Page:Scribner's Monthly, Volume 12 (May–October 1876).djvu/27

 like to come away, 'n' took on a good deal."

Another pause, in which Ransom wistfully contemplated the sky.

"Took her to ride myself, I did, ev'ry time, after this one was born, I did. Coachman didn't know nothin'. Poor crittur, ye brother got rid on him afterward. No! he died. I drove the kerridge myself, I did, after this one was born. She was dreadful pleased with her baby, cos it wos a gal, 'n' she wanted a gal, 'n' she took it to ride ev'ry day; 'n' she says to me, 'Ransom,' says she, 'we must make this a Yankee baby, like her father,' says she. She says, says she, 'Ransom, next spring,' says she, 'we will carry the baby to Boston,' says she, ' 'n' show 'em what nice babies we have down here in Orleans,' says she. 'N' she says to me, says she one day, when she had had a bad turn o' coughin', 'Ransom,' says she, 'you'll take as nice care of her as ye do of me,' says she; 'won't you, Ransom?' says she."

"And you said you would, Ransom, I'm sure," said Eunice, kindly, seeing that the old man would say no more.

"Guess I did, ma'am. She needn't said nothin'. Never thought o' doin' nothin' else. Knew none on 'em didn't know nothin' 'cept your brother till you come down, ma'am. It was a hard year, ma'am, before you come down. Didn't none on 'em know nothin' 'cept ye brother."

Eunice was heard to say afterward that the implied compliment in these words was the greatest praise she had ever received from human lips. But at the time she was too wretched to be amused.

There was not now a long time to wait, however, before they could hear the rattle of hoofs upon the road they had been following all day.

It was Harrod's first messenger, the least competent negro in his train. He had sent him back to relieve Eunice as far as might be with this line— hurriedly written on a scrap of brown paper: "We have found the rascals' trail—very warm. I write this by their own fire." H.

The man said that they came upon the fire still blazing,—about three miles from camp. King and Adams and Capt. Harrod dismounted, studied the trail by the light of burning brands, and were satisfied that the camp had been made by Indians,—who had followed our travelers along on the trail, and now had turned suddenly. King had said it was not a large party,—and Capt. Harrod had only taken a moment to write what he had sent to Miss Eunice, before they were all in the saddle again and in pursuit.

So far, so good. And now must begin another desperate pull at that wait-wait-wait, in which one's heart's blood drops out most surely, if most slowly!

Old Ransom tended his fire more sedulously than ever, and made it larger and larger.

"She'll be all chilled when she comes in," said he again, by way of explanation. But this was not his only reason. He bade Louis go down to the water's edge, and bring up to him wet bark, and bits of floating wood. He sent the man again and again on this errand. And as fast as his fire would well bear it, he thrust the wet sticks into the embers and under the logs. The column of steam, mingling with the smoke, rose high into the murky sky, and the light from the blaze below gave to it ghastly forms, as it curled on one side or the other in occasional puffs of wind.

Tired and heart-sick, Eunice lay back on her couch, with her tent-door opened, and watched the wayward column. Even in her agony some sickly remembrance of Eastern genii came over her, and she knew that the wretched wish passed her, that she might wake up, to find that this was all a phantasm, a fairy tale, or a dream.

So another hour crawled by. Then came a sound of crackling twigs, and poor Eunice sprang to her feet again, only to meet the face of the negro Harry, returning from his tour of duty. He had worked up the stream, as he had been directed; he had tried every access to the water. He said he had screamed and called, and whooped, but heard nothing but owls. The man was as fearless of the night or of loneliness as any plantation slave, used to the open sky. But he had thought, and rightly enough, that his duty for the night was at an end when he had made a tramp longer than was possible to so frail a creature as Inez, and came back only to report failure. He was dragging with him a long bough for the fire, and it was the grating of this upon the ground which gave warning of his approach.

Nothing for it, Eunice, but to lie down again, and watch that weird white column again, and the black forms of the three men hovering about it. Not a foot-fall! Not