CHAPTER IX
As the cavalcade passed from the driveway into the high road, which ran east and west, Dan McGrew spoke quickly.
"We'll ride toward the town."
Lou turned her horse obediently, according to his direction.
"But why?" she demanded, wonderingly. "We might meet—him."
"That's a risk we must run," was the decisive answer. "When we are well out of sight of the house, we'll cut around through the fields, and get back into the road below. So, if they come after us, they'll start the pursuit in the wrong way."
In this fashion, the matter was carried out. Half an hour later, the three were back on the high-road, riding in the direction opposite to that in which they had started. They went forward rapidly through the hot hours of the afternoon, but not too rapidly, in order that the horses might hold out for the long journey. Nell, from time to time, would have questioned her mother over this strange outing. She became a little petulant, fretful from balked curiosity. But the mother was not minded to explain as yet. It required all her powers of self-control to maintain a fair degree of composure in this time of trial. She knew that any attempt to make plausible explanations to the girl would overtax her strength, and cause collapse.
Night drew down on the travelers. With its coming, the storm, which had been threatening in the sultry air, broke furiously. Within the minute, the three were drenched. Dan was disturbed by the discomfort thus inflicted on mother and child, as well as himself, but pressed on stubbornly, since no relief was possible. Presently, however, as he asked a question concerning roads and distances, Lou had an inspiration:
"We can cut off eight or ten miles by not going through Salisbury, to which this road runs. We can ford the river, and beyond it's open range to Hoytsville. Then we'll strike the high-road again."
Dan questioned her closely, and was convinced by her replies.
"I've ridden it often with—with Jim," she said. There was a catch in her throat at utterance of the name. "I think it would be quite safe, even in the dark."
Dan agreed as to the advisability of her plan. Presently, then, the three turned out of the road, and moved toward the river, which, Lou explained, ran through a little valley just beyond. The rain had ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The passing of the storm had cleared the air. The oppressive heat of the afternoon and evening was gone. Now, a chill breeze was blowing. It pierced the drenched garments of the three, so that they shivered with cold. Lou became alarmed lest Nell should suffer some ill consequence from this exposure. As they descended the slope that ran down to the river-bank, she spoke suddenly.
"Let's stop here for a little rest," she suggested; and her voice was so anxious that Dan hardly dared refuse. For that matter, he had had something of the sort in his own mind.
"It's imprudent," he answered; "but, if we must, why, we must, I suppose."
"I don't think it's really imprudent," Lou maintained. "There are trees and bushes along the river-bank to hide us and the horses. Anyhow, we're out of sight from the road. Could you build a fire?"
"If I can find any wood dry enough to burn," was the rather doubtful response.
They halted on the edge of a grove, which grew close to the river. Dan led the horses within the concealment of the trees, and tied them as best he could with his chilled fingers. He had difficulty in finding dry leaves and branches for the fire, but, in the end, succeeded in making a blaze. Soon, the three were grouped close around the flame, grateful for the heat, which relaxed their stiffened muscles, and sent up steaming vapors from their wet garments. After a little, Dan left the fire for a look at the river, which was to be forded at this point. He could see only very indistinctly, for scudding masses of black cloud hid moon and stars. As nearly as he could make out, the river was about fifty yards in width, its surface almost flush with the bank on which he stood. In the darkness of the night, the vaguely seen stream appeared somehow disquieting, as if in treacherous waiting Dan McGrew, looking on it, felt a shiver that was not from the cold. He turned away, with an impatient curse for his moment of weakness. Lou had said that the utmost depth of water in this shallow creek would not reach to the stirrups. Yet, despite self-contempt over his feelings, Dan experienced a depression of spirit for which he could in no wise account, as he returned to the fire.
It was perhaps an hour after their arrival in the grove that the man's alert ears caught a thudding of hoofs upon the high-road from which they had turned aside. He listened and made sure that the riders—for there were several—were following the road toward Salisbury and Hoytsville, at full speed. Had they been going in the opposite direction, they could have been disregarded. But, under the circumstances, their presence seemed a sure indication that pursuit in the right direction had been begun. To escape them, it would be necessary to press forward with all haste, taking advantage of Lou's plan for a shorter distance.
Even while his thoughts were formulating this decision, Dan had taken prompt measures of precaution against discovery. He had scattered the glowing embers with thrusts of his feet, and had stamped upon them, until they were completely extinguished.
"We must ride instantly," he said, in an authoritative voice to Lou, who acquiesced at once. For she, too, had heard the galloping through the night and had guessed its meaning.
Dan hurried to unfasten and lead out the horses. When he was come to the place where he had tied them, he could distinguish in the faint light only the two larger mounts. Instantly, the apprehension that had been so formless crystallized in definite fear of a possibility, which, in the following moment, was proven fact. Dan cursed again over the clumsiness of his cold-stiffened fingers, which had caused such a mishap. More than ever, now, he detested the presence of the child with him and Lou, for it was likely to prove a serious encumbrance in their further flight. He called softly, but there came no nicker of response from the pony. He explained to Lou and Nell what had happened, and, at his request, the girl called, in hope that her pet would hear the summons and obey her voice, if not another's. But, again, there was no response. A search, Dan knew, would be useless, since the escaped pony might be already miles distant, on its way to the ranch.
"I'll take Nell on behind me," Dan announced roughly. "It's the only way."
Within a minute, Lou and Dan were mounted. Then, Dan bent over, and swung the girl up to a seat behind him.
"Hold on tight," he commanded.
The girl obeyed passively. What with the cold and the soaking and the loss of her pony, and this dreadful river which they were about to enter, and the strangeness of everything, the child was frightened and miserable. She was sobbing very softly, and the sound irritated Dan McGrew.
"You lead, Lou," he ordered, "since you know the way. You can see well enough?" he asked anxiously. "You're sure that you know the way?"
"Yes," was the confident reply. "But the water is higher than I've ever seen it. Why, it's up level with the bank, almost."
"Is it safe, then?" Dan demanded.
"We must risk it, anyhow," Lou returned. "If we go by the road now, they'll be waiting for us ahead."
"If the creek's as shallow as you said, I guess we can manage it, all right," was the man's decision. "There must have been a cloud-burst somewhere in the mountains where the stream rises. We got the tail end of the storm—and that was a plenty!" he added savagely. "Let's be off."
Lou led the way as he had bidden her. She rode a furlong down the bank of the stream, to a point beyond the grove where she and her husband had entered the water for the crossing. As the horse stepped reluctantly down the shelving bank into the current, a qualm of dismay stirred in the woman. She could not doubt that the rush of the water as it came swirling about the horse's legs was much more violent than it had been on those other occasions when she had ridden through it. And, too, there was something strangely dispiriting in the combined effects of the black tide and the ominous gloom of the night beneath a heaven hidden by the masses of scurrying clouds. She looked back, as her horse advanced with laggard pace into the deepening water. She craved the comfort of companionship in this horrible time and place. Her eyes could make out only a silhouette that moved a little way behind her. She could not perceive any detail there in the darkness. But she knew that Dan McGrew rode close at hand, and with him, though invisible, rode her daughter, Nell—the one thing dear left to her in all the world. So, she went forward bravely enough, though her mood was as black as the blackness of the night that hung upon her in a smothering pall of weariness.
The water deepened and flowed with more fierceness. It reached to the horse's belly. The steed snorted in affright. Then, it lost its footing, and sank until only its head, with the nostrils lifted high, was clear of the water. Lou cried out at the shock, as she found herself immersed in the coil of waters. But, even as she screamed, she threw herself out of the saddle, to relieve the mare of her weight, and swam, holding to the pommel of the saddle. Her horse fought its way forward, breasting the flood valiantly. At an oblique angle to the force of the current, the woman and her steed won slowly to the shore.... Her own cry and the splash of her body, as she threw herself from the saddle, had shut from the mother's ears another shriek that had broken the silence of the night.
Dan's mount, troubled by its increased burden, was more reluctant even than Lou's had been to advance through the lashing currents of the swollen river. It had held back, in spite of Dan's urging, so that it was at some distance in the rear, when, at last, it slipped, and scrambled wildly to regain its footing—only to fail and plunge beneath the surface, borne down by the weight it carried. It was in the second before the two riders were finally submerged that Nell voiced her terror in a shrill cry. The noise of it rang in Dan's ears, confusing him. But it was strangled in the second of its birth by the enveloping waters. As he struggled out of the saddle, holding his breath, Dan became aware that the girl was no longer on the horse. She was not clinging to him. She had gone from him out into the mystery of the black night and the hungry river. He realized that her cry had been that of despair, as the force of the current wrested the child from her hold on horse and man. Dan's head came above the surface, and he floated easily enough, supported by a hand on the swimming horse. Even his iron nerves were shaken by the calamity. There was no further sound out of the stillness of the night, save the rippling murmur of the water as the horse swam onward. Dan was aware that he could do nothing toward the girl's rescue. Already, the hurrying current must have carried her far beyond his reach. It seemed clear enough that Nell must have lost consciousness at once after being swept down into the element. Otherwise, she must have cried out again—and there had come no second cry. Strong man as he was, Dan McGrew felt himself helpless in the grasp of circumstance. There was nothing that he could do to avert or to mitigate the tragedy. He could only go forward helplessly, leaving the unfortunate girl to her fate. The suddenness, as well as the dreadfulness of the catastrophe, sickened him. Later on, he might rejoice over this summary removal of one who must have proved an obstacle in his path. But, just now, his emotion was of dismay—a dismay strange to his experience. Beyond the natural horror aroused in him by the accident, Dan McGrew found himself almost in despair over what must come to pass when the mother should learn of her daughter's death. He knew well that Nell was the one treasure that remained in the mother's heart. The loss of this last possession would rend her being to its depths, and leave her utterly desolate. The first effect from knowledge of the tragedy would be that the mother would not go a step further, until after the river had been searched, and her daughter's body recovered. Such a delay would be fatal to the plotter's every hope.... At once, Dan McGrew forgot his horror, his despair. He began again his plotting—to the end that the mother should not learn the truth too soon.
When, finally, his horse gained a footing, near the other bank of the river, Dan McGrew had matured a plan to suffice for the moment. Beyond that, he could not see his way. The future lay in the lap of the gods.
On dry land again, Dan reined in the horse, which welcomed the respite gladly after its battling with the river. He listened, and soon heard Lou calling his name. From the sound of her voice, he knew that she was at some distance from him, further up the stream. He sent a cheery shout in answer to her hail. Then, he rode forward slowly and cautiously through the darkness, which was so deep that he could hardly see to pick a way among the bushes and trees that lined the bank of the creek. And Dan McGrew blessed fate for that darkness. Lou's voice came again, near at hand. Now, Dan could perceive the vague outline of her form against the background of the sky, as she sat her horse on the crest of the little knoll that rose from the river's brim.
"We're all right," he cried, and his voice was full of content. "But I don't think much of your easy ford, Lou. It was a nasty crossing." Then his voice rang sharply, imperiously: "But we must hurry on, if we are to gain anything for all our trouble."
"And you're all right, then?" Lou asked. There was a note of vast relief in her voice. "You're all right, you—and Nell?"
Dan McGrew's voice came with an emphasis of sincerity:
"We're all right, Nell and I." Again his voice came insistently:
"Ride on, Lou. We'll follow."
Lou called out once again, and the music of her voice was very tender:
"It will only be for a little longer, Nell. Mother's brave darling!"
Dan's voice came roughly, to cover the lack of any response from the child.
"Hurry, Lou! Hurry! We'll follow."
Wholly unsuspicious, Lou rode on her way amid the shadows of the night. She had no least instinct to warn her that now, at last, she had lost everything her life had held dear. There was still the torture that had come when she had learned the baseness of her husband. But she could not guess the last evil that was upon her. So, she rode swiftly through the night. Always, even when they came into the road at Hoytsville, Dan rode a little in the rear. Lou looked back from time to time. She could see the outlines of man and horse. She could not see the form of her daughter; the bulk of the man hid even its shadow from her eyes. But the fact that she could not see caused no fear in her, and she rode swiftly, as contented as one may be when the sweetness of life has changed to abomination.
It was not till they came to the outskirts of the little city, through which the main line of the railroad ran, that Lou learned the truth. It was under the lights of the streets that she turned, and looked, and saw Dan McGrew close behind her—and saw that there was none clinging at his back. She stared disbelievingly. Then, a ghastly fear leaped within her.
"Nell!" she cried.
Her voice was strained and shrill, broken with dread. "Nell!" she repeated, in a tone muffled by terror. "Where is she?" She turned her horse sharply and reined it to Dan McGrew's side. Motionless, the two regarded each other through seconds that were as ages.
Finally, Dan McGrew spoke:
"She was torn away when we were swept under," he said; and his voice was very compassionate. "I did what I could. There was no way to save her. She only cried out once. She must have gone down immediately."
Lou sat rigid, gazing with eyes that widened and burned in flames under which the man before her cringed. And then, of a sudden, the fires of her gaze were quenched. It was as if a black flood rolled over her as well, and extinguished the very last sparks of her spirit. The lids slowly fluttered down to closing. Under the blue white of the arc-light, her face was that of a dead woman. The last blow of fate in that frightful day had overwhelmed her. She tottered in her saddle. Dan McGrew, watching fearfully this thing that had come to pass through his machinations, leaped, and stood, and caught the fainting woman as she fell.
He remained motionless there for a full minute, with the lifeless body in his arms. For once, he found himself perplexed, incompetent. But, abruptly, his thoughts cleared. Something of his usual self-confidence, so greatly shaken this night, came back to him. He smiled with a cruel, utterly selfish satisfaction.
"It's the best way out," he muttered to himself. "I'll get her into some quiet place. She'll need a lot of nursing before she gets over all this. I'm sorry for Lou, but it had to be; and it's all for the best."
With that monstrous declaration concerning the evil that he had wrought, Dan McGrew strode forward toward the nearest house, carrying the unconscious woman in his arms.