Special Messenger

by Robert W. Chambers

  VII

  THE PASS

  Her map, which at headquarters was supposed to be reliable, had grosslymisled her; the road bore east instead of north, dwindling, as sheadvanced, to a rocky path among the foothills. She had taken the wrongturn at the forks; there was nothing to direct her any farther--nolandmarks except the general trend of the watercourse, and the dullcinders of sunset fading to ashes in the west.

  It was impossible now to turn back; Carrick's flying column must bevery close on her heels by this time--somewhere yonder in the dusk,paralleling her own course, with only a dark curtain of forestintervening.

  So all that evening, and far into the starlit night, she struggleddoggedly forward, leading her lamed horse over the mountain, dragginghim through laurel thickets, tangles of azalea and rhododendron,thrashing across the swift mountain streams that tumbled out of starry,pine-clad heights, foaming athwart her trail with the rushing sound offorest winds.

  For a while the clear radiance of the stars lighted the loomingmountains; but when wastes of naked rock gave place to ragged woods,lakes and pits of darkness spread suddenly before her; every gully,every ravine brimmed level with treacherous shadows, masking the sheerfall of rock plunging downward into fathomless depths.

  Again and again, as she skirted the unseen edges of destruction, chillwinds from unsuspected deeps halted her; she dared not light thelantern, dared not halt, dared not even hesitate. And so, fighting downterror, she toiled on, dragging her disabled horse, until, just beforedawn, the exhausted creature refused to stir another foot.

  Desperate, breathless, trembling on the verge of exhaustion, with thelast remnants of nervous strength she stripped saddle and bridle fromthe animal; then her nerves gave way and she buried her face against herhorse's reeking, heaving shoulders.

  "I've got to go on, dear," she whispered; "I'll try to come back toyou.... See what a pretty stream this is," she added, half hysterically,"and such lots of fresh, sweet grass.... Oh, my little horse--my littlehorse! I'm so tired--so tired!"

  The horse turned his gentle head, mumbling her shoulder with soft, dustylips; she stifled a sob, lifted saddle, saddlebags, and bridle andcarried them up the rocky bank of the stream to a little hollow. Hereshe dropped them, unstrapped her revolver and placed it with them, thendrew from the saddlebags a homespun gown, sunbonnet, and a pair ofcoarse shoes, and laid them out on the moss.

  Fatigue rendered her limbs unsteady; her fingers twitched as she fumbledwith button and buckle, but at last spurred boots, stockings, jacket,and dusty riding skirt fell from her; undergarments dropped in a circlearound her bare feet; she stepped out of them, paused to twist up herdark hair tightly, then, crossing the moss to the stream's edge, pickedher way out among the boulders to the brimming rim of a pool.

  In the exquisite shock of the water the blood whipped her skin; fatiguevanished through the crystal magic; shoulder-deep she waded,crimson-cheeked, then let herself drift, afloat, stretching out inecstasy until every aching muscle thrilled with the delicious reaction.

  Overhead, tree swallows darted through a sky of pink and saffron,pulsating with the promise of the sun; the tinted peak of a mountain,jaggedly mirrored in the unquiet pool, suddenly glowed crimson, and thereflections ran crisscross through the rocking water, lacing it withfiery needles.

  She looked like some delicate dawn-sprite as she waded ashore--aslender, unreal shape in the rosy glow, while behind her, from the dimravine, ghosts of the mountain mist floated, rising like a company ofslim, white angels drifting to the sky.

  All around her now the sweet, bewildered murmur of purple martins grewinto sustained melody; thrush and mocking bird, thrasher and cardinal,sang from every leafy slope; and through the rushing music of bird andpouring waterfall the fairy drumming of the cock-o'-the-pines rang outin endless, elfin reveille.

  While she was managing to dry herself and dress, her horse limped offinto the grassy swale below to drink in the stream and feed among thetender grasses.

  Before she drew on the homespun gown she tucked her linen map into aninner skirt pocket, flat against her right thigh; then, fastening on theshabby skirt, she rolled up her riding habit, laid it with lantern,revolver, saddle, bridle, boots, and bags, in the hollow and covered allover with heaps of fragrant dead leaves and branches. It was the bestshe could do, and the time was short.

  Her horse raised his wise, gentle head, and looked across the stream ather as she hastened past, then limped stiffly toward her.

  "Oh, I can't stand it if you hobble after me!" she wailed under herbreath. "Dearest--dearest--I will surely come back to you.Good-by--good-by!"

  On the crest of the ridge she cast one swift, tearful glance behind.The horse, evidently feeling better, was rolling in the grass, all fourhoofs waving at the sky. And she laughed through the tears, and drewfrom her pockets a morsel of dry bread which she had saved from thesaddlebags. This she nibbled as she walked, taking her bearings from thesun and the sweep of the southern mountain slopes; and listening, alwayslistening, for the jingle and clank of the Confederate flying batterythat was surely following along somewhere on that parallel road whichshe had missed, hidden from her view only by a curtain of forest, thewidth of which she had no time to investigate. Nor did she know forcertain that she had outstripped the Confederate column in the race forthe pass--a desperate race, although the men of that flying column,which was hastening to turn the pass into a pitfall for the North, hadnot the faintest suspicion that the famous Special Messenger was racingwith them to forestall them, or even that their secret was no longer asecret.

  In hot haste from the south hills she had come to warn Benton's divisionof the ambuscade preparing for it, riding by highway and byway, herheart in her mouth, taking every perilous chance. And now, at the lastmoment, here in the West Virginian Mountains, almost within sight of thepass itself, disaster threatened--the human machine was giving out.

  There were just two chances that Benton might yet be saved--that hisleisurely advance had, by some miracle, already occupied the pass, or,if not, that she could get through and meet Benton in time to stop him.

  She had been told that there was a cabin at the pass, and that themountaineer who lived there was a Union man.

  Thinking of these things as she crossed the ridge, she came suddenlyinto full view of the pass. It lay there just below her; there could beno mistake. A stony road wound along the stream, flanked by forest-cladheights; she recognized the timber bridge over the ravine, which hadbeen described to her, the corduroy way across the swamp, the single,squat cabin crowning a half-cleared hillock. She realized at a glancethe awful trap that this silent, deadly place could be turned into; forone rushing moment her widening eyes could almost see blue masses of menin disorder, crushed into that horrible defile; her ears seemed to ringwith their death cries, the rippling roar of rifle fire. Then, with asharp, indrawn breath, she hastened forward, taking the descent at arun. And at the same moment three gray-jacketed cavalrymen cantered intothe road below, crossed the timber bridge at a gallop, and disappearedin the pass, carbines poised.

  She had arrived a minute too late; the pass was closed!

  Toiling breathlessly up the bushy hillock, crouching, bending, creepingacross the stony open where scant grass grew in a meager garden, shereached the cabin. It was empty; a fire smoldered under a kettle inwhich potatoes were boiling; ash cakes crisped on the hearth, baconsizzled in a frying pan set close to the embers.

  But where was the tenant?

  A shout from the road below brought her to the door; then she droppedflat on her stomach, crawled forward, and looked over the slope.

  A red-haired old man, in his shirt sleeves, carrying a fishing pole, wasrunning down the road, chased by two gray-jacketed troopers. He ranwell, throwing away his pole and the string of slimy fish he had beencarrying; but, half way across the stream, they rode him down and caughthim, driving their horses straight into the shallow flood; and a fewmoments later a fresh squad of cavalry trotted up, forced the prisonert
o mount a led horse, and, surrounding him, galloped rapidly awaysouthward.

  The Special Messenger lay perfectly still and flat, watching, listening,waiting, coolly alert for a shadow of a chance to slip out and throughthe pass; but there was to be no such chance now, for a dozen trooperscame into view, running their lean horses at top speed, and wheeledstraight into the pass. A full squadron followed, their solid gallopingwaking clattering echoes among the rocks. Then her delicate ears caughta distant, ominous sound--nearer, louder, ringing, thudding, jarring,pounding--the racket of field artillery arriving at full speed.

  And into sight dashed a flying battery, guns and limbers bouncing andthumping, whips cracking, chains crashing, the six-horse teams on a deadrun.

  An officer drew bridle and threw his horse on its haunches; the firstteam rushed on to the pass with a clash and clank of wheels and chains,swung wide in a demi-tour, dropped a dully glistening gun, and then cametrampling back. The second, third, and fourth teams, guns and caissons,swerved to the right of the hillock and came plunging up the bushyslope, horses straining and scrambling, trampling through the wretchedgarden to the level grass above.

  One by one the gun teams swung in a half circle, each dropped itsmud-spattered gun, the cannoneers sprang to unhook the trails, thefrantic, half-maddened horses were lashed to the rear.

  The Special Messenger rose quietly to her feet, and at the same instanta passing cannoneer turned and saw her in the doorway.

  "Hey!" he exclaimed; "what you doin' thar?"

  A very young major, spurring up the slope, caught sight of her, too.

  "This won't do!" he began excitedly, pushing his sweating horse up tothe door. "I'm sorry, but it won't do--" He hesitated, perplexed, eyeingthis slim, dark-eyed girl, who stood as though dazed there in her raggedhomespun and naked feet.

  Colonel Carrick, passing at a canter, turned in his saddle, calling out:

  "Major Kent! Keep that woman here! It's too late to send her back."

  The boy-major saluted, then turned to the girl again:

  "Who are you?" he asked, vexed.

  She seemed unable to reply.

  A cannoneer said respectfully:

  "Reckon the li'l gal's jes' natch'ally skeered o' we-uns, Major, seein'how the caval'y ketched her paw down thar in the crick."

  The Major said briefly:

  "Your father is a Union man, but nobody is going to hurt him. I'd sendyou to the rear, too, but there's no time now. Please go in and shutthat door. I'll see that nobody disturbs you."

  As she was closing the door the young Major called after her:

  "Where's the well?"

  As she did not know she only stared at him as though terrified.

  "All right," he said, more gently. "Don't be frightened. I'll come backand talk to you in a little while."

  As she shut the door she saw the cannon at the pass limber up, wheel,and go bumping up the hill to rejoin its bespattered fellows on theknoll.

  An artilleryman came along and dropped a bundle of picks and shovelswhich he was carrying to the gunners, who had begun the emplacements;the boyish Major dismounted, subduing his excitement with a dignifiedfrown; and for a while he was very fussy and very busy, aiding thebattery captain in placing the guns and verifying the depression.

  The position of the masked battery was simply devilish; every gun,hidden completely in the oak-scrub, was now trained on the pass.

  Opposite, across the stream, long files of gray infantry were moving tocover among the trees; behind, a battalion arrived to support the guns;below, the cavalry had begun to leave the pass; troopers, dismounted,were carefully removing from the road all traces of their arrival.

  Leaning there by the window, the Special Messenger counted the returningfours as troop after troop retired southward and disappeared around thebend of the road.

  For a while the picks and shovels of the gunners sounded noisily;concealed riflemen, across the creek, were also busy intrenching. Butby noon all sound had ceased in the sunny ravine; there was nothing tobe seen from below; not a human voice echoed; not a pick-stroke; onlythe sweet, rushing sound of the stream filled the silence; only theshadows of the branches moved.

  Warned again by the sentinels to close the battered window and keep thedoor shut, she still watched the gunners, through the dirty windowpanes, where they now lay under the bushes beside their guns. There wasno conversation among them; some of the artillerymen seemed to beasleep; some sprawled belly-deep in the ferns, chewing twigs or idlyscraping holes in the soil; a few lay about, eating the remnants of themorning's scanty rations, chewing strips of bacon rind, and licking thelast crumbs from the palms of their grimy hands.

  Along the bush-hidden parapet of earth, heaps of ammunitionlay--cannister and common shell. She recognized these, and, with ashudder, a long row of smaller projectiles on which soldiers werescrewing copper caps--French hand grenades, brought in by blockaderunners, and fashioned to explode on impact--so close was to be thecoming slaughter of her own people in the road below.

  Toward one o'clock the gunners were served noon rations. She watchedthem eating for a while, then, nerveless, turned back into the singleroom of the cabin and opened the rear door--so gently and noiselesslythat the boyish staff-major who was seated on the sill did not glancearound until she spoke, asking his permission to remain there.

  "You mustn't open that door," he said, looking up, surprised by thesweetness of the voice which he heard now for the first time.

  "How can anybody see me from the pass?" she asked innocently. "That iswhat you are afraid of, isn't it?"

  He shot a perplexed and slightly suspicious glance at her, then thefrowning importance faded from his beardless face; he bit a piece out ofthe soggy corncake he was holding and glanced up at her again, amiablyconscious of her attractions; besides, her voice and manner had been arevelation. Evidently her father had had her educated at some valleyschool remote from these raw solitudes.

  So he smiled at her, quite willing to be argued with and entertained;and at his suggestion she shyly seated herself on the sill outside inthe sunlight.

  "Have you lived here long?" he asked encouragingly.

  "Not very," she said, eyes downcast, her clasped hands lying looselyover one knee. The soft, creamy-tinted fingers occupied his attentionfor a moment; the hand resembled the hand of "quality"; so did the ankleand delicate arch of her naked foot, half imprisoned in the coarse shoeunder her skirt's edge.

  He had often heard that some of these mountaineers had pretty children;here, evidently, was a most fascinating example.

  "Is your mother living?" he asked pleasantly.

  "No, sir."

  He thought to himself that she must resemble her dead mother, becausethe man whom the cavalry had caught in the creek was a coarse-boned,red-headed ruffian, quite impossible to reconcile as the father of thisdark-haired, dark-eyed, young forest creature, with her purely-moldedlimbs and figure and sensitive fashion of speaking. He turned to hercuriously:

  "So you have not always lived here on the mountain."

  "No, not always."

  "I suppose you spent a whole year away from home at boarding-school," hesuggested with patronizing politeness.

  "Yes, six years at Edgewood," she said in a low voice.

  "What?" he exclaimed, repeating the name of the most fashionableSouthern institute for young ladies. "Why, I had a sisterthere--Margaret Kent. Were _you_ there? And did you ever--er--see mysister?"

  "I knew her," said the Special Messenger absently.

  He was very silent for a while, thinking to himself.

  "It must have been her mother; that measly old man we caught in thecreek is 'poor white' all through." And, munching thoughtfully again onhis soggy corncake, he pondered over the strange fate of thisfascinating young girl, fashioned to slay the hearts of Southernchivalry--so young, so sweet, so soft of voice and manner, condemned tolive life through alone in this shaggy solitude--fated, doubtless, tomate with some loose, lank, shambling, hawk-eyed
rustic of thepeaks--doomed to bear sickly children, and to fade and dry and wither inthe full springtide of her youth and loveliness.

  "It's too bad," he said fretfully, unconscious that he spoke aloud,unaware, too, that she had risen and was moving idly, with bent head,among the weeds of the truck garden--edging nearer, nearer, to a dark,round object about the size of a small apple, which had rolled into afurrow where the ground was all cut up by the wheel tracks of artilleryand hoofs of heavy horses.

  There was scarcely a chance that she could pick it up unobserved; herragged skirts covered it; she bent forward as though to tie her shoe,but a sentinel was watching her, so she straightened up carelessly andstood, hands on her hips, dragging one foot idly to and fro, until shehad covered the small, round object with sand and gravel.

  That object was a loaded French hand grenade, fitted with percussionprimer; and it lay last at the end of a long row of similar grenadesalong the shaded side of the house.

  The sentry in the bushes had been watching her; and now he came outalong the edge of the laurel tangle, apparently to warn her away, butseeing a staff officer so near her he halted, satisfied that authorityhad been responsible for her movements. Besides, he had not noticed thata grenade was missing; neither had the major, who now rose and saunteredtoward her, balancing his field glasses in one hand.

  "There's ammunition under these bushes," he said pleasantly; "don't goany nearer, please. Those grenades _might_ explode if anyone stumbledover them. They're bad things to handle."

  "Will there be a battle here?" she asked, recoiling from the deadlylittle bombs.

  The Major said, stroking the down on his short upper lip:

  "There will probably be a skirmish. I do not dare let you leave thisspot till the first shot is fired. But as soon as you hear it you hadbetter run as fast as you can"--he pointed with his field glasses--"tothat little ridge over there, and lie down behind the rocks on the otherside. Do you understand?"

  "Yes--I think so."

  "And you'll lie there very still until it is--over?"

  "I understand. May I go immediately and hide there?"

  "Not yet," he said gently.

  "Why?"

  "Because your father is a Union man.... And you are Union, too, are younot?"

  "Yes," she said, smiling; "are you afraid of me?"

  A slight flush stained his smooth, sunburnt skin; then he laughed.

  "A little afraid," he admitted; "I find you dangerous, but not in theway you mean. I--I do not mean to offend you----"

  But she smiled audaciously at him, looking prettier than ever; and hisheart gave a surprised little jump at her unsuspected capabilities.

  "Why are you afraid of me?" she asked, looking at him with her engaginglittle smile. In her eyes a bewitching brightness sparkled, partlyveiled by the long lashes; and she laughed again, poised there in thesunshine, hands on her hips, delicately provoking his reply.

  And, crossing the chasm which her coquetry had already bridged, he paidher the quick, reckless, boyish compliment she invited--a littleflowery, perhaps, possibly a trifle stilted, but very Southern; and sheshrugged like a spoiled court beauty, nose uptilted, and swept him witha glance from half-closed lids, almost insolent.

  The sentry in the holly and laurel thicket stared hard at them both. Andhe saw his major break off a snowy Cherokee rose and, bending at hisslim, sashed waist, present the blossom with the courtly air inbredthrough many generations; and he saw a ragged mountaineer girl accept itwith all the dainty and fastidious mockery of a coquette of the goldenage, and fasten it where her faded bodice edged the creamy skin of herbreast.

  What the young major said to her after that, bending nearer and nearer,the sentry could not hear, for the major's voice was very low, and theslow, smiling reply was lower still.

  But the major straightened as though he had been shot through andthrough, and bowed and walked away among the weeds toward a group ofofficers under the trees, who were steadily watching the pass throughtheir leveled field glasses.

  Once the major turned around to look back: once she turned on thethreshold. Her cheeks were pinker; her eyes sparkled.

  The emotions of the Special Messenger were very genuine and rathereasily excited.

  But when she had closed the door, and leaned wearily against it, thecolor soon faded from her face and the sparkle died out in her darkeyes. Pale, alert, intelligent, she stood there minute after minute,searching the single room with anxious, purposeless eyes; then, driveninto restless motion by the torturing tension of anxiety, she paced theloose boards like a tigress, up and down, head lowered, hands claspedagainst her mouth, worrying the fingers with the edge of her teeth.

  Outside, through the dirty window glass, she could see sentries in thebushes, all looking steadily in the same direction; groups of officersunder the trees still focused their glasses on the pass. By and by shesaw some riflemen in butternut jeans climb into trees, rifles slungacross their backs, and disappear far up in the foliage, still climbing.

  Toward five o'clock, as she was eating the bacon and hoe cakes which shehad found in the hut, two infantry officers opened the door, stared ather, then, without ceremony, drew a rough ladder from the corner, setit outside, and the older officer climbed to the roof.

  She heard him call down to the lieutenant below:

  "No use; I can't see any better up here.... They ought to set a signalman on that rock, yonder!"

  Other officers came over; one or two spoke respectfully to her, but shedid not answer. Finally they all cleared out; and she dragged a bench tothe back door, which swung open a little way, and, alert againstsurprise, very cautiously drew from the inner pocket her linen contourmap and studied it, glancing every second or two out through the crackin the door.

  Nobody disturbed her; with hesitating forefinger she traced out whatpretended to be a path dominating the northern entrance of the pass,counted the watercourses and gullies crossing the ascent, tried to fixthe elevations in her mind.

  As long as she dared she studied the soiled map, but, presently, a quickshadow fell across the threshold, and she thrust the map into theconcealed pocket and sprang to open the door.

  "Coming military events cast foreboding shadows," she said, somewhatbreathless.

  "Am I a foreboding and military event?" asked the youthful major,laughing. "What do I threaten, please?"

  "Single combat," she said demurely, smiling at him under half-veiledlids. And the same little thrill passed through him again, and the quickcolor rose to his smooth, sunburnt face.

  "I was ready to beat a retreat on sight," he said; "now I surrender."

  "I make no prisoners," she replied in airy disdain.

  "You give no quarter?"

  "None.... Why did you come back?"

  "You said I might."

  "Did I? I had quite forgotten what I had said to you. When are you goingto let me go?"

  His face fell and he looked up at her, troubled.

  "I'm afraid you don't understand," he said. "We dare not send you awayunder escort now, because horses' feet make a noise, and some prowlingYankee vidette may be at this very moment hanging about the pass----"

  "Oh," she said, "you prefer to let me remain here and be shot?"

  He said, reddening: "At the first volley you are to go with an escortacross the ridge. I told you that, didn't I?"

  But she remained scornful, mute and obstinate, pretty head bent,twisting the folds of her faded skirt.

  "Do you think I would let you remain here if there were any danger?" heasked in a lower voice.

  "How long am I to be kept here?" she asked pettishly.

  "Until the Yankees come through--and I can't tell you when that will be,because I don't know myself."

  "Are they in the pass?"

  "We don't know. Everybody is beginning to be worried. We can't see veryfar into that ravine----"

  "Then why don't you go where you _can_ see?" she said with a shrug.

  "Where?" he asked, surprised.
/>   "Didn't you know that there is a path above the pass?"

  "A path!"

  "Certainly. I can show you if you wish. You ought to be able to see tothe north end of the pass--if I am not mistaken----"

  "Wait a moment!" he said excitedly. "I want you to take me there--just asecond, to speak to those officers--I'm coming back immediately----"

  And he started on a run across the ravaged garden, holding his sabreclose, midway, by the scabbard.

  That was her chance. Picking up her faded sunbonnet, she stepped fromthe threshold, swinging it carelessly by one string. The sentries werelooking after the major; she dropped her sunbonnet, stooped to recoverit, and straightened up, the hidden hand grenade slipping from the crownof the bonnet into her bodice between her breasts.

  A thousand eyes seemed watching her as, a trifle pale, she strolled onaimlessly, swinging the recovered sunbonnet; she listened, shivering,for the stern challenge to halt, the breathless shout of accusation, thepursuing trample of heavy boots. And at last, quaking in every limb, sheventured to lift her eyes. Nobody seemed to be looking her way; theartillery pickets were still watching the pass; the group of officersposted under the trees still focused their glasses in that direction;the young major was already returning across the garden toward her.

  "She dropped her sunbonnet--stooped to recover it."]

  A sharp throb of hope set her pulses bounding--she had, safe in herbosom, the means of warning her own people now; all she needed was asafe-conduct from that knoll, and here it was coming, brought by thiseager, boyish officer, hastening so blithely toward her, his long, darkshadow clinging like death to his spurred heels as he ran.

  Would she guide him to some spot where it was possible to see the wholelength of the pass?

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and turned, he at her side,into the woods.

  If her map was not betraying her once more the path _must_ follow theedges of the pass, high up among those rocks and trees somewhere. Therewas only one way of finding it--to climb upward to the overhangingledges.

  Raising her eyes toward the leafy heights, it seemed to her incrediblethat any path could lead along that wall of rock, which leaned outwardover the ravine.

  But somehow she must mount there; somehow she must manage to remainthere unmolested, ready, the moment a single Union vidette canteredinto the pass, to hurl her explosive messenger into the depths below--astartling but unmistakable signal to the blue column advancing sounsuspiciously into that defile of hell.

  As they climbed upward together through the holly-scrub she rememberedthat she must not slip, for the iron weight in her bosom would endure norough caress from rock or earth.

  How heavy it was--how hot and rough, chafing her body--this little ironsphere, with a dozen deaths sealed up inside!

  Toiling upward, planting her roughly shod feet with fearful precision,she tried to imagine what it would be like if the tiny bomb in her bosomexploded--tried to picture her terrified soul tearing skyward out ofbodily annihilation.

  "It is curious," she thought with a slight shudder, "how afraid I alwaysam--how deeply, deeply afraid of death. God knows why I go on."

  The boy beside her found the ascent difficult; spur and sabre impededhim; once he lurched heavily against her, and his quick, stammeredapology was cut short by the dreadful pallor of her face, for she wasdeadly afraid of the bomb.

  "Did I hurt you?" he faltered, impulsively laying his hand on her arm.

  She shivered and shook off his hand, forcing a gay smile. And they wenton together, upward, always upward, her pretty, provocative eyes meetinghis at intervals, her heart beating faster, death at her breast.

  He was a few yards ahead when he called back to her in a low, warningvoice that he had found a path, and she hastened up the rocks to wherehe stood.

  Surely here was a trail winding along the very edge of the ledges, undermasses of overhanging rock--some dizzy runway of prehistoric man,perhaps trodden, too, by wolf and panther, and later by the lankmountaineer hunter or smuggler creeping to some eerie unsuspected by anyliving creature save, perhaps, the silver-headed eagles soaring throughthe fathomless azure vault above.

  Below, the pass lay; but they could see no farther into it at first.However, as they advanced cautiously, clinging to the outjutting cliff,which seemed maliciously striving to push them out into space, bydegrees crag and trail turned westward and more of the pass came intoview--a wide, smooth cleft in the mountain, curving away toward thenorth.

  A few steps more and the trail ended abruptly in a wide, grassy spaceset with trees, sloping away gently to the west, chopped off sheer tothe east, where it terminated in a mossy shelf overlooking the ravine.

  Only a few rods away the dusk of the pass was cut by a glimmer ofsunlight; it was the northern entrance.

  Something else was glimmering there, too; dozens of dancing points ofwhite fire--sunshine on buckle, button, bit and sabre. And the officerbeside her uttered a low, fierce cry and jerked his field glasses freefrom the case.

  "Their cavalry!" he breathed. "The Yankees are entering the pass, sohelp me God!" And he drew his revolver.

  So help him God! Something dark and round flew across his line ofvision, curving out into space, dropping, dropping into the depthsbelow. A clattering report, a louder racket as the rocky echoes,crossing and recrossing, struck back at the clamoring cliffs.

  "White-faced, desperate, she clung to him with thetenacity of a lynx."]

  _So help him God!_ Half stunned, he stumbled to his feet, his dazed eyesstill blurred with a vision of horsemen, vaguely seen through vapors,stampeding northward; and, at the same instant, she sprang at him,striking the drawn revolver from his hand, tearing the sabre free andflinging it into the gulf. White-faced, desperate, she clung to him withthe tenacity of a lynx, winding her lithe limbs around and under his,tripping him to his knees.

  Over and over they rolled, struggling in the grass, twisting, straining,slipping down the westward slope.

  "You--devil!" he panted, as her dark eyes flashed level with his. "I'vegot--you--anyhow----"

  Her up-flung elbow, flexed like a steel wedge, caught him in the throat;they fell over the low ridge, writhing in each other's embrace, down theslope, over and over, faster, faster--crack!--his head struck a ledge,and he straightened out, quivering, then lay very, very still and heavyin her arms.

  Fiercely excited, she tore strips from her skirt, twisted them, forcedhim over on his face, and tied his wrists fast.

  Then, leaving him inert there on the moss, she ran back for hisrevolver, found it, opened it, made certain that the cylinder was full,and, flinging one last glance down the pass, hastened to her prisoner.

  Her prisoner opened his eyes; the dark bruise on his forehead wasgrowing redder and wetter.

  "Stand up!" she said, cocking her weapon.

  The boy, half stupefied, struggled to his knees, then managed to rise.

  "Go forward along that path!"

  For a full minute he stood erect, motionless, eyes fixed on her; thenshame stained him to the temples; he turned, head bent, and walkedforward, wrists tightly tied behind him.

  And behind him, weapon swinging, followed the Special Messenger in herrags, pallid, disheveled, her dark eyes dim with pity.