9 A Hand in the Dark

After we had eaten supper and were sitting around our little camp-fire, Henry, who seemed to be longing for adventure—his head, I suppose, being stuffed full of the stories he had read before leaving home—asked Pike if there was a chance for anybody to see another ghost that night. But Pike did not look at the matter in the light of a jest.

“I don’t want any more such ghosts, boy, as the one that sent the arrow clipping by the head of your brother last night,” he said.

“If the bloody pirates come we’ll blow ’em out o’ the water,” said Starboard Sam.

“At any rate, if they come, they mustn’t find us asleep,” said Pike.

Hitherto, owing to the freedom of the country from all suspicious appearances, we had not posted any guards at night, relying upon our horses, which are always quick to scent danger, to warn us. But Pike said that would not suffice any longer. One man must watch one-half of the night and another the other half, and on the succeeding nights all of us must take our turn. There was no demurring at this, for every one saw the necessity of it. I volunteered to take one watch, but Pike decided that the older men must begin. So it was arranged that Wilkinson, the Virginian, should watch the first half, and Allen, one of the Pennsylvanians, the second half.

This was settled as we were closing a very savory supper which Bonneau had cooked. I never saw anybody enjoy a border life more than this little Frenchman did. I have noticed that the French adapt themselves more readily to a wilderness life than anybody else, except our own native-born Americans, and Bonneau was no exception to the rule. The cooking arrangements, which were very simple, nothing more than broiling over the coals, drifted into his hands, because he was better fitted than anybody else for such duties. But slender as were his opportunities, I have never tasted anything better than some of the antelope steaks and prairie chickens little Bonneau cooked for us.

Bonneau had less faith than any of the others, unless it was Starboard Sam, in the presence of danger.

“Vy should we fear ze Indians?” he asked. “Ve have done zem no harm. Besides, ze Indians are cowards. Zey will run from ze light of our campfire.”

Pike shook his head, but made no verbal answer. By and by all except Wilkinson rolled themselves in their blankets and prepared for sleep. Wilkinson paced up and down with his rifle in the hollow of his arm.

I was unable to go to sleep for a long time. Now that the darkness had come on again, my adventure of the preceding night presented itself to me almost as vivid and impressive as if I really saw the figure again. The thing ran through my head. I could not get rid of it. Usually after the day’s long ride and a hearty supper I went to sleep almost as soon as I lay down to rest. But to-night was different. I repeated the multiplication table to myself. I counted up to a thousand and then counted it over again, but none of these plans to force sleep succeeded.

The camp was in a clump of half a dozen trees by the side of a shallow brook, for we never halted until we found water. The horses were tethered a few yards away. My sleeping companions lay near me, motionless, and looking like so many logs. Wilkinson was still pacing up and down like a military sentinel.

The night was dark and the firebrands died down. A wind sprang up and sighed mournfully over our heads. I fell asleep at last and dreamed that we were pursued by mounted Indians. They overtook us, and we fought them, but one by one our men fell until only Sam, Henry and I were left. We fled again, and Sam fell and then Henry, and I alone survived. I galloped on until I came to a mountain which rose like a wall before me and barred my path. Then I turned and composed myself as best I could, and waited for death. But before the fatal blow fell I awoke and found myself clammy with perspiration.

I heard voices, but it was only Allen relieving Wilkinson of the watch. Apparently all the others were sound asleep. Big Pike was even snoring, and I was fretful because I, too, could not find restful sleep. Wilkinson, when Allen relieved him, lay down, and in a few minutes was slumbering. Allen walked back and forth for a while as Wilkinson had done, and then sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree which lay near the brook.

Being unable to go to sleep and not knowing what else to do, I watched the man. The wind was still sighing mournfully through the trees, and the sky was partially obscured by clouds. Within the shadow of the trees I could see nothing more than the outlines of Allen’s figure. Soon I grew tired of watching him, and shut my eyes in an effort to bring sleep. When I opened them and looked around Allen was still sitting on the log. I was surprised at that, for it was the man’s duty to patrol the camp, and he had never shown any inclination before to shirk his part of the work. I was tempted at first to stir or speak or make a noise of some kind, thinking the man might be asleep. Then I concluded I would probably offend him by such action, and it was really not worth while, anyway.

Thus debating with myself I lay still for some time. Allen sat upon the log, his back resting easily against a bough that projected upward, his gun between his knees and his hands clasped around the barrel near the muzzle. He had been motionless so long that I was sure now he was asleep. But I thought his position had changed slightly since I had closed my eyes. I determined to get up and awaken him. I ought no longer to hesitate.

Just then some of the clouds that obscured the sky drifted past and I caught a glimpse of Allen’s face. Seen in that pallid light it wore an uncanny look. Slowly my blood chilled at the sight. I glanced at my companions, but only the sound of their heavy and regular breathing rose in the darkness.

There came another glimpse of Allen’s face, and I could stand it no longer. Rifle in hand I sprang to my feet. A shadow darted from behind Allen. I fired at the shadow. There was a fierce, prolonged shout, a cry of hate, or triumph, or both, unlike anything I had heard before, and far more terrible. In an instant the camp was in an uproar.

Seeing the smoking rifle in my hand some of the men shouted to me, asking what was the matter. But before I could answer there came the shrill neighing of the horses and the trampling of their feet.

“A stampede! A stampede! After me, boys, and save the horses!” shouted Pike, seizing the single firebrand that still smouldered on the ground and rushing towards the horses. Instinctively I followed him, and the others did the same. Just as one of the horses was about to bound away over the prairie Pike, with a great oath, sprang forward and seized him by the lariat. At the same moment he drew a pistol and fired at a black form that darted out from among the horses and disappeared in the darkness like a flash of summer lightning.

“Catch the horses! Hurry for your lives!” shouted Pike fiercely, and almost before I knew what I had done I found myself clinging to the lariat of a horse that reared and stamped in affright and threatened to trample me into the earth. Pike’s hurried and emphatic command acted quickly upon the other men, and in a few minutes we had all the horses secured, though they shook and trembled with fright. Then Pike examined the lariats as well as the moonlight enabled him to do, and said:

“Boys, every horse here was safely tethered when we went to sleep. Since then every lariat has been cut. Some enemy’s been here, and ef that warnin’ hadn’t come in time we’d a-been left a minute later afoot on the great plains. You know what that means. That wuz a timely shot of yours, Allen. It saved us.”

Pike waited to hear from Allen, but there came no response.

“What did you see, Allen, when you fired?” asked Pike.

I thought it was time now for me to speak.

“Captain,” I said, “It was not Allen who fired the shot. I did it. I saw something like a human form move among the trees, and I aimed at it. When I fired Allen was sitting on the log back there,”

Pike swore furiously.

“In war they’d shoot a sentinel for such carelessness as that!” he exclaimed.

Then he strode back to the log, and I followed him. Allen was still motionless, leaning against the upthrust bough.

“Allen,” said Pike, angrily, “hev you been asleep?”

The man never stirred. Pike clapped his hand roughly upon his shoulder. The figure collapsed, slid off the log and fell in a heap on the ground. Pike started as if he had been stung by a rattlesnake. Stooping, he turned Allen over on his face.

“Good God!” exclaimed he. “The man is dead!”

It was so. A stray moonbeam glinted along the handle of a knife that was buried deep in Allen’s heart, and the ground at the foot of the log was red with his life-blood. “Build up the fire there!” shouted Pike, “we must see more of this!”

Soon a strong blaze flared up, shedding its light all over the little grove. The knife was drawn from Allen’s body, into which it had been buried to the hilt. There was nothing to mark it as a peculiar weapon. It was just such a knife as any white man or Indian in the West might carry. But a strong hand had driven it home. Of that there was no doubt.

We put the body under one of the trees. Poor Allen! He had been a quiet sort of a fellow, but our companionship in the journey had attached us to one another. Even Pike, much as he had seen of wild life, was affected. As for Henry and me we had never looked upon sudden death before, and we stared, horror-struck, at the silent form. Evidently Allen had not felt the presence of the last messenger, for his features were composed and peaceful.

Pike and Magrane took torches and searched behind the log. Pike announced presently that he had found the traces of footsteps there.

“The murderer crept up behind this log,” he said. “Allen was sitting here, and the man or whatever it wuz, reached over and stabbed him in the heart. Then, when you fired at him, he tried to stampede the horses, whose lariats he had cut already, an’ leave us afoot on the plains.”

We remained silent, and Pike added, presently:

“Boys, it’s mighty bad ez it is. Poor Allen’s been took, but we’d better be thankful that no more of us have been took in the same way.”

Then he asked me about the thing I had seen when I fired. I told him that the figure appeared just as it did the night before, shadowy and indistinct. That was all I could tell about it. Pike took his torch, and searched again. In a few moments he called us to him, and pointed to some drops of blood on the ground.

“You’ve stung our visitin’ friend a bit,” he said, grimly. “That blood shows that you’ve left your mark on him. He may not forget you for it.”

I felt a chill at the allusion. Coupling the events of the night and its predecessor, I felt much shaken. My own narrow escape, followed by this tragedy, showed that the shadow of death was upon us, that an unknown, mysterious hand was lifted to strike us in the darkness when we knew not. I think that the others felt as I did, for we built the fire high until it threw its light far out on the prairie, showing that no one could be concealed near enough for a shot. And then, with the horses tethered close to us for further companionship, we sat huddled up until the daylight came.

The sun found us a gloomy party. After we had eaten some of the antelope steak Pike said that our first duty was to dispose of Allen’s body. We could not leave it lying there on the prairie.

“How will we do it?” asked Sam. “We haven’t got anything to dig a grave with. Now, if we were out at sea it ’ud be easy enough.”

“We’ll bury him as the Indians bury their dead,” said Pike.

We wrapped Allen’s body tightly in his own blanket, which we tied up at each end. Then we stood with uncovered heads over the bundle while Henry recited a prayer. After that the men carried it up into one of the trees and lashed it on a bough. There it lay out of the reach of the wild beasts, while the thick blanket would protect it from the birds. Thus we left in that vast silence what was mortal of poor Allen and rode sadly away.

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