Brown lay flat on his belly the last hour of the day catching momentsof fitful sleep. At sunset he lifted his small head above the grassand scanned the horizon. There might be the curling smoke of a camp insight. A relief party might be on his trail.
He breathed a sigh of satisfaction. All was well. The sun was fastsinking beneath the hills, the prey was in sight and no hand could belifted to help.
The moment the shadows closed over the ravine he rose, stretched hiscramped body and turned to Thompson.
"Build your fire for supper."Thompson nodded.
"And give our men all they can eat.""Yes, sir.""They\'ll need their strength to-night.""I understand."The supper ready, Brown gathered his band around the camp fire andoffered thanks to his God. The meal was eaten in silence. The tensionof an imperious mind had gripped the souls of his men. They moved as ifstalking game at close quarters.
And they were doing this exactly.
The last pot and pan had been cleaned and packed. The fire wasextinguished. Brown issued his first order of the deed.
"Lie down flat in the grass now."The men dropped one by one. Brown was the last.
"When I give the word, see that your arms are in trim and march singlefile fifty yards apart and beat the brush as you go. If you come on acabin in our path not marked in our survey, it is important. Do not passit. Report to me immediately."There was no response. He had expected none. The order was final.
The first move in the man hunt was carefully planned.
The instinct to kill is the elemental force, beneath our culture, whichmakes the hunter. The strongest personalities of our world-conqueringrace of Nordic freemen are always hunters. If they do not practicethe chase the fact is due to an accident of position in life. Theopportunity has not been given.
Beneath the skin of the man of the College, the Council Table, theForum, the Sacred Altar, of Home, and the Church slumbers this elementalbeast.
Culture at best is but a few hundred years old and it has probablyskipped several generations in its growth. The Archaic instinct in manto kill reaches back millions of years into the past. The only power onearth to restrain that force is Law. The rules of life, embodied in laware the painful results of experience in killing and the dire effectswhich follow, both to the individual and the race. Law is a force onlyso long as reverence for law is made the first principle of man\'s socialtraining. The moment he lifts his individual will against the embodiedexperience of humanity, he is once more the elemental beast of theprehistoric jungle--the Hunter.
And when the game is human and the hunter is a man of prayer, we havethe supreme form of the beast, the ancient Witch Hunter. It is a factthat the pleasure of killing is universal in man. Our savage ancestorsfor millions of years had to kill to live. We have long ago outgrownthis necessity in the development of civilization. But the instinctremains.
We are human as we restrain this instinct and bring it under thedominion of Law. We still hunt the most delicate and beautiful animals,stalk and kill them, driven by the passionate secret pleasure of the actof murder. With bated breath and glittering eyes we press our advantageuntil the broken wing ceases to flutter and the splintered bone tocrawl.
This imperious atavism the best of us cannot or will not control in thepursuit of animals. When man has lifted his arm in defiance of Traditionand Law, this impulse is the dominant force which sweeps all else aschaff before it.
John Brown was the apostle of the sternest faith ever developed in theagonies of our history. To him life had always been a horror.
There was no hesitation, no halting, no quiver of maudlin pity, when heslowly rose from his grass-covered lair in the darkness and called hismen at ten o\'clock:
"Ready!"Single file, moving silently and swiftly they crept through the night,only the sharpened swords clanking occasionally broke the silence. Theirtread was soft as the claws of panthers. The leader\'s spirit grippedmind and body of his followers.
They moved northward from the camp in the ravine and crossed theMosquito Creek just above the home of the Doyles. Once over the creek,the hunters again spread out single file fifty yards apart.
They had gone but two hundred yards when the signal to halt waswhispered along the line. Owen Brown reported to his father:
"There\'s a cabin just ahead.""We haven\'t charted it in our survey?""No.""It will not do to pass it," said Brown.
"They might give the alarm.""Surround it and do your duty," was the stern command.
Owen called three men, cautiously approached the door and knocked.
Something moved inside and a gun was suddenly rammed through a chink inthe walls. The muzzle line could be seen in the flash of a star\'s light.
The four men broke and scattered in the brush. They reported to theleader.
"We want no fight with this fool. No gun play if we can avoid it. We\'lltake our chances and let him alone. He\'ll think we\'re a bunch of sneakthieves. I don\'t see how we missed this man\'s place. It can\'t be fivehundred yards from the Doyles\'. Back to your places and swing round hiscabin."Owen quickly gave the order and the hunters passed on. The first one ofthe marked prey had shown teeth and claws and the hunters slipped onunder the cover of the darkness to easier game.
The Doyles were not armed.
At least the chances were the old shotgun was not loaded, as it was usedonly for hunting.
The hunters crouched low and circled the Doyle house, crawling throughthe timber and the brush.
A hundred yards from the stable, a dog barked. Owen had carefully markedthis dog on the day of the survey. He was merely a faithful yellow curwhich Doyle had brought from Virginia. He looked about seven years old.
If crossed he might put up a nasty fight. If approached with friendlyword by a voice he had once heard, the rest would be easy.
The signal was given to halt. The hunters paused and stood still intheir tracks. Owen had taken pains to be friendly with this dog on theday of the survey. He had called him a number of times and had given hima piece of bread from his pocket. He was sure he could manage him.
In a low tone he whistled and called the dog by name. He had carefullyrecalled it.
"Jack!"He listened intently and heard the soft step of a paw rustling theleaves. The plan was working.
The dog pushed his way into an open space in the brush and stopped.
The hunter called softly:
"Jack, old boy!"The dog wagged his tail. The man could see the movement of kindlygreeting in the starlight, and ventured close. He bent low and calledagain:
"Come on, boy!"The dog answered with a whine, wagged his tail, came close and thrusthis nose against the man\'s arm in a welcome greeting. With his left handthe man stroked the warm, furry head, while his right slowly slipped theugly sharpened cutlass from its scabbard.
Still stroking the dog\'s head and softly murmuring words of endearment,he straightened his body:
"Bully old dog! Fine old doggie--"The dog\'s eyes followed the rising form with confidence, wagging histail in protest against his going.
The hand gripped the brass hilt of the cutlass, the polished steelwhizzed through the air and crashed into the yellow mass of flesh andbones.
His aim was bad in the dark. He missed the dog\'s head and the swordsplit the body lengthwise. To the man\'s amazement a piercing howl ofagony rang through the woods.
He dropped his sword and gripped the quivering throat and held it in avise of steel until the writhing body was still at last.
Inside the darkened cabin, the mother stirred from an uneasy sleep. Sheshook her husband and listened intently. The only sound that came fromwithout was the chirp of crickets and the distant call of a coyote fromthe hill across the creek.
She held her breath and listened again. The man by her side sleptsoundly. She couldn\'t understand why her heart persisted in pounding.
There wasn\'t the rustle of a leaf outside. The wind had died down withthe falling night. It couldn\'t be more than eleven o\'clock.
Her husband\'s breathing was deep and regular. His perfect rest and thesense of strength in his warm body restored her poise. She felt theslender forms of her little girls in the trundle bed and tried to goback to sleep.
It was useless. In spite of every effort her eyes refused to close.
Again she was sure she had heard the dog\'s cry in the night. Shebelieved that it was an ugly dream. The dawn of a beautiful Sundaymorning would find all well in the little home and her faithful dogagain wagging his tail at the door asking for breakfast.
She listened to the beating of her foolish heart. Wide awake, she beganto murmur a prayer of thanks to God for all His goodness and mercy inthe new home He had given.
As Owen\'s hands slowly relaxed from the throat of the lifeless bodyhe seized a handful of leaves and wiped the blood from the blade andreplaced it in the scabbard.
He rose quickly and gave the signal to advance. Again crouching low,moving with the soft tread of beasts of prey, the hunters closed in onthe settler\'s home.
The keen ears of the mother, still wide awake, caught the crunch of feeton the gravel of the walk. With a heart pounding again in alarm sheraised her head and listened. From the other side of the house came therustle of leaves stirred by another swiftly approaching footstep. Itwas so still she could hear her own heart beat again. There could be nomistake about it this time.
She gripped her husband\'s arm:
"John!"He moaned drowsily.
"John--John--""What\'s matter?" he murmured without lifting his head from the pillow.
"Get up quick!""What for?" he groaned.
"There\'s somebody around the house.""Na.""I tell you--yes!""Hit\'s the dawgs.""I heard a man\'s step on the path, I tell you.""Yer dreamin\', ole woman--""I\'m not, I tell ye.""Go back to sleep."The man settled again and breathed deeply.
The woman remained on her elbow, listening with every nerve strained inagony.
Again she heard a step on the gravel. This time another footfall joinedthe first. She gripped her husband\'s shoulders and shook him violently.
"John, John!" she whispered.
He had half roused himself this time, shocked into consciousness by hertrembling grip on his shoulders. But above all by the tremor in herwhispered call.
"What is it, Mahala?""For God\'s sake, get up quick and call the boys down outen the loft.""No!" he growled.
"I tell you, there\'s somebody outside--"They were both sitting on the edge of the bed now, speaking in whispers.
"You\'re dreamin\', ole \'oman," he persisted.
"I heard \'em. There\'s more\'n one. I heard some on the other side of thehouse. I heard two in front. Call the boys down--""Don\'t wake the boys up fer nothin--""Is yer gun loaded?""No.""Oh, my God.""I ain\'t got no powder. I don\'t kill game in the springtime."They both listened. All was still. They could hear the breathing of thelittle girls in the trundle bed.
The crunch of feet suddenly came to the doorstep. The woman\'s handgripped her husband\'s arm in terror. He heard it now.
"That\'s funny," he mused.
"Call the boys!" the mother pleaded.
"_Wait_ till we find out what it is--"A firm knock on the door echoed through the darkened room.
"God save us!" the woman breathed.
Doyle rose and quietly walked to the door.
"What is it?" he called in friendly tones.
"We\'re lost in the woods," a voice answered.
His wife had followed and gripped his arm.
"Don\............