"Ye make fur thet rock up thar," said Fortner to Harry, pointing to a spot several hundred yards above them, "and stay thar tell Icome.Keep close in the shadder, so's they won't see ye.""It seems to me that I ought to stay with you,' said Harry, indecisively.
"No; go.Ye can't do no good heah.One's better nor two.I'll be up thar soon.Go, quick."There was no time for debate, and Harry did as bidden.
Fortner stepped into the inky shadow of a large rock, against which he leaned.The great broad face of the rock, gray from its covering of minute ash-colored lichens, was toward the pursuers, and shone white as marble in the flood of moonlight.The darkness seemed banked up around him, but within his arm's length it was as light as day.The long rifle barrel reached from the darkness into the light, past the corner of the rock against which it rested.The bright rays made the little "bead" near the muzzle gleam like a diamond, and lighted up the slit as fine as a hair in the hind-sight.Three little clicks, as if of twigs breaking under a rabbit's foot, told that the triggers had been set and the hammer raised.
The horsemen, much scattered by the pursuit, clattered onward.In ones and twos, with wide intervals between, they reached along a half-mile of the road.Two--the best mounted--rode together at the head.Two hundred yards below the great white rock, which shone as innocent and kindly as a fleecy Summer cloud, a broad rivulet wound its way toward the neighboring creek.The blown horses scented the grateful water, and checked down to drink of it.The right-hand rider loosened his bridle that his steed might gratify himself.The other tightened his rein and struck with his spurs.
His horse "gathered," and leaped across the stream.As the armed hoofs struck sparks from the smooth stones on the opposite side, the rider of the drinking horse saw burst out of the white rock above them a gray cloud, with a central tongue of flame, and his comrade fell to the ground.
His immediate reply with both barrels of his shotgun showed that he did not mistake this for any natural phenomenon.The sound of the shots brought the rest up at a gallop, and a rapid fire was opened on the end of the rock.
But the instant Fortner fired he sprang back behind the rock, and then ran under its cover a little distance up the mountain side to a dense laurel thicket, in which he laid down behind a log and reloaded his rifle.He listened.The firing had ceased, and a half-dozen dismounted men were carefully approaching the spot whence he had sent the fatal shot.He heard the Captain order a man to ride back and bring up the wagon, that the body of the dead man might be put in it.As the wagon was heard rumbling up, the dismounted men reported to the Captain that the bushwhacker had made good his escape and was no longer behind the rock.
"Well, he hasn't gone very far," said the Captain with a savage oath."He can't have got any distance away, and I'll have him, dead or alive, before I leave this spot.The whole gang of Lincolnite hellhounds are treed right up there, and not one of them shall get away alive." He put a bone whistle to his lips, and sounded a shrill signal.A horseman trotted up from the rear in response to the call, leading a hound with a leash."Take the dog up to that rock, there, Bill," said the Captain, "and set him on that devil's trail.Five more of you dismount, and deploy there on the other side of the road.All of you move forward cautiously, watching the dog, and make sure you 'save' teh whelp when he is run out."The men left their saddles and moved forward with manifest reluctance.
They had the highly emotional nature usual in the poor white of the South, and this was deeply depressed by the weird loneliness that brooded over everything, and the bloodshed they had witnessed.
Their thirst for vengeance was being tempered rapidly by a growing superstitious fear.There was something supernatural in these mysterious killings.Each man, therefore, only moved forward as he felt the Captain's eye on him, or his comrades advanced.
The dog, after some false starts, got the scent, and started to follow Fortner's footsteps.
"He's done tuck the trail, Cap'n," called back one of the men.
"All right," answered the officer, "don't take your eyes off of him for a second till he trees the game."But the logs and rocks and the impenetrable darkness in the shadows made it impossible to follow the movements of the hound every moment.Only Fortner was able to do this.He could see the great greenish-yellow eyes burn in the pitchy-depths and steadily draw nearer him.They entered the laurel thicket, and the beast growled as he felt the nearness of his prey.
"Wolf must be gitten close ter him," said one of the men.
Fortner laid his rifle across the log, and drew from his belt a long keen knife.He stirred slightly in doing this, and in turning to confront the dog.The hound sprang forward with a growl that was abruptly ended, for Fortner's left hand shot out like an arrow, and caught the loose folds of skin on the brute's neck, and the next instant his right, armed with the knife, descended and laid the animal's shoulder and neck open with a deep cut.But the darkness made Fortner mistake his distance.He neither caught the dog securely, nor sent the knife to his heart, as he intended, and the hound tearing away, ran out into the moonlight, bleeding and yelping.Before he reached his human allies Fortner had silently sped back a hundred yards, to a more secure shelter, so that the volley which was poured into he thicket only endangered the lives of the chipmunks denizened there.The mounted men rode forward and joined those on foot, in raking the copse with charges of buckshot.
