by Van Reid
56 It Was the Effect That Counted
“I CAN’T HELP BUT THINK,” SAID EPHRAM TO EAGLETON AND THUMP, “THAT it is fortunate we crossed paths with the moose before the bear.”
“Yes?” said Eagleton.
“Do say,” encouraged Thump.
“I think that The Bearpath League has not the same ring to it.”
“Exactly!” said Eagleton. “Exactly! Thump?”
“I couldn’t agree more!”
Besides this colloquy, the ride back to Damariscotta from the station in Newcastle was a quiet one. Mister Walton, sitting by the driver, closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of late evening, breathing the cool night air, feeling the slight wind of their movement in his face. Maude was gone, and he imagined (however sadly) that quieter times were pending.
It had been pleasant to see Charles Piper again. As representative of county law, the sheriff had accompanied the bear’s trainer to the station. “Who is attracted to whom here, Mister Walton?” asked Piper good-naturedly.
“I think the feeling is mutual between us,” answered the bespectacled gentleman, unperturbed. “But I fear our luck in this matter has run its course, and I am happy she will be returning to her audiences. I trust you feed her well,” he said to the man from Colonel Cobb’s Wild West Show.
“She’s the baby of the troupe, sir.”
“Very fine,” said Mister Walton.
It had been late in the evening when they saw Maude off, Sheriff Piper waved from the train, and Mister Walton laughed.
The laughter returned to him as they rode across the bridge to Damariscotta. Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump heard his quiet chuckle and found themselves smiling at one another; without knowing the source of their chairman’s laughter, they were yet willing to join in with it.
Ephram looked down at his own feet, perhaps pondering some pleasant memory; he laughed quietly, his shoulders shaking. “Ah!” said Eagleton, as if catching his friend at something; his grin spread wide across his face. “Oh ho!” said Thump, looking sly. Ephram and Eagleton turned to their friend, eyes large, brows raised. “Oh ho!” said Thump again.
Then the three of them laughed uproariously. Mister Walton turned to see them; just the sight of their good humor brought forth from him a delighted shout, and before they reached the door of their hotel even the driver had tears in his eyes from laughing so hard.
Sundry—his long form crammed into a corner of the carriage, his legs stretched out in the opposite direction—was asleep. When the carriage drew to a halt, it took them some moments to wake him up so that he could go to bed.
Eagleton, before he retired that night, wrote a series of brief notes in his new journal; but when he attempted to record the hilarity they had experienced in the carriage, he could not recall what had caused it. Finally he decided that the effect was the important thing, and he wrote upon the page: Had a moment of great glee on the way home.
BOOK NINEJULY 11, 1896
57 Design
A NIGHT BREEZE CHUCKLED AGAINST THE TENT WHERE CORDELIA AND Priscilla slept, and the moon splayed soft shadows across the grassy hill, where all colors were some shade of gray in the light of the night’s rising lamp.
Cordelia slept the sleep of the exhausted, deep and dreamless. Their entire party—perhaps Mr. Scott excepted—had been torn between excitement and fatigue as the evening wore on; and to the surprise of everyone (herself included) it was Cordelia who initiated the call to bed.
Camp had settled down quickly; the fire was leveled and banked to a dull glow. Priscilla and Cordelia had talked in low voices while they retired (hardly less dressed for bed than for the day); then they climbed beneath their respective blankets and dropped off in the midst of conversation. The night cooled as the breeze came up, and the moon in the smallest hour silvered the line of hills in the east.
Cordelia did not waken all at once; there was only the realization that she was not asleep, that she had been asleep, that she wanted to roll over and drift off again. The shuffling sound in the tent she thought was Priscilla, who was often restless in her sleep; then there was a dull moment when the shuffling ceased to sound commonplace or natural, and her half-blissful desire to float softly back to that dreamless state was replaced by an irritation at being wakened altogether.
There was a light in the tent when she opened her eyes, and a startling shadow that fell across her and climbed up the near wall and a large rough hand suddenly covering her mouth. Cordelia found no scream within her, only a terrible panic for an unrestricted breath. She was lurched to her feet and held in a solid grip, the sharp smells of tobacco and sweat and damp wool rising to her nose.
Other shadows lurked before her, and a sliver of light from a partially opened storm lamp cut across Priscilla’s empty cot. Cordelia forced herself to fall limp in the arms of her attacker, then with one whiplike snap of every muscle in her body she nearly broke herself away.
The man behind her grunted angrily; a shadow dislocated itself from the corner of the tent, the beam of lantern light pivoting, and the gleam of a pistol that rose to kiss Cordelia’s forehead coldly. A pair of feverish eyes glowed on the other side of the pistol, and Cordelia had the image of a gaunt and unshaven face, a hawklike nose.
But fear had dropped out of her, replaced by a bitter and overwhelming anger, and she met those eyes without flinching. The man with the pistol was no fool; even as Cordelia prepared another defensive assault, he turned the lantern back to a bound and gagged and weeping Priscilla and, more importantly, turned the pistol upon Priscilla as well. His face did not turn, nor did his gaze leave Cordelia’s.
Suddenly the horror of the situation penetrated Cordelia’s anger, and the pit of her stomach was touched by ice.
“Quietly,” came a voice, itself so quiet that she could not be sure if it came from the man before her. Barely lowering his gun, he snatched up some clothes at the foot of her cot; then he did relax long enough to peer out from the flaps of the tent.
With a violent wrench, Cordelia was out of the rigid hold and, flinging herself horizontally over her cot, she reached beyond it for the porcelain cover to a chamber pot. It was a bulky broad-shouldered man with a large beard who lunged for her as she swung herself and the stonelike lid around, catching her attacker full in the face. There was a silence-piercing crack and a low grunt. The man fell to his knees, and Cordelia barely avoided his grasping hand as she jumped to her feet.
The size of the tent, however, constrained her retreat, and she found herself off balance as she ran into the back wall. The stricken man rose like a surge of ocean above her; rage animated the jerky movements of his limbs, and a fist shot out and popped against the side of her jaw.
Cordelia did not lose consciousness, but that state of half-dreaming returned to her. She endeavored to regain her feet, but could only make her hands and knees. A string of whispered curses, excuses, and invective hissed in the close air of the tent. She was lifted roughly and carried as dead weight from the tent. Riding bumpily over a broad shoulder, her breath whooshing from her with every second step, she thought she glimpsed the form of Mr. Scott stretched upon the ground—then silvery moonlight on the grass, a descending slope, horses, men moving with increasing noise, the sound of a pistol shot, two more shots from another direction.
Her wrists were trussed behind her, and she was lifted over the withers of a horse. Hard language carried over the sound of men climbing into their saddles.
“You ignoramus!”
“I didn’t mean to hit her so hard!”
The gaunt man stuck his sharp nose into the larger man’s face and hissed beneath his breath. “Do you know what the boss will say? Do you know what he’ll do to you if she’s hurt permanent?”
“Well, the boss didn’t have the lid of a thunder jug broke in his face!”
Another pistol shot heralded the arrival of a third man, who neatly mounted his horse and led the way toward one end of the shore. Cordelia endeavored to understand how many the
re were—at least four, she was sure, but darkness covered their movements and hoofbeats confused the ear.
“You’ll get away lucky if he doesn’t put a rope around your neck and hang you by degrees!” spat the hawk-nosed man, who disappeared from the circle of Cordelia’s consciousness.
The ride was bruising, the man behind her holding her firmly over the back of the horse. They rode past the lake and over a hill; then the way darkened among trees. They slowed, one horse clopping ahead of them and three more lagging behind. She was lifted down and steadied onto her feet.
“I don’t know anything,” she said.
“My goodness,” said the hawk-nosed man. “We must have made a mistake.” He held her things out to her. “The boss thinks you might want to be properly dressed, so you can ride like a lady in your clothes, or you can ride like a saddlebag.”
“I don’t mind wasting a little of your time . . .”
“You’ll be quick about it. Behind the horse.”
Cordelia’s tongue discovered several loosened molars on one side of her face. She had taken the clothes, and she turned now to send a withering gaze in the direction of the man who had hit her. There was enough moonlight to see that he was ill at ease. “It’s not your boss you have to worry about,” she said.
“Oh, I’d expect your rescuers any minute now,” said the leader. “We only laid out your guide and scattered the horses. Of course, it’s a simple thing to follow a trail through the woods at night.”
There was a chill among the trees, and Cordelia simply pulled the dress over her nightclothes. She stood for a moment behind the horse, feeling shaky and sick. The shadows of men and horses moved restlessly in the dark; but more than seeing them, she could hear where they were—almost hear their shapes and sizes—as they hunched upon their mounts, waiting for her.
Astonishment over what had happened gave way as fear caught up with her; breathing was difficult and her heart pounded large and erratic within her. She touched her aching jaw carefully, trying to think without the muddling effects of fear and anger. Losing whatever was buried beneath Minmaneth Rock gave her little pause, but the thought of her parents, most especially her father—who would never forgive himself if something happened to her—caused her to reconsider her false bravado.
She appeared around the front of the horse. “I do know something,” she said.
The hawk-nosed man simply said, “Tell it to me.”
“On the shore of the lake, opposite where we camped . . .” Cordelia spoke slowly and with care. “There is a large rock formation there, called Minmaneth. All I can tell you is what I suspect.”
“And that is?”
“That what you are looking for is buried somewhere beneath that rock.”
Even in the relative dark, there was an odd glint in the man’s eye. “And how do I know you are telling the truth?” he wondered quietly.
She was puzzIed by the look—even a little fearful, as if she had just made a very bad decision. “You know I am,” she said, with more conviction than she felt. “Now you can let me go.”
He laughed—an unnatural sound on that dark trail.
“I’m no danger to you,” she insisted. “I can’t tell you any more. You can leave me on foot.”
He laughed again.
“I have no shoes,” she said.
“Well, you’re barefoot, then.”
Cordelia had come close to pleading, which itself might be dangerous; a disquieting sensation ran down her spine. She took a breath and forced herself to speak with more calm. “Which horse is mine?” she asked.
“Do you see an extra horse?” said the leader. “You will ride with your friend. I promise he will be docile.” Then he reared a foot back and drove the toe of his boot into the bearded man’s knee. The stricken man hardly dared to complain, but groaned softly and grimaced. The smaller man had smarted his own foot in the process and, cursing beneath his breath, he limped back to his horse.
Cordelia allowed herself to be lifted up and held herself stiffly, stanchioned by the man’s arms as she rode sidesaddle. The outriders returned and two lanterns were hung on short poles and carried like cavalry banners so that the road ahead of them was lit by more than streaks of moonlight through the trees.
They traveled briskly, but without a sense of hurry or fear. Cordelia noted the way as well as she could, her vision distracted and her sense of space and distance baffled by the shadows of trees upon trees rolling past them in the lamplight. Even touched by the moon, the dark beyond their tiny island of illumination seemed large and substantial.
It was barely half an hour since she was wakened, and the situation began to settle upon her, first with slow deepening dread, then with shock. Her jaw ached. “My God!” she said, half in prayer. “Priscilla!”
“We left her behind,” came the voice of the band’s leader in front of them.
The memory of Priscilla, tied and gagged and terrified, welled up within Cordelia, and outrage drove away all other emotions. “I may hang you myself,” she said with such cool pragmatism in her voice that the hawk-nosed man turned in his saddle to glance back at her. “And your boss,” she added.
This made him smile. “Yes, he may hang yet,” he said.
They moved steadily along a tote road, taking careful cuts through the forest where the way doubled back on itself. The trail was marked by pieces of birch bark tacked against the dark trunks of pine or fir, and these blazes were taken down and tossed into the trees once they had served their purpose.
They traveled for several hours with little rest; the moon told the passing of time by commanding the height of the sky and peering down at their backs. They were heading due north. The moon began its descent to the west, even as the eastern horizon, seen occasionally from a tall hill, glowed with the coming dawn.
Eventually they came to a fork in the road, and here they stopped to discuss the boss’s orders. Cordelia had the opportunity now to consider the faces of her kidnappers: the leader; the bearded brute who had hit her; a younger face in the periphery of light; a sour-faced man chewing and spitting tobacco; another man who spoke with a Southern, rather than a Yankee, drawl.
The leader laid out “the boss’s” orders, with a particular emphasis in the direction of the man behind Cordelia. The conversation was in half-statements and incomplete sentences, however, and difficult to follow. They spoke almost in code, around her; but one thing was clear: she was not to be harmed in any way.
The leader gave a quick wave of his hand and he and the younger man turned down one side of the fork, eastward. The remaining men continued with her down the opposite path, the moon behind their left shoulder, and dawn rising beyond the piney forest.
58 Pursuit
JAMES UNDERWOOD WAS NOT TO BE DAUNTED BY PISTOL FIRE AIMED SO obviously above his head, even before he knew that his daughter had been kidnapped. The great crack of the chamber pot lid against the skull of the largest abductor had wakened him immediately, and he stepped from his and Mercia’s tent not half a minute later in an unbuttoned shirt, breeches, and boots.
The moon outlined dark figures in a silvery light as they scuttled over the hill. Mercia appeared from beneath the tent flap and reached for her husband, but he was gone, hurrying after the intruders.
The brow of the hill fell away to reveal the lake below and the presence of the forest beyond, a great wall of trees, like a palisade guarding the further perimeters of the water. Partway down the slope the forms of men and horses roiled in shadow. The first shot hardly startled him and he continued his pursuit. Two more shots rang out, further to his right, but these were distinctly meant as warning and he, conversely, was not to be frightened away.
He slowed his pace once the figures were mounted, knowing he had no hope of catching them. The horsemen broke into an easy lope down the hill, and it was then that James first caught the glimpse of white, thrown over the withers of one of the animals, that told him just how wrong things were.
Mercia, i
n the meantime, ran to the tent where the young women had retired. She nearly fell over the prostrate form of Mr. Scott, but did not stop to see if he were alive, injured, or dead. The pistol shots whined over the hill as she stepped into the tent.
Struggling in her bonds, Priscilla lay in a corner where she had been dropped, but in the darkness, Mercia did not see her immediately.
“Cordelia? Cordelia?” Mercia called. Dim illumination from the moon shone past her shoulder onto the empty cots. The light of a lantern bobbled and wavered against the side of the tent, then shot past the raised flap as John Benning entered behind her. The next moments were a jumbled nightmare of realizations as Ethan, then James, arrived at the tent; Priscilla was loosed from her bonds and Mr. Scott came to.
The guide was standing uncertainly at the brow of the hill when Priscilla was half led, half carried from the tent and into the night air. For the lack of a better place, they brought her to the center of camp, where the remnants of the evening’s fire glowed dully. They listened to the disturbing tale of her waking to rough hands and Cordelia’s subsequent abduction, told between the sobs and wheezings of near-hysterics.
Before she was finished, James sent Ethan off to find the horses, which had been scattered. “Keep your ears and eyes open,” said James. “I’m sure they’re long gone, but shout out if you hear or see anything.”
“I know she saved me, hitting that man,” said Priscilla. “They were so silent till then. They didn’t dare take the time with me, once you were roused.”
“Who?” said Mercia, the fright in her own voice barely controlled. “Did you see any of them? Did Cordelia seem to recognize anyone?”
“It was so dark . . .”
“Perhaps someone will kindly tell me what I’ve hired into,” said Mr. Scott, who—ignored up to this moment—stood outside their circle. He pressed the back of his head with one hand.
