“If I can make the bottom, and get him safe on that path to the cave before they see him— O, God, help me!” She thought of the boy’s old slave mother, waiting and trusting for his promised help to rescue her from bondage, and lashed her horse again. With a firm hand she held the lines, her eyes on the road ahead and her touch guiding the horse along the safest track. With a jerk they stopped short at the bottom of the hill and she pulled away the coverings.
“Get up, quick!” she warned. “They’ve followed us, and you must hide. Climb that fence—do you see that path over there? Run down that—it will bring you to a thicket of hazel bushes. Behind them, in the hill, there is a cave. You’ll be safe there, until I or some one comes for you. But don’t stir out of it until you hear the word, ‘Canada,’ three times. They’re right behind us—run fast!”
He needed no more warning, but was over the fence and speeding like a deer along the faint pathway. There was no foliage now to screen his figure and he would have to get beyond the bend in the hill, where the path dropped downward again, before he would be safe from sight. Rhoda gave one quick backward glance—they had not yet come into view. The fleeing mulatto reached the big rock, turned it, and disappeared. With a little catch in her breath she gathered up her lines, straightened the carriage robes and urged her horse forward again. There was no need of haste now, and the sooner the interview with the marshal was over the sooner he would go back and leave her free to bring the boy from his hiding place and go on her way. So she let the horse slowly climb the rise, while she heard the pursuing party clattering down the other slope. Presently they were beside her.
“Miss Ware, by authority of the law, I shall have to search your buggy,” said the marshal’s voice, at the wheel. One of his men rode to the horse’s head and seized the bridle.
“What for?” she asked, with well-simulated surprise.
“You are under suspicion of concealing in it a fugitive slave. I know that he was hidden in your woodshed”—Rhoda’s heart sank and she felt her eyelids quiver—“as late as this afternoon. But you got him out before we reached there, and came out on this road by a roundabout way. We’ve had our eyes on your father for a long time. And now I reckon we’ve caught him, and you too!”
Rhoda looked at him and was able to command a smile. “Excuse me,” she said politely, “but how many did you say you thought I had concealed in this buggy?”
“Only one,” the marshal answered curtly. “You can get out if you want to while we examine it.”
She jumped to the ground and stood by, smiling, while they took out the rugs and looked under the seat.
Disappointed glances passed from one to another. Evidently, they had felt sure they would find the missing slave in her buggy. Rhoda took off her wrap and shook it ostentatiously. “You see, I haven’t got him concealed about my clothing. You can search my pocket too, if you like,” she added innocently.