The Rock of Chickamauga: A Story of the Western Crisis

by Joseph A. Altsheler

He waited for them to pass down the river and out of sight, but at the curve they turned and came back against the stream, the man with the rifle in his hand still keenly watching the western shore, where Dick lay hidden. Neither of them spoke, and the only sound was the swishing of the paddle. The hoot of an owl came from the depths of the forest behind him and he knew that it was a signal. The hair of his head lifted.

He felt the touch of the supernatural. The invisible pursuer was behind him again, and the silent soldiers held the crossing. The hoot of the owl came again, a little nearer now. He was tempted to rise and run, but his will held him back from such folly. His unknown enemy could pursue, because his boots left a deep trail in the soft earth. That was why he had been able to follow again in the morning.

He crept back some distance from the river and then, rising, retreated cautiously up the stream. He caught glimpses of the water twice through the bushes, and each time the canoe was moving up the river also, one man paddling and the other, rifle on his arm, watching the western shore.

Dick had a feeling that he was trapped. Colonel Winchester had been wise to make him wear his uniform, because it was now certain that he was going to be taken, and death had always been the punishment of a captured spy. He put down the thought resolutely, and began to run through the forest parallel with the river. If it were only the firm hard ground of the North he could hide his trail from the man behind him, but here the soil was so soft that every footstep left a deep mark. Yet he might find fallen trees thrown down by hurricanes, and in a few minutes he came to a mass of them. He ran deftly from trunk to trunk, and then continued his flight among the bushes. It broke his trail less than a rod, but it might take his pursuer ten minutes to recover it, and now ten minutes were precious.

The soil grew harder and he made better speed, but when he looked through the foliage he saw the canoe still opposite him. It was easy for them, on the smooth surface of the river, to keep pace with him, if such was their object. Furious anger took hold of him. He knew that he must soon become exhausted, while the men in the canoe would scarcely feel weariness. Then came the idea.

The canoe was light and thin almost like the birch bark Indian canoe of the north, and he was a good marksman. It was a last chance, but raising his rifle he fired the heavy bullet directly at the bottom of the canoe. As the echo of the first shot was dying he slipped in a cartridge and sent a second at the same target. He did not seek to kill the men, his object was the canoe, and as he ran rapidly away he saw it fill with water and sink, the two soldiers in the stream swimming toward the western shore.

Dick laughed to himself. He had won a triumph, although he did not yet know that it would amount to anything. At any rate the men could no longer glide up and down the river at their leisure looking for him to come forth from the forest.

He knew that the shots would bring the single pursuer at full speed, and, as he had saved some ounces of strength, he now ran at his utmost speed. The river curved again and just beyond the curve it seemed shallow to him. He plunged in at once, and waded rapidly, holding his rifle, pistols and saddlebags above his head. He was in dread lest he receive a bullet in his back, but he made the farther shore, ran into the dense undergrowth and sank down dripping and panting.

He had made the crossing but he did not forget to be ready. He rapidly reloaded his rifle, and fastened the pistols at his belt. Then he looked through the bushes at the river. The two canoemen, water running from them in streams, were on the other bank, though a little farther down the stream. He believed that they were no longer silent. He fondly imagined that they were cursing hard, if not loud.

His relief was so great that, forgetting his own bedraggled condition, he laughed. Then he looked again to see what they were going to do. A small man, his face shaded by the broad brim of a hat, emerged from the woods and joined them. Dick was too far away to see his face, even had it been uncovered, but his figure looked familiar. Nevertheless, although he tried hard, he could not recall where he had seen him before. But, as he carried a long-barreled rifle, Dick was sure that this was his unknown pursuer. There had certainly been collusion also between him and the men in the boat, as the three began to talk earnestly, and to point toward the woods on the other side.