The King's Arrow: A Tale of the United Empire Loyalists

by H. A. Cody

After awhile he came to the valley where stood the cabin from which he had fled several years before. He knew every foot of the place, for here he had often come with his mother. This was her favorite walk, and he recalled how fond she was of watching him as he played among the trees and by the little brook. He understood now something of what it must have meant to such a woman to live for years in the wilderness, cut off from all social life of which she had been so fond, and meeting no one of her own sex except the few Indian women who occasionally visited the house.

A strong feeling of resentment rose up in Dane's heart against his father who had submitted so noble a woman to such a living death. It had not been his intention to go near the house from which he had been driven. But now a great longing came upon him to descend the valley and view the building at close quarters. Was his father sitting alone there? he wondered, and did he ever think with any degree of fondness of his outcast son?

Drawn by an overmastering impulse he moved rapidly down the valley. Before reaching the clearing where the cabin stood, he turned aside, ascended the right bank, and stopped at length beneath a great pine. Here was a wooden cross, and as Dane stood and looked upon it his eyes grew misty with tears. He remembered, as if it were but yesterday, the morning he and his father had borne hither the frail body of the one who had been everything to him. She had requested that this should be her last resting-place where the storms of winter could not reach the spot, and where the wind would make music in the trees overhead. The day was very bright when they laid her there, and the birds were singing and twittering about them. But for him there was no sunshine, for his heart was almost breaking with grief. He knew that his father felt badly, too, for his voice faltered as he began to read the Burial Service. The grave was covered with snow now, and he wondered if his father ever visited the place. But had the ground been bare, he would have known. The well-worn path leading from the house to the grave would have told its own tale. The big pine knew, and if endowed with the power of human speech it would have told how every day during the summer a lonely man came to that spot and covered the grave with fresh wild flowers, sometimes remaining for hours, often with tears coursing down his cheeks. Had the young man known of this he would not have felt so bitter toward the one who had treated him so harshly.

Leaving at length the spot which was so sacred to him, Dane came to the edge of the clearing. Here he stopped and looked intently at the cabin before him. A light shone through the little window, and he heard sounds of voices within. Then he started and hurried swiftly forward, for loud, coarse oaths fell upon his ears. What he had feared was actually happening. The rebels from the north were there awaiting the coming of the others from the Washademoak. His father, then, had not changed. Would he lead the slashers against the mast-cutters? he wondered. The latter must be warned of their danger, but how could he go out with them and fight against his own father? The thought brought the perspiration in beads to his forehead. What would his mother say and think were she alive?

At first he was tempted to go to the house and peer upon the group within. He banished this idea, however, as he did not wish to see his father in the midst of the miserable slashers. He accordingly swung around to the back of the house and entered upon the trail leading to the river beyond. He paused but once to look back and to listen to the sounds issuing from the cabin. Then, with a troubled mind, he continued on his way.

He had not proceeded far when the storm swept upon him. This affected him but little now, for he was thinking of his father and the days when his mother was alive. Old memories came back to him, aroused by the familiar scenes he had just left behind. His was a nature in which sentiment played a large part. This was somewhat due to his early training when his mother had thrilled him with stories of England's greatness, and the glory of the cross-marked flag. She had also taught him to respect womanhood, and she never wearied of talking to him about the beautiful and noble women she had known and loved in her early days. She also sang sweet, homely songs of love and gallant deeds. All these had influenced him, and made an abiding impression upon his life. It was little wonder, then, that his thoughts were sad as he turned his back upon the rebel-infested cabin which for so many years had been his happy home, and around which such fond associations lingered.

Whenever Dane thought of his mother, Jean Sterling always came into his mind. This was but natural, as they were the only two women he had ever loved. One could never come back to him, but the other was somewhere in the country, and he must find her. He longed for Pete that he might send him in search of Sam. He thought much about what the dying slasher had told him, and he was firmly convinced that the girl was with the loyal Indian.

The travelling was becoming heavier now, and the storm increasing in violence. But still he pressed on, up hill and down, over wind-swept lakes, and bleak stretches of wild meadows. But for the importance of his mission he would have sought the shelter of a friendly clump of bushes, and camped for the night. He had often done so in the past, for he could sleep as comfortably curled up in a nest of fir boughs with the snow weaving its mystic web over him as on a soft bed. But not to-night could he afford to tarry. Too much was at stake, so he must hasten on, no matter how fierce the storm or how hard the trail.

His attention was at length arrested by recently-made marks in the snow. He was woodsman enough to understand that some one was travelling that way, evidently under considerable difficulty. Several times he stopped to examine where the wayfarer had floundered about in the snow in desperate efforts to regain the trail. He wondered who it could be, so he hurried forward hoping to overtake the struggling man, for the thought of a woman never once entered his mind.

He had gone but half a mile when he came to a place where the traveller had left the trail and gone off to the right. He stood debating with himself whether to follow or not, when the sound of a human voice mingled with the roaring of the wind. What was said he could not distinguish, although he was certain that it was a call for help. Hesitating no longer, he surged rapidly forward, keeping careful watch upon the crooked tracks. Someone was in need, he was certain, who had become bewildered, lost the trail, and in despair had uttered a wild cry for help. Such cases were not uncommon, especially in winter, where men had perished, and the great forest had never revealed the secrets.