Round Anvil Rock: A Romance

  XIX

  UNDER THE HUNTER'S MOON

  It was not very dark, and all the cleared country rolling widely awayfrom Cedar House could be dimly seen. A gusty wind was driving wildclouds across the stars, and tall cloud mountains rose on the northcovering the great comet; but higher in the dark blue dome of thefirmament the Hunter's Moon swung full and free, casting its wonderfulcrystalline light over the darkened earth.

  This most marvellous of crystal lamps always appears to be shining byits own living radiance, and never to be beaming by the merely reflectedglory that gilds the lifeless Harvest Moon. The Hunter's Moon has indeedno rival among all the lights which heaven lends to the world of night.It is the whitest, the brightest, the most sparkling that ever falls onthe darkness, and it was in truth the hunter's very own. By its light hecould see how to go on with his hunt hours after the close of the shortNovember days, and far into the long November nights, and still find hisway home through the deep heart of the mighty wood.

  So that even on this dreary November night, when its clearness wasdimmed by the flight of the wind-hunted clouds, it was able to lightenin a measure the furthest and darkest reaches of this wild new world. Ittouched the mystery of the burial mound; it lifted the misty windingsheet spread by the swamp; it raised the pall laid along the horizon bythe sable tops of the cypress trees; it reached almost to the darknesshanging over Duff's Fort--that awful and mysterious blackness--which thenoonday sun could never wholly remove.

  But the girl's gaze was not following the moonbeams. Looking neither tothe one side nor the other, she gave a single glance ahead. This wasonly to see that she was going straight toward Anvil Rock by theshortest road. And the one look was enough for she knew that the greatshadowy mass glooming in the dark distance must be what she sought. Andthen bending forward and low over the pony's neck, she sent him onwardby an unconscious movement of her own body. She had known how to ridealmost as long as she had known how to walk--the one was an easy and asnatural as the other. Instinctively she now bent still lower, and stillfarther forward over the pony's neck, as a boy does in riding a race;for she also was riding a great race, and for the greatest of stakes.She did not stop to think how great the stake was; she had not yetrealized that it was the life of the man she loved; she had not yethad time to face the truth, and to know that she loved Paul Colbert. Sheonly realized that she must reach Anvil Rock before Philip Alston couldpass it on his way to Cedar House, or turn into another path. Raisingher head, she flashed another look into the dark distance, where thegoal was and grew sick with fear, seeing how far off it was. And thenrallying, she began to use her voice as well as the reins, to urge thepony to greater speed.

  "For she also was riding a great race."]

  "That's it! Good boy. But faster--faster!"

  Thus crying she silently prayed that Philip Alston might be withinhearing of the sound of her voice. She never doubted that he would comeat her first cry. It never once crossed her mind that he could hesitateto do what she wished in this. He had never in all her life refused heranything, and she knew of no reason to fear refusal now. The only fearthat she felt was the dread of reaching Anvil Rock too late. She triedto still the quivering of her nerves by reminding herself that he nearlyalways came to Cedar House at this hour, if he had not been thereearlier in the day. But she could not help remembering that there weretimes when he did not come. If he should not be on the way now, if sheshould fail to meet him, if he should be still at his far-off home, orhave gone elsewhere--But she threw the paralyzing thought from her andsuddenly began to strike the pony again and again, with her soft littleopen hands.

  "Faster! You must go faster--you must! Surely you can. Please! It isn'tvery far. We must be almost there!"

  It would have been hard to tell whether the short, sharp strokes wereblows or caresses, and they ceased almost as abruptly as they had begun.She was now nearly lying across his straining shoulders, and her soft,bare arms were around his rough, shaggy neck. She did not know what shewas doing, the boy had taught her to ride so--barebacked in thefields--when she was a child. And she did not know that the pony's manewas wet with her tears. There was no sound of weeping or faltering inthe tone with which she urged him on. That rang clear and strong withthe invincible courage and strength which love's miracle gives to themost timid and the weakest.

  She was not holding to the saddle, but was clinging to it asunconsciously as the mist clung to her skirts. Her long black hair,fallen away from its fastenings, streamed in the wind; but she gave itno heed except to toss it out of her eyes so that she might see thepony's head, and try to look beyond toward Anvil Rock. How far off itstill seemed! Would she never reach it? The night seemed to be growingdarker, and she could not make out the mass glooming through thedarkness as she had seen it at first. But she was not afraid of thegrowing blackness. This timid, gentle girl, who had hitherto been afraidof her own shadow, was now suddenly lost to all sense of fear. Shethought nothing of the wild darkness into which she was thus flyingblindly and alone. She had forgotten the terror of the time, and thedangers of the wilderness. She was oblivious of the utter silence, whichwrapped the region in awful mystery. She heard nothing but the rush ofthe pony's running feet, and felt nothing but the leaping of her ownheart. Her only thought was to reach the goal in time; her only fear wasthat she might fail.

  Her ceaseless cry was goading the brave little beast like a spur. Hestill leapt in response to it; but his every sinew was already strainedto breaking, and he was nearing the end of his endurance. The night hadnow become so dark that neither the pony nor the girl could see whitherthey were speeding. And then suddenly the Hunter's Moon broke the frailbars of its cloud prison, and was again free to cast its full splendorover the blackness. Under this sudden burst of light, Anvil Rock leaptout of the shadows--vague, black, huge, terrible--and she uttered a crystartled and relieved at seeing it so near by, when she had thought itmuch farther off. But as she looked again to make sure that it was real,and not some delusion of the mist, the first pang of fear struck backher leaping heart. She drew up the panting, staggering pony with aconvulsive clutch on the reins--and waited, trembling and scarcelydaring to breathe. Some large dark form moved among the shadows aroundthe base of Anvil Rock.

  Another swirl of the shrieking wind sent the fugitive clouds flyingagain across the white face of the moon. But only for an instant, andonce more the darkness fled before the light of the crystal lamp. Yetits bright beams could not pierce the thick gloom which hung heaviest atthe foot of the dark mass. Something still stood there, large, shadowy,and motionless. Ruth's trembling hand unconsciously went up and threwback the wildly blown hair which obscured her vision. As the whitemoonlight thus fell full on her face, the dark shape instantly sprangout of the gloom, and she recognized Paul Colbert almost as soon as hesaw her.

  Neither uttered a cry of surprise or even of relief, for neither feltany strangeness in this most strange meeting. When two hearts and twosouls and two spirits have rushed together at the first meeting of theeyes,--as these two had,--no separation of mere flesh and blood can everagain really keep them apart. These two were now only facing outwardlythe images which they constantly bore within their breasts. He had beenthinking more of her through that wild ride than of the friend whoselife he was perilling his own to save. She had felt his presence at herside with every step of the pony's flying feet; it was merely his bodywhich she was striving to find and shield from harm. So that when theythus suddenly came face to face in the moonlight there was no need for acry or a word. He sprang from his horse and leapt to the pony's side;and she--as silently and as naturally--held out her arms to meet hisembrace.

  But they started apart before touching one another. The distant sound ofhorses' beating hoofs came with a gust of wind. It was borne from thedirection of Duff's Fort, and out from among the dark trees there nowrushed into the misty moonlight a score or more of dim shapes, vague andterrible as phantom horsemen. Nearer and nearer these came rushingthrough the wavering mists, w
ith scarcely a sound after that firstwarning roar brought by the wind. Paul sprang to regain his horse, butthe animal was startled by the suddenness of the attempt, and frightenedby the rapid approach of the other horses, so that he jerked the bridlefrom his master's grasp and reared beyond the reach of his hand. Therewas no time to pursue the horse; worse still, there was no chance toseize the rifle which hung from the pommel of the saddle. Paul had onlyone other weapon, the long hunting-knife carried by all the men of thewilderness. He drew this from his belt and it flashed in the moonlightas he ran back to the pony's head and stood between Ruth and the dimlyvisible danger which was rapidly approaching.

  "They are coming the other way, too," she gasped. "I hear them behindus."

  He did not reply and could not turn. She said nothing more and begansending up silent prayers. They could no longer see even dimly, forthick clouds again covered the moon. But she heard a fearful clash inthe darkness, and then there followed those awful muffled sounds whichare heard when men close silently in mortal combat. There was no sharpsound of firing--only the hideous thud of furious flesh against furiousflesh--the one sound that the bravest woman cannot hear in silence.Ruth's cry for help pierced the very heavens. Again and again heranguished appeal rang through the night. In the height of her frenziedfear she heard the galloping of a horse and knew that it was comingnearer. This must be Philip Alston. The flash of the thought brought agleam of hope and sent her louder cry farther into the darkness.

  "Uncle Philip, for God's sake, come to me! Quick! quick! It'sRuth--uncle Philip! Philip Alston!"

  Instantly all was still. The invisible conflict which had been wagingwith such fury so near by, now ceased as suddenly and as completely asif it had been ended by an unseen lightning stroke. The assailantssilently drew back and stood motionless; but Ruth could not see what wastaking place, and this sudden, strange stillness falling upon utterdarkness filled her with greater terror. She thought that Paul had beenkilled. Alive, he would not leave her alone like this. Not for aninstant would he forget her if he had strength to creep to her side. Hewas dead. He would never let these torturing moments pass withoutspeaking to her if he had breath to speak.

  "Uncle Philip! Philip Alston!" she cried again and again. "Don't youknow me? It's Ruth."

  "Here, I'm coming!" a man's voice shouted out of the distance. "Whereare you? Speak again. Let me find you by the sound."

  "They have killed him!" she shrieked. "I can't find him in the dark."

  She was out of the saddle now, bending down and groping with hershaking, tender little hands on the torn and trampled earth. A wildergust of wind brought the beat of rapidly retreating hoofs to herstrained ears. She sprang up with a new fear and cried it aloud high andfar above the shriek of the wind.

  "They are taking him away! Will you never come? Is it you--uncle Philip?Oh--why--don't you come to me? It's Ruth."

  "It is I--Father Orin," said the priest near by.

  She did not reply, nor even glance at him, although the cloud curtainwas now suddenly lifted again, and she could see clearly. She did notnotice that all the horsemen had vanished. She saw only the motionlessform of the man she loved lying some distance away. It was plain that hehad pressed the assassins as far from her as he could; that hisoutstretched arms had fallen in some supreme effort. The hunting-knifeglittered in the moonlight at a distance from his hand. He must havefought on with his bare hands after his only weapon had been struck fromhis grasp. His eyes were closed, and his face was like the face of thedead.

  Ruth, dropping to the earth beside him, had taken his head on her lapbefore the priest could come up and dismount. She did not reply, noreven hear his alarmed questioning.

  "See if he is living, Father," she said. "Here, put your hand on hisheart--here--where my hand is. Make haste. Why are you so slow?" Thenflashing round on him in her impetuous way: "Why don't you say that youfeel his heart beat? Of course you do! Of course he is alive. How couldhe be dead--in a moment--a flash--like this! He is so young. He has onlybegun to live. And so strong and brave. Oh, so brave, Father! DearFather Orin--if you could have seen how fearlessly he stood, betweenthem and me--waiting for them to come! Only one, too, against so many.But I wasn't afraid while I could see him. No, not for a moment, evenagainst them all. And then when it was dark, and I couldn't see him, andI could only hear--" she broke down, shuddering and weeping.

  While she spoke the priest had been unfastening Paul's collar and wastrying to find the wound. The bosom of his shirt was already darkly dyedwith blood.

  "He is alive; his heart is still beating," said Father Orin, huskily.

  This daring, gifted young doctor had come to be like his own son intheir work together for the suffering. He turned back his coat and foundthe deep knife-wound in his shoulder, and set about stanching the flowof blood with the simple knowledge of surgery that the life of thewilderness taught to all. But it was Ruth who thought of Paul's medicalcase which always hung on his saddle. The horse was gone, but the casewas lying not far away, on the ground where it had fallen, and therewere bandages and lint in it, as she hoped there would be. But when theyhad done all that they could, he still lay motionless and barelybreathing. She dropped down beside him in fresh alarm, and again tookhis head on her lap. Father Orin stood up, looking helplessly throughthe moonlight and murmuring something about getting the doctor back tohis cabin.

  "We will take him to Cedar House," she said. "There is no one to nursehim in his own cabin. Oh!" with a smothered scream. "They are comingback!"

  She could not suppress that one cry of fright which burst from her lips.But there was only one, she stilled the others and tried at once tocontrol the trembling of her knees under his head. The dove will sitstill when a cruel hand comes close to her nest; but no living creaturehas the courage of the gentlest woman when the man she loves ishelpless--through no lack of strength or courage in himself--and indanger. The things which timid women have done then, stand among thebravest that have ever been set down to the credit of humanity.Believing that some hideous, unknown peril was sweeping upon them, thismere slip of a girl now bent quietly over the prone head and spoke closeto the deaf ear without thinking whether or not it could hear.

  "There, dear heart, there! Never mind. All is well. Lie still, or yourwound will bleed. We are here, Father Orin and I. We will take care ofyou. Only lie still."

  Two horsemen were now in sight and they were spurring straight towardAnvil Rock. While they were yet a long way off, Ruth felt, rather thansaw, that one of them was David. She told the priest who it was, andthey both knew that only a friend could be coming with the boy. Herwhole form relaxed under the relief. If Paul could but open his eyes, ifhis breath would but come a little more quickly, and a little lessfaintly! Her tears were falling on his still, white face, now that therewas no further need for self-control, or courage. She steadied hervoice, and told the story as clearly as she could, when Father Orinasked again how she came to be in such a place, and what it was that hadled to the wounding of Paul Colbert.

  While she was speaking the horsemen reached them, and they saw that theman with David was the attorney-general. He hurriedly knelt down by hisfriend's side. He did not ask what had happened. He had already gatheredmuch of the truth from what the boy had told him. He knew that PaulColbert lay there, badly wounded, dying perhaps, in his place. He wastoo much moved at first to speak.

  "He knew that I was coming alone over this road to-night. He suspected aplot to waylay me, too late to warn me. When he could not do that hecame to share the danger. It was like him," he said when he found voice.

  He took the nerveless hand and held it a moment in silence, and then helaid it gently down and stood up, looking about through the moonlight,toward the cypress swamp and Duff's Fort.

  "But why did the scoundrels run away before finishing their infamouswork? And where is the doctor's horse? Ah! They have stolen that, ofcourse. Which way did they go? Did you see or hear them, Father?"

  "No; Toby and I were too far off,
" the priest replied. "We were comingback from a sick call. It was too dark to see. The first and only soundI heard was Ruth's voice, calling Philip Alston's name."

  "Oh!--I begin to understand," said the attorney-general.

  He stopped--remembering--and looked down at Ruth. She had not heardwhat he said. She was bending closer to Paul's white face and listeningto his laboring breath.

  "We must get him home as quickly as possible," the attorney-general wenton. "My duty at Duff's Fort must wait on this. And I am not sacrificingthe state to a friend, or to gratitude. It would be worse than uselessto go on to-night, now that our plans are betrayed. I am very anxiousabout my men. They should be here before now. According to our plans,they should have been within hearing of the first sound of trouble andready to come at once. I am afraid they, too, have fallen into a trap;but I can't do anything now for them, and I must do my best for thispoor fellow, and quickly, too. Come, Father,--come, David,--let usconsult as to the best way to get him home."

  The three men drew a little apart and stood talking together in a lowtone, so that Ruth was left for a moment alone with Paul.

  "Dear heart!" she breathed, with her cheek against his. "Listen, love.Can you hear what I say? Try. Try hard. For if you can hear, maybe myheart will not break. Listen, then," as softly as if her spirit spoke tohis. "Listen. I am yours and you are mine. Can you hear--dear heart? Ifyou live or if you die--it is just the same--always--to me and to you.We belong to one another forever."