Special Messenger

Presently, very far away, the dulled report of a carbine sounded, stirring a deadened echo among the hills.

“What’s that?” she exclaimed.

“Yank, I reckon,” he drawled, rising to his feet and fixing his field glass steadily on the hills beyond.

“Are you going to have a battle here?” she asked.

He laughed. “Oh, no, Miss Cynthia. That’s only bushwhacking.”

“But—but where are they shooting?”

He pointed to the west. “There’s Yankee cavalry loafing in the hills. I reckon we’ll gobble ’em, too. But don’t you worry, Miss Cynthia,” he added gallantly. “I shall be here to-night, and by sunrise there won’t be a soldier within ten miles of you.”

“Within ten miles,” she murmured; “ten miles is too near. I—I think I will go back to the house.”

He looked down at her; she raised her dark eyes to him; then he bowed and gallantly held out both hands, and she laid her hands in his, suffering him to lift her to her feet.

The brief contact set the color mounting to his sunburnt temples; it had been a long while since he had touched a young girl’s hand.

“I wonder,” she said, “whether you would care to share my dinner?”

She spoke naturally, curiously; all idea of danger was over; she was free to follow her own instincts, which were amiable. Besides, the boy was a gentleman.

“If it wouldn’t be too much to ask—too inconvenient—” He hesitated, hat in hand, handsome face brightening.

“No; I want you to come,” she answered simply, and took his hand in hers.

A deeper color swept his face as they descended the gentle slope together, she amused and quietly diverted by his shyness, and thinking how she meant to give this boyish rebel a better dinner than he had had for many a long mile.

And she did, he aiding her with the vegetables, she mixing johnnycake for the entire squad, slicing the bacon, and setting the coffee to boil.

Toward midday the scouting squad returned, to find their officer shelling peas on the cabin steps, and a young girl, sleeves at her shoulders, stirring something very vigorously in a large black kettle—something that exhaled an odor which made the lank troopers lick their gaunt lips in furtive hope.

The sergeant of the troop reported; the officer nodded and waved the horsemen away to the barn, where they were presently seen squatting patiently in a row, sniffing the aroma that floated from the cabin door.

“Did your men find the lady?” she asked, looking out at him where he sat, busy with the peas.

“No, Miss Cynthia. But if she went west she’s run into the whole Confederate cavalry. Our business is to see she doesn’t double back here.”

“Why do you follow her?”

“Ah, Miss Cynthia,” he said gravely, “she is that ‘Special Messenger’ who has done us more damage than a whole Yankee army corps. We’ve got to stop her this time—and I reckon we will.”

The girl stirred the soup, salted it, peppered it, lifted the pewter spoon and tasted it. Presently she called for the peas.

About two o’clock that afternoon a row of half-famished Confederate cavalrymen sat devouring the best dinner they had eaten in months. There was potato soup, there was johnnycake, smoking hot coffee, crisp slices of fragrant bacon, an egg apiece, and a vegetable stew. Trooper after trooper licked fingers, spoon, and pannikin, loosening leather belts with gratified sighs; the pickets came cantering in when the relief, stuffed to repletion, took their places, carbine on thigh.

Flushed from the heat of the stove, arms still bared, the young hostess sat at table with the officer in command, and watched him in sympathy as he ate.

She herself ate little, tasting a morsel here and there, drinking at times from the cup of milk beside her.

“I declare, Miss Cynthia,” he said, again and again, “this is the finest banquet, ma’am, that I ever sat down to.”

She only thought, “The boy was starving!” and the indulgent smile deepened as she sat there watching him, chin resting on her linked hands.

At last he was satisfied, and a little ashamed, too, of his appetite, but she told him it was a pleasure to cook for him, and sent him off to the barn, where presently she spied him propped up in the loft window, a map spread on his knees, and his field glass tucked under one arm.

And now she had leisure to think again, and she leaned back in her chair by the window, bared arms folded, ankles crossed, frowning in meditation.

She must go; the back trail was clear now. But she needed her own clothing and a horse. Where could she find a horse?

Hour after hour she sat there. He had cantered off into the woods long since; and all through the long afternoon she sat there scheming, pondering, a veiled sparkle playing under her half-closed lids. She saw him returning in the last lingering sun rays, leading his saddled horse down to the brook, and stand there, one arm flung across the crupper, while the horse drank and shook his thoroughbred head and lipped the tender foliage that overhung the water. There was the horse she required! She must have him.

A few minutes later, bridle over one arm, the young officer came sauntering up to the doorstep. He was pale, but he smiled when he saw her, and his weather-beaten hat swept the grass in salute as she came to the door and looked down at him, hands clasped behind her slender back.

“You look dreadfully tired,” she said gently. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

He had been forty-eight hours in the saddle, but he only laughed a gay denial of fatigue.

She descended the steps, walked over to the horse, and patted neck and shoulder, scanning limb and chest and flank. The horse would do!

“Will you hitch your horse and come in?” she asked sweetly.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He passed the bridle through the hitching ring at the door, and, hat in hand, followed her into the cabin. His boots dragged a little, but he straightened up, and when she had seated herself, he sank into a chair, closing his sunken eyes for a moment, only to open them smiling, and lean forward on the rough table, folding his arms under him.

“You have been very good to us, Miss Cynthia,” he said. “My men want me to say so.”

“Your men are welcome,” she answered, resting her cheek on her hand.

There was a long silence, broken by her: “You are dying for sleep. Why do you deny it? You may lie down on my bed if you wish.”

He protested, thanking her, but said he would be glad to sleep in the hay if she permitted; and he rose, steadying himself by the back of his chair.

“I always sleep bridle in hand,” he said. “A barn floor is luxury for my horse and me.”

That would not do. The horse must remain. She must have that horse!

“I will watch your horse,” she said. “Please lie down there. I really wish it.”

“Why, ma’am, I should never venture–”

She looked at him; her heart laughed with content. Here was an easy way for stern necessity.

“Sleep soundly,” she said, with a gay smile; and before he could interpose, she had slipped out and shut the door behind her.

The evening was calm; the last traces of color were fading from the zenith. Pacing the circle of the cabin clearing, she counted the videttes—one in the western pasture, one sitting his saddle in the forest road to the east, and a horseman to the south, scarcely visible in the gathering twilight. She passed the barnyard, head lifted pensively, carefully counting the horses tethered there. Twelve! Then there was no guard for the northern cattle path—the trail over which she and they had come!

Now walking slowly back to the cabin, she dropped her slippers and mounted the steps on bare feet, quietly opening the door. At first in the dim light she could see nothing, then her keen ear caught the quiet sound of his breathing, and she stole over to the bed. He lay there asleep.