead-Man’s Forest am alibe with sperrits.”
“Come! out with it!” commanded Sol. “Ef thar’s any thing wrong we ought ter know it. It mout be of use ter us.”
“Oh, sar, dare was de biggest man—de daddy ob de world, shore. He had a big bunch on his back—”
“The hunchback!” interrupted Walter.
“Did yer see him, Walt?”
“Yes. But let him go on.”
“And de bunch on his back, an’ de fire a-comin’ out’n his head, and de smoke a-comin’ from his hands, an’ de big white eyes, an’ de white clo’se—oh, mars’r, dis niggah’s in de ground all cobered up.”
“Did he speak?” asked Jeffries, eagerly.
“Oh, sar, dat he did. He stretch an arm out with de smoke a-comin’ from it, an’ he sed, ‘Go back! go back!’ an’ dis niggah done went.”
“The same!” said Jeffries. They turned to him.
“What! did you see it too?” He related the events of the night before the abduction, when he heard the voice in the willows.
Then Walter told of his vain attempt to capture him. They all had heard him, and two had seen him. Curiosity and wonder grew to a great hight, and the fact that Cato had been trying to escape when the apparition appeared to him, was forgotten. Sol brought his gun down with a ring.
“Now, boys,” he said, “thar’s suthin’ up. Ever sence we’ve b’en arter the gal that voice has b’en after us all. Hyar’s the robber den with a dead man in it. Katie’s nowhar ter be found, nyther the feller we think tuk her off. This yar den has b’en abandoned right lately, and I think thar’s robbers and Katie nigh. Now, what have we got toward findin’ her? Nothin’. But, we’ve got ter find her, and she hain’t hyar on this island. So she must be off it. Wal, le’s go back an’ find her. Come on.”
“We’ll tear up Dead-Man’s Forest, but we find her,” shouted the men as they crowded into the boat.
Ten minutes later the island was bare. Bare? no. For in a few moments a man stood in the door of the cabin. Another one appeared; another yet; and in five minutes Captain Downing’s villainous band laughed and talked in front of the cabin. Where had they been concealed?