# The Red Mist/Chapter 10

CHAPTER X
THE JAWS OF THE TRAP
IF EYES alone possessed the power to kill, his would have done the deed, but the face with which I confronted him was sufficiently grim to make him realize the danger of a movement. He gave back a step, but my revolver pressed his side.
"Listen to me first," I continued, "and be careful how you answer. I may know more of this affair than you imagine, and I am not tolerant of lies. You came here tonight expecting to find Miss Harwood alone in this house. You were told she was here, and instructed to come. There was an object in your visit—a special purpose, in which others were also interested. You did not expect to have to deal with anyone but a young, unprotected girl. You were so certain of this that you are not even armed. You came in advance of others, and under orders, but, finding me here, you dared not openly avow your real object. That is the truth, is it not?"
He made no reply, his lips tightly closed, his deep-set eyes scarcely visible.
​"Don't try obstinancy with me, Nichols," I said sternly, "for you are either going to talk, or die. I'll give you one chance, and one only. I despise your kind, and will kill you with pleasure. Now answer me—who told you of Major Harwood's death?"
"I have said already; the message was brought to Lewisburg by one of Ned Cowan's men."
"Yes, so you did; but you never received it at Lewisburg. Oh, yes, I know something myself. The fact is you never came here tonight from Lewisburg, now did you? Do you want me to tell you where you came from? Well, it was the mountains the other side of the Green Briar—from old Ned Cowan's camp. There is where you learned of Harwood's death, and of the attack on Fox. Now are you ready to talk to me? Oh! you are! Very well, who sent you—Cowan?"
I ran my gun muzzle hard into his ribs, and he nodded sullenly, his lips drawn back in a snarl. All the soft palaver had vanished, and he had become a cowed brute.
"I thought so; you belong yourself to the Cowan gang?"
"Not—not in their deeds of blood and violence," he protested. "The calls of my church compel me to minister to my scattered flock—"
​"Never mind that kind of palaver, Nichols. The fact that you were with that old devil, and that he sent you here, is all I wanted to learn. Now what did he send you for?"
I waited, my eyes on his. I could not see the girl, and dare not avert my gaze for so much as an instant. The man wet his lips, as if they were parched, and I could perceive the nervous movement of his throat.
"Well, you are slower in answering me than is altogether safe. I'll warn you this once. Ned Cowan knew, by some means, that Miss Harwood was alone in this house tonight. He ordered you to come here for some special purpose of his own—what was it? Is he coming later?"
"I—I don't know."
"Don't know what?—this is my last call!"
"I don't know whether he is coming, or not," he blurted out reluctantly. "He was hurt in the fight."
"And if he cannot come himself he means to send others. What for? To loot the house? Come, it must be something different from that, or he would not be so anxious to surprise the lady here alone. You know, Nichols! and you are going to answer! What does he want of the girl?"
My hammer clicked, and the man cringing back, read the stern meaning of my face. A terrible ​suspicion surged over me, and I was ready to kill. He knew his life hung by a hair.
"To—to marry her," the words barely audible.
"Marry her!" I echoed. "What in heaven's name do you mean, man—old Ned Cowan marry her?"
"No," he stammered, as though fearful he could not explain fast enough. "Not old Ned—his son, Anse."
I heard the startled exclamation of the girl behind me.
"Anse Cowan!" she cried, her voice full of undisguised horror. "Marry me to that low brute. Did he ever imagine I would consent, ever even look at him?"
I touched her with my hand in restraint, the revolver still at the preacher's heart. The whole foul plot lay exposed in my mind.
"There was no intention of asking your consent, Miss Harwood," I said, satisfied that she should know all, and face the truth. "There is a reason for this desperate act which I do not wholly fathom, but it has to do with the property here, and the feud between Cowan and your father. If Major Harwood be dead, as this man reports, you are the sole heir, and old Ned has conceived the idea of marrying you by force to his son. He has learned you are ​here alone, and unprotected, and in this creature of his—this canting preacher—he has found a fit tool ready at hand to do his dirty work. Is that it, Nichols?"
He muttered something inaudible.
"They sent you on ahead to make sure Miss Harwood was here, and to remain until they arrived. How many are going to be in this happy wedding party?"
The man shook his head sullenly, and I gripped him by the throat.
"Answer, you black-hearted cur; you have confessed too much to hide anything now. How many are coming with Anse Cowan?"
"Maybe a half dozen of the boys. I don't know; they were talking about it when I left, and thought it was going to be a great lark."
"Well, it is; you are finding that out already. When were they to be here?" I shook him to loosen his lagging tongue.
"They were to ride out an hour after I did."
I threw the wretch back into the chair before the fire, but held him still cowering before the point of my revolver. The dog had told us all he knew, and there was a snarl to his thin lips, drawn back and exposing his yellow teeth, showing that his only thought now was revenge. Any moment that gang ​of ruffians might appear, and I was helpless there alone to contend against them. Indeed there was no way in which we could hope to protect ourselves, unless it was by flight through the storm. There might yet be time for that effort, although it was impossible to decide which might prove the safer road to choose. I had arrived on foot, yet surely Miss Harwood must have a riding horse stabled somewhere close at hand. These considerations flashed through my mind, as I stared into Nichol's face. The house was silent; the only sound the noise of wind and rain, the anxious breathing of the girl pressing against my shoulder. I dared not move, dared not avert my gaze from the preacher; there was hatred and treachery in the depths of his eyes.
"Is there a lock on the parlor door leading into the hall?" I asked.
"A bolt—yes."
"Please close and bolt it, and then come back here."
I heard her turn and cross the room; caught the sound as she shot the bolt, and her light step again on the floor.
"Now, something to tie this man with. We must be quick—the table-cloth will do! sweep that clutter of dishes onto the floor. Good! now cut me the cord from that picture."
​I had no thought of glancing about; I can scarcely conceive even now that I did, yet my eyes must have wandered an instant, for Nichols had the wrist of my pistol hand in his grip, and jerked me half off my feet. Even as I staggered, I struck out with my left, landing fairly on his face, and he went back over the chair, crushing it beneath him. But as he fell he dragged the revolver from my fingers, and sent it spinning across the floor. The next instant we clinched, our bodies pressed half way into the fireplace. There was a moment of fierce, breathless struggle, during which we rolled out against the table, our limbs interlocked, our hands gripping for advantage. The girl never screamed or emitted a sound. Some dim consciousness told me she was held prisoner between the table and wall, the revolver on the floor beyond her reach. I had no time to think, to do aught but fight desperately. He had my throat in a grip like iron, and my fingers were twined in his hair. But my left arm was free, and I drove my fist again and again into his face in short jabs that brought blood. The fellow possessed no skill, but the wiry strength of a tiger. I found his eyes with my fist, and dazed, his hands released their grip, and I broke loose, my throat livid from his finger marks. The flap of a gray skirt touched my face, and a blow fell—the man went limp ​under me, his head upheld by the angle of the wall. I struggled to my knees, still staring at him, uncertain as to what had actually occurred, struggling for breath. The girl stood over me, white-faced, her eyes wide open with horror, the remnant of the teapot in her hand. Suddenly her hands covered her eyes, the fragment of crockery falling noisily to the floor.
"I—I struck him," she sobbed, unnerved. "I—I have killed him!"
"No such good luck," I answered, recovering myself, and grasping her hands, so that I could look into her eyes. "The man is not dead—only stunned by the blow. He will be conscious in a minute. Do not become frightened; you did right, and we have no time to lose. You have a horse somewhere?"
"Yes, in the stable."
"Get whatever you need for a ride through the storm. Be quick, for those villains may be here at any moment. I'll tie Nichols, and wait for you at the foot of the rear stairs."
She hesitated, her hands still held in mine unconsciously.
"You—you mean I am to ride for Lewisburg—and—and you?"
"Oh, I must do the best I can on foot. We'll keep together as long as possible; only you must not ​fall into the hands of these men—not if this fellow is a specimen of their class."
"Him!" she looked at him with disgust, curling her lips. "I am not afraid of him, but—but Anse Cowan," she shuddered, staring out into the dark hall. "I—I would rather be dead than have that foul beast touch me."
"Then go, as I say, and hurry. Get a wrap, and your revolver."
She slipped out of the room, and up the stairs, her light steps making no sound on the soft carpet. I bent over Nichols, and as I touched him he stirred, and opened his eyes, staring up into my face. The heavy pot had cut a deep gash in the side of his head, which bled freely, and one of his eyes was puffed nearly closed where I had pummelled him. There was no fight left in the fellow, and he cringed back at sight of me, flinging up his arm in defense, all manhood beaten out of him.
"Don't hit me!" he whined. "I'm no friend of Anse Cowan."
"So you've had enough! Then take orders from me."
I gathered in the picture cord the girl had dropped on the floor, deciding swiftly what it was best to do. If I left the fellow lying bound there those new arrivals would discover him as soon as they got into the ​house. His story would make clear our escape, and how we had gone. Every moment of delay was of the utmost value, and if I could successfully hide this preacher where he could not be so easily discovered, the search for him would retard pursuit—his friends would be puzzled by his disappearance, and waste time seeking for him.
"Turn over, Nichols! Oh, yes you can—all that troubles you is a sore head. Come, move quick; that's it. Now put your hands behind your back—both of them. I mean to have you safe this time."
His wrists were big and knotted, and I drew the cord tight enough to make the fellow wince, despite his groans and pretense at severe suffering. There was no reason why I should spare him, nor could I feel any inclination to do so. I jerked him to his feet, using no gentle methods of persuasion, and turned his face to the door, picking up the lamp to give light for the journey.
"Go up the stairs," I commanded sternly, "and keep close to the wall. Oh, you can walk all right, my friend, and I advise you to do as I say—you see this gun?"
The scowl on his face was malignant, and his eyes glowed like coals, but he moved on ahead of me across the hall, and up the carpeted steps. The lamp held high above my head in one hand, sent a stream ​of light through the black shadows, and revealed his every movement. Once he paused and glanced back over his shoulder, muttering some threat for which I cared nothing, but the gleam of my revolver caught his eyes, as I lifted it to a level, and he went on, growling to himself. At the head of the stairs the girl suddenly appeared, her face showing white in the glow of the lamp. A brown cape, fastened closely at the throat, enveloped her figure, and a cap was drawn down over her hair.
"What is it?" she questioned swiftly. "Have the others come?"
"Not yet, but our friend here revived, and I thought it best to put him where he would be safe. Is there any room up here windowless, and with a door that can be locked? "
She glanced about, uncertain.
"Why—oh, yes! there is a large closet off my room where he might be locked in. He—he was not badly hurt?"
"Nothing more serious than a headache. Turn to the right, Nichols; into that room, where the light is burning. Oh, yes, you will! Kindly open the closet door, Miss Harwood. Ah! a prison cell made to order. Comfort enough here Mr. Preacher, and ample room even for your length of limb. It will be a fine place in which to meditate. Step in, man! ​Don't stand growling there, for it will do no good—we have ourselves to think about. Get in, I say!"
He was so slow, that I thrust him roughly through the opening, and closed and locked the door. The girl had placed the lamp on a table, and, as I turned, her eyes met mine
"Suppose they—they fail to come?" she questioned. "He could not get out; he might die in there."
"Little danger of their not coming. Anyhow I prefer risking that fellow's life rather than yours. Is he really a preacher?"
"Yes; he has a church at the Crossroads. I heard him preach once at a camp meeting. He was here before when Tom's wife died, and conducted the funeral."
"Tom? one of the servants?"
"Yes, my father's body servant. He accompanied him to the army." The tears rushed to her eyes, dimming them, and her hand touched my sleeve. "Oh, Lieutenant, do you really suppose he has been killed?"
"We can only hope," I answered, catching my breath quickly. "Nichols may have told that for a purpose—a desire to make you feel helpless and alone. But we cannot stand here and talk. You ​know the way and can guide us in the dark, can you not? It will be safer not to leave the lamp burning."
I blew the light out without waiting for an answer, and took her hand in mine.
"Now you must lead," I said softly. "We will go down the back stairs."
We slipped out into the hall together, her clasp on my fingers warm and confident, and I closed the door of the room behind us. Nichols had shouted some threat as the lock clicked, but was now silent. The soft carpet under foot enabled us to move noiselessly, and there was no sound in the deserted house. A flash of lightning enabled me to glimpse the window at the end of the hall, and my companion's face. She looked pale under the peak of her boy's cap, her eyes large and opened wide, a strand of loosened hair shadowing one cheek. Then it was pitchy darkness again, and all about us the silence of a tomb. My hand encountered the baluster rail, and she had taken a single step downward, when we heard a voice below, and the crash of what was probably the stock of a rifle on the outer door. A second blow fell, followed by the sound of splintering wood. The voice came sharper, clearer; I could distinguish the words.
"Now, once more, Kelly! There's nothing to be afraid of, man. Break it a foot lower down, so ​I can reach the key. Where is Anse? do you know, Jake?"
"He an' Bill are 'round front," some fellow answered hoarsely. "Thar's a busted winder thar. Yer saw ther light up stairs didn't yer?"
"Sure—the gurl's yere all right, but it don't look as if the preacher wus. I reckon he got afeerd, an' wus waitin fer us ter show up furst. Here, you, Kelly, giv' me aholt on thet club."
She shrank back against me, with a little startled cry, and I held her close. There was no noise as yet toward the front of the house, but two of the villains were there—one of them Anse Cowan. Beyond doubt they had entered the parlor through the broken window, and were groping about in the darkness, seeking for some passage leading into the hall. We were in the trap, caught between the closing jaws.