XXXII. — A PISTOL-SHOT.
Darke’s deep and gloomy voice ceased to resound, and for a moment the silence of the apartment was only disturbed by the slight creaking made by the chair of the woman, as she quietly rocked backward and forward.
Swartz had risen to his feet while Darke was uttering his final words. With clasped hands, and trembling lips, he was about to throw himself upon his knees;—when suddenly a shot resounded without, a cry was heard, and then this was succeeded by rapid firing, mingled with hoof-strokes, in the immediate vicinity of the house.
Darke rose to his feet, and in two strides was at the window.
“An attack!” he exclaimed. “Can the friends of this carrion be trying to catch me!”
And springing toward the door, he tore it open.
Suddenly, another thought seemed to come to him. Returning at a bound to the side of Swartz, he seized him by the throat, dragged him through the door, and rushed down the steps, still dragging the unfortunate man.
As he passed me, I drew my revolver and fired on him, but the ball did not strike him. Then I saw the woman dart past like a shadow. When Nighthawk and myself reached the foot of the stairs, she and Darke were already in the saddle.
The collar of Swartz was still in his clutch. He seemed determined to bear him off at the risk of being himself captured; for a second glance showed me that a party of Confederate cavalry was rushing headlong toward the house, led by an officer whom I made out to be Mohun.
Darke saw that the small force on picket could not contend with the attacking party.
By the starlight, I could see his face, as he glared over his shoulder at Mohun, whom he had evidently recognized. An expression of profound hate was in that glance; a hoarse growl issued from his lips; and I distinguished the low words addressed to Swartz, whom he was dragging on beside his horse.
“So, you are rescued, you think! You have laid this trap for me, jailbird!”
He drew his pistol as he spoke, and placed it close to the unhappy man’s temple. I had mine in my hand, and, aiming at Darke, fired.
It was too late. The bullet did not strike him; and the report of his own weapon followed that of mine like an echo.
Swartz staggered back, threw up his hands, and uttering a wild cry, fell at full length upon the ground.
The scene which followed was as brief as this tragedy. Mohun charged, at the head of his men, and drove the picket force before him. In five minutes the whole party were dispersed, or captured.
Darke had escaped with the gray woman, in the darkness.
The pursuit did not continue far. The Federal lines were near; and Mohun soon recalled his men.
Grasping me cordially by the hand, he exclaimed:—
“Well, Surry! the prisoner! Where is Swartz?”
I pointed to the spot where his body lay, and went thither with Mohun.
Swartz lay perfectly dead, in a pool of blood. Darke had blown out his brains.