The Courier of the Ozarks

Order was given to maintain a strict silence and to molest no one passing along either road.

It was well that all the preparations had been made expeditiously, for hardly had Harry and Jack taken their position when horsemen were heard approaching down the cross road, and soon the shadowy forms of four men appeared.

They halted where the roads crossed and one said, "The orders are that Brown and I stay here while Hayden, you and Singleton are to ride towards the Yankee camp until you reach the rise where you can look down the road to the camp. Don't go any nearer, for we don't want them to know we are within forty miles of them. If the Yanks show signs of moving, report immediately. Better have Singleton report every hour, anyway."

"All right, Sergeant," replied Hayden. "You may be sure Singleton and I will keep our eyes open." And they rode away.

The men left fell to talking.

"Mighty quiet," said one.

"Yes, but if everything goes right it won't be so quiet when the Yanks move. Why, if the Yanks ride into the trap, we ought to kill every last son of them at the first fire."

Harry and Jack lay chuckling as they listened.

In about an hour the man called Singleton came riding back. "The Yanks are there yet," he reported, "but they are keeping mighty quiet. There's a dim fire burning and we can catch the shadow of one once in a while.

"That's where Jerry wants them to stay. He was afraid they might take a notion to light out during the night."

Singleton rode back and again all was quiet. The Federals lay sleeping, their guns in their hands and revolvers by their sides. It would take but a word to bring them to attention.

About four o'clock the trampling of horses told the guerrillas were coming. In a whisper the word was passed and in an instant every man was alert. But the guerrillas halted some distance from the main road and only three rode forward. They were Jerry, Stevens and Billy.

"How is it, Sergeant?" asked Jerry as they came up.

"As quiet as a churchyard. Hayden and Singleton are down the road watching if the Yanks move. I have Singleton report every hour. There he comes now."

Singleton rode up. "The Yanks are beginning to stir," he reported. "They are building fires, no doubt to make coffee. It makes my mouth water to think of coffee."

"You men will have coffee enough before long, but there'll be a lot of blood spilling first," said Jerry.

"Sergeant, what time was it when you reached this post?" he asked suddenly.

"I should say somewhere near midnight," answered the Sergeant.

"Then the Yankees could have moved before you got here. Stevens, I thought I told you to have this cross-roads guarded and the Yankee camp watched as soon as we decided to attack. Slow, as usual. If this thing goes wrong, you pay for it."

"You know, Captain, it was eleven o'clock before I received orders to post the guard," said Stevens uneasily.

"Well, we have no time to lose now. Go back, have the force moved into the field and see that instructions are carried out to the letter. Sergeant, you call in your men and join the force."

While these orders were being carried out Jerry and Billy lingered a minute looking over the field. "Couldn't be a better place for an ambuscade," said Jerry. "If the Yanks ride into it, not a man will come out alive."

"Hark!" suddenly exclaimed Billy.

"What is it?" asked Jerry, startled.

"I thought a heard a horse stamping."

"It's Hayden and Singleton coming in from guard."

"No, it was over there to the left, in the bushes. I'm sure I heard it."

Both gazed anxiously into the bushes, as if to pierce the secret they contained.

Harry's heart stood still; was the ambuscade to be discovered at the last minute? But the wind had risen, and nothing was heard but the rustling of the leaves.

"I reckon you must have been mistaken," said Jerry.

"Perhaps," replied Billy, with a sigh. "Jerry, I don't know why, but I feel as if everything is not right. You have told me so much about this Lawrence Middleton that I am afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"I don't know. What if he should discover this ambuscade?"

"I will fight him anyway. I now have over a hundred men and he has less than fifty. It will mean some loss to us, but we will have no trouble in beating him."

By this time Hayden and Singleton came up. They reported the Yankees were still in camp, but showed signs of moving.

"We have no time to lose then," said Jerry.

The gray dawn was just breaking in the east when the guerrillas filed into the field and formed their line.

"Move forward!" ordered Jerry, "until you nearly reach the crest of the ridge, then halt and dismount, leaving the horses in charge of every fourth man. The rest of you advance through the brush until you nearly reach the road. Be sure you are well concealed. When the enemy comes along take good aim at the man directly in front of you, and at the command, fire. Let not a shot be fired until the command is given. Give no quarter. Shoot the wounded as you come to them. But if you can capture the Yankee captain alive do so. I will have my reckoning with him afterwards. And it will be a reckoning that will make the devil laugh."

Every word of this was heard by Lawrence and his men, and the men fairly gnashed their teeth as they listened. It boded no good to the guerrillas that fell into their hands.

The guerrillas moved forward until about seventy-five paces from the waiting Federals. The order was given them to dismount, and the men not holding the horses moved forward and formed into line.

Lawrence was going to wait until they were over the ridge, but before he gave the order to advance, Lieutenant Stevens walked towards the bushes as if to reconnoiter, and a few more steps would have taken him into the midst of the Federals.

"Fire!" cried Lawrence.

The men sprang to their feet and poured in a crashing volley. Then with a wild cheer, without waiting for orders, they sprang forward, revolvers in hand, and sent a leaden hail into the demoralized mass. The effect was awful; men and horses went down. Never was surprise more complete.

From out the struggling mass came the groans of the dying and the shrieks of the wounded and terror-stricken. Horses reared and plunged, trampling on the dead and living.

Many fled on foot across the fields, others mounting in wild haste spurred their horses. But one thought filled the minds of all – to get away from that awful place.

Lawrence had given orders for the men holding the horses to rush forward at the first volley, so his men were almost as quickly mounted as the guerrillas.

In vain did Jerry and Billy try to stem the tide and rally the men. They were forced to join in the flight.

It now became a matter of single combat. Each trooper selected his victim and pursued him until he surrendered, or was shot down fighting. Those who had fled on foot were first overtaken and then those who had the poorest mounts.

Lawrence passed several, but he gave them no heed. He had but one thought, to find Jerry Alcorn. At last he saw him mounted on his magnificent gray horse. He was shouting to the men to take to the woods – to abandon their horses – to save themselves if possible.

Lawrence bore down upon him. Jerry saw him coming, and with a roar like a cornered beast, turned to face him. He raised his revolver to fire, but Lawrence was first and the revolver dropped. He was shot in the arm. Defenceless, he wheeled his horse to fly. Again Lawrence fired. Jerry reeled in his saddle, but gathered himself together and urged his horse to greater speed. Close after him came Lawrence.

The chase was a wild one, continued for more than a mile. Lawrence had now drawn his sword and a few bounds of his horse took him to Jerry's side. "Surrender!" he cried with uplifted sword. "Surrender or die!"

Jerry turned to him, his face distorted with rage and fear. Blood was dripping from his right hand. He had dropped the reins and was struggling to draw a revolver from his right holster with his left hand.

"Surrender or I strike!" cried Lawrence, but before the blow could descend he felt a sharp sting in the side and his horse plunged forward and fell. Hardly had Lawrence touched the ground when he heard a voice hiss, "Turn, so you may see who sends you to hell."

As if impelled by the voice, Lawrence turned his head and looked into the blazing eyes of Billy. Her face was distorted with rage and hate. Her horse stood almost over Lawrence and her revolver was pointed at his breast.

But no sooner did her eyes meet Lawrence's than she gave a start of surprise. A change came over her face and her hand trembled. The muzzle of the revolver sank, was raised, but once more was lowered.

"You – you," she whispered hoarsely. "Oh, God! How can I take your life. You tried to save my father. You pitied me. You – " A softer expression came over her face. She seemed to forget where she was and she whispered, "Then – then I was a girl, an innocent girl, but now – " her voice rose to a shriek. "Now I am a devil; but live; I cannot shoot."

The sound of galloping horses was heard and shouts. Lawrence looked and saw Harry and Jack almost onto them, their revolvers levelled on Billy.

"Great God! don't shoot!" he shouted; and to Billy, "Fly! Fly."

She sank her spurs into her horse and bending low over his neck was away like an arrow, but no avenging bullet followed her.

In a moment Harry and Jack were at Lawrence's side and helped him to his feet. "Captain, you're wounded," cried Harry. "Your side is all bloody." He tore away the coat and shirt.

"Thank Heaven, it's not deep," he exclaimed, "but bleeds freely. How did it happen?"

"I was about to cut down Red Jerry when I received this wound from behind. The same shot must have struck my horse in the back of the head, for he went down like a log."

"And the guerrilla who shot you was the same you told us not to shoot?"

"Yes. She was a woman and she spared my life. I will tell you all about it, but not now."

It was noon before all the men returned from pursuing the guerrillas. Of the band not more than thirty escaped, and most of these by taking to the woods.

When Lawrence gathered his little troop together he found that three had been killed and six wounded, three of them grievously. Of the guerrillas, twenty-five had been slain outright, as many badly wounded, and twenty prisoners had been taken.

Some of the men were for shooting the prisoners. "Red Jerry would not have spared us," they exclaimed.

Lawrence immediately put an end to such talk. "If any of the men have committed crimes that merit death," he said, "they should be convicted by a court-martial. No soldier has a right to put a defenceless man to death for revenge. Barbarity begets barbarity, while mercy appeals to the hearts of the most depraved."

He then told them how his life had been spared by the dreaded wife of Red Jerry.

There was no more talk of shooting the prisoners, and Lawrence noticed that not one of them was insulted or treated brutally.

The Federals remained on the battlefield for three days, caring for the wounded, and Lawrence had it given out that anyone who cared might come to claim the dead or carry away the badly wounded without being molested. The news spread and soon the camp was filled with weeping women and wailing children. Even some men came when they found they could do so safely. From the number of dead and wounded claimed, Lawrence thought Jerry's band must have been made up principally from the neighborhood.

At the end of three days Lawrence began his return march. A couple of farm wagons were pressed into service to convey the wounded. With the slightly wounded who were able to travel he took back with him thirty prisoners and fifty-five horses.

Great was the rejoicing when Rolla was reached, and the success of the expedition became known. Lawrence received a congratulatory message from General Schofield, highly praising him. But there was one Federal officer who did not congratulate Lawrence. Captain Dunlay felt too mortified over his own failure.

Red Jerry still lived. Lawrence had wounded him not only in the arm, but in the thigh. Secreted in the fastnesses of the hills, and tenderly cared for by his wife, he nursed his wounds and thirsted for revenge. Terrible were his imprecations against Lawrence and terrible would be his revenge if ever he got him in his power.

It was fated that he and Lawrence should never meet again. Jerry lived to organize another band and he became even more merciless than ever, and by his side rode his wife, as merciless as he. But there was one secret she never told her husband – that was, that she had spared the life of Lawrence Middleton.

CHAPTER XIX

MARK HAS A RIVAL

It was in September when Mark returned from his last trip. He was so thin and pale that Mr. Chittenden insisted on his taking a few weeks of absolute rest. These weeks were the happiest, as well as the most miserable, that Mark had ever spent. Happy because he was thrown continually in the company of Grace, miserable because he felt a great love springing up in his heart which must never be spoken.

A thousand times he resolved to flee. It would be so easy for him to go on one of his secret missions and never return. But he kept putting off the evil day; it was so near heaven to be near her, to see her every day. He believed he would be content if he could only live as he was always. In his imagination he had invested Grace with more than human attributes, and worshipped her from afar, as he would some angelic being.

Did Grace know the feeling Mark Grafton had for her? The eyes often speak more eloquently than words, and Mark's eyes told her the story of his devotion a hundred times a day. But this knowledge, instead of drawing Grace to him, piqued her. If he loved her why did he remain silent? In all the books she had read, lovers were not backward in telling of their love. But after all, she was glad he was silent, for she was doubtful of her father's approval, and there was that mystery that hung over him, a mystery she had not solved as yet.

"Mark, you are deceiving us," she said boldly one day. "You are not what you pretend to be."

Mark started, but soon recovered his composure. "What makes you think so, Grace?" he asked quietly.

"Because you have represented yourself as a poor, friendless, private soldier. Now, I know you were raised a gentleman. You need not deny it."

"Is that all? I thought – " he stopped.

"Thought what?" asked Grace.

"Nothing, only I am sorry you have such a poor opinion of me, Grace. In saying I am poor and friendless I have not deceived you. I am as poor and as friendless as I have represented."

"But in other things you are silent. You have never told me a word of yourself, of your early life. You only say you are an orphan. Mark, you are not what you pretend. You are holding back something, and I don't like it. Mark, what is it? You can surely trust me as you would a sister."

A look of pain came over Mark's face. "Grace, don't think evil of me," he faltered. "Think of me as a friend, a friend who would willingly die for you, but never anything more than a friend."

He turned away and left her confused, confounded. She saw that he was suffering, but she was angry. He had refused to confide in her. He had even hinted she might think more of him than was wise.

That night as she lay in bed thinking of what he had said, tears of hot anger filled her eyes, "Would die for me," she whispered, "but would never be more than a friend. Who asked him to be more? He is nothing but a presumptuous boy and should be punished." For the next two or three days she was decidedly cool to Mark.

By the first of November Mark felt he had fully recovered his health, and except for his arm he was as well as he ever would be. He told Mr. Chittenden so, and that it was not right for him to stay longer. But Mr. Chittenden asked him not to go, as he had some work he could help him in. He had orders to gather all the provisions and forage possible. A train was coming from Arkansas to get it. Then, some time in the month, a body of recruits from the northern part of the State were expected. Supplies must be gathered for them.

Mark promised to stay, but the change in Grace cut him to the heart. He thought she was angry because he had refused to tell her his secret. Little did he think he had uttered words which cut more deeply.

It was hard for Grace to think the cause of Mark's reticence was that he had fled for committing some criminal act, but what else could it be? She resolved more firmly than ever to discover his secret.

It is not to be supposed that such a girl as Grace had lived to be nineteen years of age without admirers. There was not a young man in the Ozarks but what would have been her slave if she had given him the least encouragement, but she was such a lady, so far above them, that they were content to worship from afar. They well knew they could be no mate for her. But there was one exception, a young man called Thomas Hobson, known as Big Tom.

Big Tom was a splendid specimen of the human animal, tall, broad shouldered, thick chested, and he had the strength of a giant. If the world had been looking for a perfect physical specimen of man it would have found it in Big Tom. There was also an animal beauty about him that captivated and charmed.

His magnificent body was all he had to recommend him. He was a bully by nature, and used his great strength by imposing on others. He was inordinately vain and conceited, and was continually boasting of his prowess. He was thought brave, for no man in the Ozarks dared to stand up against him in a fight, but at heart he was a coward.

During the first year of the war he was active in driving out and maltreating Union men. Living quite a distance from Mr. Chittenden, he had never seen Grace until the time she went to the rescue of Mr. Osborne. He was one of the hanging party. When Grace so unexpectedly appeared on the scene, her excitement and fierce wrath only heightened her beauty, and Tom gazed at her in admiration. He had been one of the most violent in demanding the death of Mr. Osborne, but now he suddenly changed sides and demanded that he be let go.

Much to Grace's disgust he persisted in paying her attention, and at length proposed. Much to his surprise he was not only refused but refused with scorn and contempt. This aroused every evil passion of his nature.

"You will regret this, Grace Chittenden," he cried furiously. "I 'spose you reckon you be too good for me, but I will give you to understand that there is not a gal in the Ozarks, except you, but would jump at the chance to be my wife."

"Go and make one of them jump, then. I want none of you," replied Grace sarcastically, as she slammed the door in his face, leaving him swearing and cursing.

When Mr. Chittenden was informed of what had occurred he sent word to Tom never to set foot on his premises again.

Mr. Chittenden was too big a man for even Tom to defy. But the affair got out and Tom, when he was not present, became the butt of the county over his presumption in aspiring to the daughter of Judge Chittenden. Tom knew of the merriment it caused and his pride was so hurt that he disappeared and was not heard of for over a year. In the fall of 1862 he suddenly appeared in the Ozarks at the head of a band of guerrillas.

The band numbered about fifteen, and he concluded that with this force he would show Judge Chittenden that he was not afraid of him, and that he was as big a man as he was. Therefore, he rode boldly up to the house. He was mounted on a magnificent horse, an immense plume floated from his hat, and he was decked out in all the grandeur of a bandit chief.

Mr. Chittenden was surprised, but concluded that under the circumstances it was policy to treat him with courtesy. Tom had learned to be polite. He did not mention past differences, or ask to see Grace. He had much to say of his prowess in the field, and of the number of Yankees he had killed, and boasted he held a commission as captain signed by General Price. The main object of his visit seemed to be to impress on the Judge his importance. When he learned Mr. Chittenden was engaged in gathering supplies for the Confederate army he proffered his services to help, which the Judge thought best to accept.

He became quite a frequent caller at the house, and as he did not force his attentions on Grace, she thought it best to do nothing to anger him, but saw as little of him as possible.

"Who is this fellow hanging around here?" asked Tom one day of Mr. Chittenden.

"Do you mean Mark Grafton? He is a Confederate soldier who was cruelly wounded at Pea Ridge, and found his way here. Since then he has rendered valuable services as a courier."

Tom did not rest until he had learned all about Mark that he could, and then growled: "A likely story. He never saw Pea Ridge; he was shot in some brawl. He is simply hanging around here to try and work his way into the good graces of your daughter. Look out for him. I have been watching the fellow; he is a sneak."

"Please keep my daughter's name out of your conversation," replied Mr. Chittenden, angrily, "or you and I will have a settlement. As for Mark, he can take care of himself, and if you know when you are well off you won't pick a quarrel with him."

"What! I skeered of that chap! Why, I could crush him with one finger. But no offence, Mr. Chittenden, only you will find I am right."

From that time on Tom became insanely jealous of Mark. What Tom was saying came to the ears of Mark, and a look came into his face which boded no good to Tom.

One day Mark met Tom alone, and as he was about to pass him with a scowling face and no recognition, Mark hailed him with, "Hold on, Hobson, a word with you."

With a growl Tom wheeled his horse and as he did so his hand went to his revolver.

"Hands up! None of that!" And Tom saw Mark had him covered. He also saw a look in his eyes that made him tremble. Death lurked there.

"Tom Hobson, it's time you and I had a reckoning," said Mark. "I hear you have been calling me a sneak and an impostor, but for that I care nothing. I hear you have been linking my name with that of Miss Chittenden. Now, I give you fair warning, if I ever hear of you taking the name of that young lady on your foul lips I will shoot you like a dog."

"So it's all settled between yo' uns?" Tom managed to stammer. "Beg pardon, didn't know it had went that far." Looking into the muzzle of a revolver made Tom very humble.

"Fool!" answered Mark. "Grace Chittenden is not for such as either you or me. Neither of us is worthy to kiss the ground on which she walks. Now ride away and don't look back. If you do you get a bullet."

Tom meekly did as he was bid, but in his heart there raged the passions of a demon, and he swore Mark Grafton should die.

But what did Mark mean by saying Grace was for neither of them? Tom pondered the question long. Light broke in upon him. It must mean that Mark had proposed and been refused, and being jealous of him had taken this way to scare him away. Perhaps Grace had been captivated by his fine appearance after all, and was only waiting for him to propose.

Again was his vanity in the ascendency, and he resolved to propose at the first opportunity. It came quicker than he had thought for. Near Mr. Chittenden's house was a shady nook that overlooked the La Belle. It was where the little river dashed and foamed and smote the rocks that would bar its passage. Here Grace loved to sit and watch the conflict, and here she was when Tom Hobson rode by. His heart gave a great bound, for it was the first opportunity he had had of seeing and speaking to her alone.

Reining in his horse, he dismounted, and making what he thought a most courtly bow, he bade her good evening.

Grace arose, an angry flush on her face, and barely acknowledging his greeting, turned to go.

Stepping in front of her he said, "Please don't go. I have been wanting to speak to yo' un ever since I returned. Yo' un know what I told yo' un when I went away. I'm of the same mind still, though I do be a capting now, and expect to be a kernel befo' the war is over."

"Out of my way," exclaimed Grace, white with rage and trying to push past him.

He caught her by the shoulder, "I reckon yo' un think that sneak of a Mark Grafton loves yo' un, but he don't. He told me so," sneered Tom.