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 Unitoergitp of JSortl) Carolina 
 
 Collection of Jlorti) Carolmiana 
 
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UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
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 notice is sent to you. It must be brought to the North 
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THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
He noted as never before the slender grace of her form 
 
 with its lithe erectness 
 
THE 
 
 HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 BY 
 
 WALDRON BAILY 
 
 Author of " Heart of the Blue Ridgb 
 
 Illustrations by 
 GEORGE W. GAGE 
 
 New York 
 
 W. J. Watt & Company 
 
 publishers 
 
Copyright, 1916, by 
 W. J. WATT & COMPANY 
 
 
 PRESS OF 
 
 BRAUNWORTH & CO. 
 
 BOOK MANUFACTURERS 
 
 BROOKLYN, N. Y. 
 
4n 
 
 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 DAVID, sitting under an apple tree, stared 
 with vague eyes toward the thicket of 
 dogwood that bordered on the far side of 
 the orchard. Then, of a sudden, his gaze 
 quickened as there came a movement of the 
 foliage, and a fawn stepped daintily out 
 into the open, where it stood placidly regard- 
 ing the young man with limpid, friendly 
 eyes. One ear stood out at a right angle 
 from the head; the other was laid back, at- 
 tentive to something within the thicket. 
 David knew that this something must be 
 Ruth, with whom her fawn wandered every- 
 where. He stood up expectantly. A moment 
 later, the girl issued from the shelter, and 
 at sight of the youth stopped short beside 
 the fawn, which muzzled her hand in a gentle 
 caress. 
 
2 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 For a little, the boy and the girl were silent, 
 studying each other with intentness, in 
 which was something partly admiration, 
 partly surprise, as if they saw with a new 
 clarity of vision. It was borne in on David 
 with startling abruptness that his childish 
 playfellow of years was a child no longer, 
 was indeed a woman grown, and, too, beauti- 
 ful. He noted as never before the slender 
 graces of her form with its lithe erectness. 
 His glances roved half -shyly over the delicate 
 contours of the oval face, and he saw that 
 she was very fair. He had known it before, 
 but not as he knew it now in this flash of 
 illumination. An unfamiliar beauty was re- 
 vealed to him here and now in the red lips 
 curving so tenderly, in the satiny purity of 
 the complexion with its petals of rose in the 
 cheeks and the trace of brown given by the 
 sun, in the aureole of hair that was itself like 
 sunlight, in the lucent blue eyes, which shone 
 with mingled mirth and pride and affection. 
 
 Ruth, for her part, in her contemplation 
 of David recognized something unfamiliar. 
 She did not quite understand its significance, 
 but she felt herself half-confusedly abashed 
 by its presence. She sensed dully that her 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 3 
 
 boyish, companion, as if in the twinkling of 
 an eye, had become of a man's full stature. 
 The thought subtly distressed her, even while 
 it gratified her. So she thrust the idea out 
 of her mind in order that she might greet 
 him again to-day as yesterday. 
 
 "Oh, Dave!" she called. There was a 
 warm note beneath the gayety that rang in 
 her tones. "Just think of pappy 's trusting 
 you to do all that business for him ! I reckon 
 he never let anybody else collect money for 
 him." She laughed as she added: "You 
 know pappy 's mighty particular about his 
 money. ' ' 
 
 David grinned in response. 
 
 "Yes, there ain't no two ways about his 
 being almighty close. He sure does make the 
 eagle squawk plumb awful every time he 
 pinches a dollar. I cal'late I'm some proud 
 over his sendin' me with that load of 
 apples." 
 
 "It means you're grown up, Dave," Ruth 
 answered, and there was a hint of wist ful- 
 ness in the music of her voice. Then, because 
 she herself by no means understood the full 
 significance of her words, she went forward 
 quickly with the fawn at her side. When 
 
4 THE HOMEWAKD TRAIL 
 
 she came to where the young man stood, 
 she paused, and put her hands to his cheeks, 
 and, as he bowed his head toward her, lifted 
 her face, and put her lips to his. In the 
 same second, she drew away from him, and 
 her cheeks flamed as they had never flamed 
 before from the kisses she had given him. 
 She stood mute and motionless, with down- 
 cast eyes, in a trouble half-shamed, half- 
 sweet. 
 
 David, too, stood wordless in a great con- 
 fusion. The kiss had loosed in him a flood 
 of emotion that thrilled and bewildered. It 
 was as if consciousness were drowned in the 
 tide of feeling. And as in the case of a 
 dr * ming man the whole life passes in re- 
 view during a few seconds, so now before 
 the mind of David a scroll was unrolled. But 
 this panorama showed only the kisses of 
 Ruth. They had been frank, free kisses all, 
 some tender, some mischievous, always kindly. 
 For, as to this young man and woman, each 
 was an only child, and, since they lived on 
 adjoining farms, they had always been play- 
 fellows. David remembered the day of his 
 first great grief, when from a field whither 
 he had gone to weep alone over the mother 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 5 
 
 who lay dying, lie had seen his father come 
 out of the house and pass down the road 
 toward the village. A great desolation had 
 fallen on him, for the man bore, according 
 to local custom, the measuring stick, which 
 he had cut to the length of his wife's form, 
 and which he would now carry to the carpenter 
 to serve as a measure for the coffin. So the 
 boy had known that his mother was dead. 
 Ruth had come to him in the misery of that 
 hour, had comforted him with her kisses. 
 Again, within the year, when his father went 
 to fight in the Confederate cause, leaving 
 the son in charge of William Swaim, Ruth's 
 father, the girl had welcomed him to his 
 new home with kisses, and had cheered him 
 in his loneliness. When, on his return from 
 a hunting trip with his father in the Blue 
 Ridge Mountains, along the upper reaches 
 of the Yadkin River, he brought her, accord- 
 ing to a promise made, a fawn which he had 
 caught, she had showered on him glad kisses 
 of gratitude. There had been other kisses 
 innumerable — joyous, teasing, tender. Here 
 was one of a sort altogether different. In 
 it was something disturbing, something curi- 
 ously penetrating and potent. It was a 
 
6 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 mystery to this boy who did not yet realize 
 his manhood. 
 
 The rough voice of Swaim broke the spell 
 that held the two. 
 
 "Drat thet-thar dumned pesky deer t' 
 Tophet! Ye left the corn-crib door open, 
 Dave, consarn ye! An' the ornery critter 
 has done et nigh a full peck o' seed corn, 
 an' thet seed corn's wuth money, by cripes!" 
 The old man glared accusingly in turn at 
 David and Ruth and the fawn, which had 
 slipped away to a little distance as if 
 in conscious acknowledgment of its guilt. 
 David, though aware that he was not at fault 
 in the matter, forbore any attempt at de- 
 fense, for he had no wish at this time to pro- 
 voke further his penurious and irascible 
 task-master. Ruth, however, boldly resented 
 this flouting of her pet. 
 
 1 'You ought to be ashamed of yourself, 
 pappy," she declared spiritedly, "to be- 
 grudge a darling little thing like Mollie a 
 few ears of your old corn. And," she added 
 impudently, "likely you left the door open 
 yourself. Dave is a sight more careful than 
 you are, pappy, and you know it." 
 
 The father drew his shaggy gray brows 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 7 
 
 in a fierce scowl, which the daughter bore 
 undaunted. His voice came with a rasp. 
 
 "Git inter the house, Miss High-an'- 
 Mighty, an' help maw with the bakin' an' 
 sweepin' an' sich-like women's tricks, instid 
 o' lally-gaggin' round hyar a-wastin' yer 
 own time an' Dave's." 
 
 The scarlet flooded Ruth's cheeks once 
 again at this direct attack, and she retreated 
 in haste, the fawn following. The old farmer 
 turned his frown on David, whom he re- 
 garded grimly for a long time. He was a 
 hard man and uncouth. He had a reputation 
 for meanness throughout the community, 
 and it was deserved. In his fashion, doubt- 
 less, he loved both his wife and daughter, 
 but they suffered none the less from his 
 penuriousness. His parsimony fretted Mrs. 
 Swaim more than it might have most of the 
 neighboring wives, there among the foothills 
 of the Blue Ridge, in North Carolina, for she 
 was of better birth than her husband, and 
 had even received the advantages of a course 
 in the female seminary at Salem. In her 
 romantic girlhood, her fancy had been caught 
 by the handsome and virile mountaineer. 
 She had been speedily disillusioned. Her 
 
8 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 single compensation was in Ruth, and for 
 her daughter's sake, she had held herself 
 from falling into the slovenly ways and il- 
 literate speech of the community. So, too, 
 she had trained her child as best she knew 
 how in matters of deportment and manner 
 of speaking. William Swaim had no sym- 
 pathy for any such " 'tarnal foolishness.' ' 
 He demonstrated the fact now by his aspect 
 as he stood glowering at the young man. 
 He was barefooted, and shirt and overalls 
 hung loosely on the tall, thin form. In the 
 deep hollow between the outstanding neck 
 muscles, the huge Adam's apple jumped 
 spasmodically, as he chewed his quid of to- 
 bacco, and either spat or swallowed the 
 juice. The face was thin and drawn, brown 
 and wrinkled. The beak-like nose hinted of 
 cruelty and avarice. The sparse gray hair 
 and the tangle of whitening beard were un- 
 kempt and frowsy. The eyes were pale and 
 watery, with reddened lids. They were blink- 
 ing now as he contemplated David with a 
 malevolent distrust, which found expression 
 in his next words. 
 
 " Hit's powerful resky trustin' business t' 
 a harum-scarum galoot what hain't got sense 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL - 9 
 
 enough t' lock wanderin' wild beasts outen 
 the corn-crib." David opened his mouth to 
 protest, but thought better of it, and per- 
 mitted the slur to pass unrebuked. "They'll 
 be quite some money a-comin' fer thet-thar 
 load o' limber-twig apples. I'm puttin' 
 right smart o' confidence in you-all, David, 
 an' I dunno as I had orter 'a' done hit. As 
 I said, it's resky — pizen resky." Having 
 thus relieved his saturnine humor, Swaim 
 became almost cheerful, and spoke alertly. 
 "Time we got busy with uie load, t' git hit 
 done come night, so's yc kin start at sun-up 
 t'-morrer." 
 
 David followed obediently, even with huge 
 satisfaction. For this commission given him 
 by Swaim to sell the apples in Salisbury, 
 though seemingly such a trifling thing, was in 
 truth a matter of serious importance to those 
 chiefly concerned. To the elder man, the 
 sending forth of the youth was in the nature 
 of a test. David's father and he had been 
 friends as well as neighbors. Naturally 
 enough, by reason of their mutual liking, and, 
 too, by reason of the fact that their farms 
 adjoined, and that each had an only child, 
 they had planned a marriage between their 
 
10 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 children. With more discretion than parents 
 in such cases usually display, they had kept 
 the project secret from those most concerned. 
 Swaim had much liking for the lad, which, 
 however, he was at pains to conceal. His 
 decision to entrust David with the sale of 
 the apples would never have been reached, 
 had he not felt that it was a duty he owed 
 himself to try out the business ability of 
 his daughter's prospective husband. So, to 
 him, a bit of petty marketing carried deep 
 significance. 
 
 To David (and to Ruth as well) the matter 
 was serious because it brought to the young 
 man the first real responsibility in his life, 
 and the fact marked his stepping across the 
 threshold that separates boyhood from ma- 
 turity. A trivial event truly in the judgment 
 of those more sophisticated. Yet, to these 
 primitive folk, the occasion marked an epoch. 
 For that matter, this undertaking apparently 
 so simple was destined to prove the begin- 
 ning of vital episodes in the lives of David 
 Simmons and Ruth Swaim. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 BEFORE dawn the following morning, 
 David had thrown the harness on the 
 tassel-tails, as he called the mules, and 
 hitched them to the canvas-hooded wagon 
 laden with apples. A blast of the horn sum- 
 moned him to the breakfast which Ruth had 
 prepared and now served to him. But there 
 was still constraint between the two, and 
 their words were few and perfunctory. 
 David seemed to give his entire attention to 
 the meal before him, and thus left Ruth free 
 covertly to study the clean-cut features of 
 the young man, framed by the waving black 
 hair. She considered for the first time, with 
 a maidenlv wonder that was almost awe and 
 wholly admiration, the breadth of his shoul- 
 ders, the depth of his chest, the slim waist 
 and tapering flanks. It was only when at 
 last he arose from the table with a sigh of 
 repletion that David's black eyes met Ruth's 
 in a long, intent, questioning gaze. Presently, 
 
 11 
 
12 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 the girl's glance wavered and fell, and the 
 color mantled her cheeks. David felt a thrill 
 of exaltation, though he could not in the least 
 understand why. 
 
 "I wish you luck, Dave," Ruth said. Her 
 voice was very low, faltering a little. "I'm 
 sure you'll make a good job of it." But she 
 did not offer him a kiss, nor did he ask it. 
 
 "Do the best I can," he replied, and hur- 
 ried out. 
 
 Within a minute, he was seated on the 
 driver's seat under the shelter of the pro- 
 jecting canvas top, and, with a savage crack 
 of the long-lashed mule-whip, was off. Cran- 
 ing back for a last look, he saw Ruth in the 
 doorway, who waved her hand to him, and he 
 waved in return. Then, with a great con- 
 tentment in his heart, he settled himself to 
 the long drive. Though David was too 
 familiar with his surroundings to be deeply 
 stirred by them, nevertheless the beauty of 
 the scene harmonized with his mood, and 
 served to emphasize it. His eyes scanned 
 with pleasure the luxurious tints that the 
 autumn had painted on the foliage of dog- 
 wood and oak and sweet-gum. A bob-white 
 called from a thicket, and David whistled a 
 
Then, with a great contentment in his heart, he settled 
 himself to the long drive 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 13 
 
 response. He listened, without any futile 
 thought of imitating, to the soft and exquisite 
 singing of a mocking bird hidden within the 
 wood. There was no drawback to his satis^ 
 faction as he journeyed on. The fall rains 
 had held off, so that the roads were good, 
 and he made excellent progress. Other 
 wagons, similarly loaded, swung into the high- 
 way from cross-roads, until David found him- 
 self one of a caravan moving leisurely within 
 a cloud of thick, red dust. The song of birds, 
 the murmur of brooks, the rustling of leaves 
 beneath the light wind were overborne by a 
 riot of coarser sounds — the thudding of 
 mules' hoofs on the hard clay, the clanking 
 of harness chains, the creaking of heavy 
 wagons, the bawled oaths of drivers, the 
 hisses and crackling reports of whip-lashes; 
 at the fords, the noise of churned waters, the 
 snorting of the beasts, the raucous laughter 
 and shouted conversations of the teamsters. 
 At nightfall, the train halted and made 
 camp. David, after he had attended to the 
 mules, fried his bacon and eggs over the 
 common fire. Then he rolled himself in his 
 blanket on the ground beneath the wagon, 
 and fell asleep to the lullaby of strenuously 
 
14 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 strummed banjos that came from the boister- 
 ous group still gathered around the fire. 
 
 The strangeness of his situation caused 
 David to awake long before the first glim- 
 merings of light. In his eagerness to accom- 
 plish the task set him, he at once began his 
 preparations for the road, since he could see 
 clearly enough by the starlight. He had fed 
 the mules, and breakfasted, and started off 
 before anyone else in the camp was stirring. 
 So, it came about that in mid-forenoon he 
 swung the mules on the easterly stretch of 
 the route to Salisbury. 
 
 It was as he came close to his destination 
 that for the first time his spirit lost its buoy- 
 ancy. There before him, on a tract of the 
 rising ground between the town and the 
 river, loomed grimly the high stockade of the 
 Confederate prison. At first glimpse of it, 
 David's thoughts flew to his father, who had 
 been captured, and now languished in some 
 place like this far to the north, under guard 
 of Union soldiers. David had heard much 
 concerning the sufferings of the captives here 
 in Salisbury prison, and, as he pitied them, 
 he was filled with dire forebodings over the 
 fate of his father. Where the road passed 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 15 
 
 alongside the high stockade, the ground 
 sloped sharply upward, so that from his 
 perch on the wagon seat, he was above the 
 level of the stockade's top, and could look 
 down and behold every detail of the grue- 
 some spectacle within the barrier. David 
 pulled the mules to a standstill, and stared 
 at the scene, fascinated and appalled. 
 
 The acres of the inclosure were crowded 
 with a tatterdemalion horde. These men were 
 gaunt starvelings, the wretched, famine- 
 stricken victims of war 's cruelty. They were 
 clad in soiled rags of uniform, which flapped 
 grotesquely loose on the emaciated bodies. 
 Through the masks of bushy whiskers 
 showed pallid features, lighted by cavernous 
 eyes. Some were so weakened by privations 
 that they were shivering even in the full 
 warmth of the sunlight. On many, the ban- 
 dages were witness of wounds still unhealed. 
 Often an arm was lacking ; often a leg. 
 
 One of those mutilated in the latter fashion 
 first drew David's particular attention, for 
 the cripple stood near the stockade, looking 
 up toward him. He was a young man of 
 about David's age, who, under a happier 
 fate, would just now have been in his prime. 
 
16 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 Like David, too, lie was tall and straight, 
 with, massive shoulders and a mighty chest. 
 The prisoner's natural attributes of strength 
 made more conspicuous the pathos of his 
 present condition with wan, drawn face and 
 haggard eyes and stooped form hunched on 
 the support of the crutches. One trouser 
 leg dangled empty from the knee. 
 
 A sudden livelier gust of wind caught the 
 unfastened canvas curtain on the side of 
 the wagon toward the stockade. The cloth 
 was lifted and thrown back over the frame- 
 work, so that the heaped apples showed 
 plainly above the side of the box. At sight 
 of them, the cripple's famished face lighted 
 with a consuming desire. After the scant 
 rations of sour corn bread which had been 
 practically his only food for many a weary 
 day, the ruddy richness of the fruit was tor- 
 ture to his need. He cried out shrilly in a 
 voice that quivered from the intensity of his 
 longing. 
 
 "Hi, mister! Can't ye spare one of your 
 apples to a poor cuss, who's just about 
 starvin'?" The smile that went with the 
 drawling words was pitiful. 
 
 The look in the fellow's eyes pierced David 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 17 
 
 to the soul. The thought of his father in 
 desperate need like this moved him to gen- 
 erous action. He reached quickly over the 
 back of the seat, picked up an apple, and 
 tossed it over the stockade toward the crip- 
 ple's eagerly outstretched hands. 
 
 The intended kindness was of no avail. 
 Another of the prisoners, who was standing 
 near at hand, had been watching greedily. 
 He, like all others in that place, was ragged 
 and forlorn and obviously very hungry. He 
 was a short, wiry individual of mature age, 
 with the chevrons of a sergeant still showing 
 on his coat-sleeves. A bristling red stubble of 
 beard gave him an appearance of fierceness. 
 Now, as the apple flew through the air to- 
 ward the cripple, he whirled and sprang with 
 surprising agility. He caught the apple, and 
 bit into it avidly almost before his feet 
 touched the ground. Then he sauntered off, 
 shamefaced, but munching voraciously. 
 
 The cries of indignation that had broken 
 from David and the cripple simultaneously 
 caused the other prisoners near by to look in 
 the direction of the sounds. A single glimpse 
 of the apples set them hurrying toward the 
 stockade, calling out in supplication. At 
 
18 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 first, however, David gave no heed to these 
 others. His heart was hot with wrath against 
 the red-whiskered thief who had so meanly 
 despoiled the cripple of his gift. Neverthe- 
 less, the remedy was simple. He plucked 
 another apple from the load and tossed it 
 over the stockade. His hasty aim fell a little 
 short. The man on the crntches lurched for- 
 ward clumsily — too late. A wobegone, tot- 
 tering relic was suddenly galvanized into life, 
 and pounced upon the spoil. The cripple 
 rested inert, an expression of hopeless misery 
 on his face. David felt a new pang of grief 
 for this sufferer whom as yet he had failed 
 to comfort. He was hot with wrath against 
 those who had thwarted him. Then, in an- 
 other second, as his ears took in the plead- 
 ings of the men massing at the stockade, his 
 anger died and gave place to a new and 
 broader sympathy for these stricken ones. 
 Yet, he was by no means unmindful of the 
 first to win his interest. He was indeed more 
 than ever determined to accomplish his pur- 
 pose. To that end, he resorted to strategy. 
 He seized a double handful of the apples, 
 and tossed them to either side of the cripple. 
 While the soldiers scrambled for these, he 
 
THE HOMEWAKD TRAIL 19 
 
 sent over two others so nicely directed that 
 the cripple easily caught both in his cap. 
 This success delighted David, and his de- 
 light was made deeper by the joy that shone 
 in the man's face as he looked up and smiled. 
 A warm tide of benevolence welled high in 
 the young mountaineer's bosom. He forgot 
 that these men here before him were his ene- 
 mies. He remembered only their need. Their 
 piteous appeals moved him to a reckless im~ 
 pulse of charity. He no longer thought of the 
 business entrusted to him by William Swaim. 
 His sole concern was to assuage to the full 
 measure of his ability the urgent necessity 
 of these famished prisoners. A philan- 
 thropic zeal drove him on. He clambered 
 over the seat and stood among the apples, 
 and threw the canvas side-flap up over the 
 framework of the top. Then, without any 
 hesitation, he began casting the apples over 
 the stockade. The forlorn captives surged 
 toward the barrier, yelling their glee over 
 the precious food that rained on them like 
 manna from heaven. David hurled his 
 kindly projectiles from both hands, fast and 
 furiously. The crowd within the yard 
 swirled hither and yon, following the flight 
 
\ 
 
 20 THE HOMEWAED TEAIL 
 
 of the apples. They chattered and cursed 
 and laughed in an abandon of fantastic hap- 
 piness over this break in the horrible routine 
 of their imprisonment. David exulted with 
 them. 
 
 Some boys, going a-fishing, halted by the 
 wagon to stare round-eyed at the strange 
 spectacle of this young man with the hand- 
 some face and flashing eyes and long black 
 hair flying in the wind, who was throwing 
 these great, luscious apples so wildly over 
 the stockade, from behind which sounded the 
 roaring acclamations of the mob. 
 
 "Say, give us some, suh!" one of the boys 
 shouted. 
 
 David heard the treble cry, and answered 
 it. 
 
 "Come on up here, an' fill your pockets, 
 an' help me throw," he commanded. 
 
 On the instant, the boys swarmed about 
 him, first filled their pockets, and then gave 
 themselves merrily to this new sport of bom- 
 barding the enemy. The many nimble hands 
 made short work of discharging the cargo. 
 A hail of apples filled the air. There was 
 joyous rioting among the prisoners, who just 
 before had been so apathetic in their wretch- 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 21 
 
 edness. Now, they were suddenly bubbling 
 over with liveliness, romping and chuckling 
 and gloating — and munching. The boys 
 working beside David squealed gibes at their 
 foes, and strove to catch them unawares with 
 apples cunningly aimed. David threw no less 
 fiercely, though with no malicious intent. On 
 the contrary, he was all aflame with the lust 
 of giving. It was with sharp regret that he 
 saw the last apple fly over the palisade. He 
 gave a glance down at the emj)ty wagon- 
 box, and sighed. He made a gesture of dis- 
 missal to the boys. As they clambered down 
 from the wagon, David faced the mass of 
 prisoners within the enclosure. He swung 
 his hands, palms out, in a wide gesture. 
 
 " They're all gone, boys!" he called. The 
 note of sorrow in his voice was unmistakable. 
 
 For a few seconds, a tense silence rested 
 on the ragamuffin recipients of his bounty. 
 But, in another moment, the grateful men 
 broke into cheers that grew in volume, be- 
 came a thunderous din of thanksgiving. The 
 paean of praise was a wonderful music in the 
 ears of David — a music that reached to his 
 heart, and melted it. The tears of a pure 
 happiness misted his eyes. He nodded stiffly 
 
22 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 in acknowledgment of the cheers, and then 
 in great confusion climbed to his seat, gath- 
 ered up the reins, and, with a crack of the 
 whip, set the mules jogging. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE whirl of emotion continued without 
 change until, with a shock of surprise, 
 David looked about him and realized that 
 he was in the Salisbury main street. He 
 pulled the mules to a halt mechanically, but 
 did not move from his place. A swift re- 
 vulsion of feeling battered down his com- 
 placent mood, and left him the prey of mis- 
 givings which increased in intensity from 
 moment to moment. At last, his conscious- 
 ness awoke to the nature of his act in yield- 
 ing to a heedless impulse. He perceived that 
 by the impetuousness of his conduct where 
 he had meant only kindness to those in want 
 he had actually inflicted wrong on the man 
 who trusted him. It was with a feeling of 
 blank despair that he admitted the truth 
 concerning his deed. He had given with 
 noble generosity. Unfortunately, the gifts 
 were not his to bestow. The supplies for his 
 charity had been stolen from William Swaim. 
 That no theft had been intended made no 
 
 23 
 
24 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 difference. The ugly fact remained. The 
 glow of satisfaction was gone now. In its 
 stead came a chill of apprehension. He 
 shivered with dread of what the outcome 
 might be. 
 
 David slumped in his seat, and groaned. 
 His dismay was abject. But he made a 
 mighty effort to regain some degree of cour- 
 age in the face of the disaster he had so 
 unwittingly wrought. He reflected that at 
 least the issue need not be faced for many 
 hours yet, since there remained a long drive 
 homeward. He was sure, with dismal fore- 
 boding, that he would be unable to sleep the 
 coming night. There would be time a plenty 
 for consideration and decision as to his 
 course while he lay rolled in his blanket be- 
 neath the stars. 
 
 Since he had no business in town, thanks 
 to his kindly folly, David turned the mules, 
 and started back drearily along the way over 
 which he had come with such high hopes. As 
 he passed the stockade, he held his eyes 
 studiously averted from the scene of his un- 
 doing. But, when he encountered the cara- 
 van which he had left behind, he played the 
 hypocrite, and bragged shamelessly in an- 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 25 
 
 swer to questions concerning the quickness 
 with which he had disposed of his load. 
 
 "Got rid of 'em in a jiffy!" he announced 
 quite truthfully. But the triumphant smile 
 that accompanied the words was a lie. 
 
 Melancholy drove with David across the 
 miles. His brain grew weary and then numb 
 in the effort to devise some means of relief 
 from the difficulty of his position. The little 
 money left with him by his father had been 
 spent. Though Swaim had made him earn a 
 man's wages, there had been no contract to 
 pay them, and there was no slightest like- 
 lihood that the old man meant to expend any 
 money unless compelled to do so. Could he 
 have paid the market value of the apples, 
 the arrangement of the matter would have 
 been simple. He might have been jeered at 
 for the sentimental absurdity of his per- 
 formance, but that would have been the worst 
 result. There would have been no question 
 of dishonor. But he had thrown away the 
 property of another, while without power to 
 make good his fault by purchase. Yes, he 
 was undoubtedly a thief. William Swaim 
 would not hesitate to call him just that — a 
 thief ! 
 
26 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 His forebodings were justified, for that 
 night David did not sleep. Again and again, 
 he went over the event of the morning with 
 increasing bitterness against himself. But, 
 in the course of his unhappy musings, he at 
 last seized on a diversion from his own self- 
 condemnation. It was as he chanced to re- 
 member the little, red-whiskered man whose 
 greedy selfishness had interfered at the out- 
 set when the first apple was thrown, and 
 had thus been the actual cause of the catas- 
 trophe that followed. David's spirit was 
 filled with exceeding bitterness at thought 
 of the man. The feeling increased in in- 
 tensity until it was very near hate. It com- 
 forted him in some degree to charge another 
 with the blame. 
 
 An inquisitive opossum came cautiously 
 nosing. David threw a pine knot, and sent 
 the intruder scurrying away. It was just 
 as the first dull gray of the coming dawn 
 lightened the purple black above the eastern 
 hills. And it was in this moment that an 
 inspiration came to David. He smiled grimly 
 to himself in the darkness. The device he 
 had hit upon was palpably flimsy. He was 
 well aware that it by no means met the re- 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 27 
 
 quirements of his case. The sole merit of 
 the idea was that it afforded a possible, 
 though by no means plausible, pretext for 
 self -justification. Still greatly troubled, but 
 somewhat consoled by the fact that he had a 
 defensive plea in readiness, David break- 
 fasted, and hurried the mules onward. And 
 now, curiously enough, as the distance short- 
 ened, he found himself thinking less and less 
 of Swaim's condemnation, and more and 
 more of what Euth might feel over this thing 
 that he had done. Once again, too, he found 
 himself brooding over those tremors pro- 
 voked in him by Ruth's last kiss. He tasted 
 a flavor in the remembrance. His pulse 
 quickened, with a tingling in the blood. A 
 flush showed through the tan of his cheeks. 
 His eyes deepened and glowed. And, not- 
 withstanding all this, he did not quite under- 
 stand the emotion that held him enthralled. 
 It was still early morning, for he had sent 
 the mules forward at a smart pace, when 
 David swung into the Swaim farmyard. 
 Euth was busy at the milking, squatting on 
 her heels, using one hand only on the teats 
 and holding the tin cup in the other, accord- 
 ing to the custom of the neighborhood. Hear- 
 
28 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 ing the rattling of the wagon, she hurried 
 to the stable door, and waved a hand in greet- 
 ing. Then, as she saw her father come out 
 of the barn, she retreated, for she was not 
 minded to have any witness to her next in- 
 terview with David. 
 
 The old man's cadaverous face was con- 
 torted to lines of jubilation. His welcome 
 was unqualifiedly genial. 
 
 •'Wall, Dave, I didn't 'low V see ye afore 
 sundown, an' mos' likely not till atter break- 
 fast t'-morrer. Ye sure must be some kin 
 t' lightnin'. Them mules don't look like 
 they'd turned a har." As David threw down 
 the reins and alighted from the wagon, 
 Swaim, with a grin of anticipation, stepped 
 close, and extended his right hand, palm up, 
 in readiness to receive his money returns 
 from the trip. 
 
 "Thar must be a right smart o' call fer 
 my kind o' limber twigs in Salisbury these 
 days," he cackled in high glee. "Ye'd bet- 
 ter fix t' load up an' go right thar ag'in 
 whilst the folks is buyin' so lively-like." 
 
 David held himself resolutely erect, and 
 spoke with an assumption of boldness that 
 he was far from feeling. 
 
THE HOMEWAED TEAIL 29 
 
 "Why, Mr. Swaim," he said, in a tone as 
 casual as he could muster, "I got back so 
 quick 'cause I didn't have V take the apples 
 clean through t' Salisbury. I found a cus- 
 tomer on the rise o' the hill where they 
 keep the Yankees that all look so powerful 
 hungry.' ' He forced a smile. "The feller 
 what bought the apples stood right there in 
 the schooner an' done tossed the last of 'em 
 right smack over that-there punchin fence 
 while those poor devils scrambled an' fit t' 
 git holt onto one." A flash of reminiscent 
 enthusiasm made his face radiant. "I tell 
 ye, Mr. Swaim, it was wuth twice the wuth 
 o' the load to see how much good they did 
 them starvin' humans. The feller what 
 bought 'em just couldn't he'p it, 'cause his 
 heart was teched by sufferin'." David 
 gulped, hesitated for an instant, then added 
 firmly: "That feller was me. I hain't nary 
 cent t' pay ye fer 'em. If ye won't wait till 
 pap gits home ag'in, I'll hunt a job V work 
 it out" 
 
 William Swaim 's jaw sagged, and he 
 gaped for a few seconds at the young man, 
 dumb from sheer amazement over this revela- 
 tion. Then, presently, as his mind took in 
 
30 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 the full enormity of David's offense, his face 
 grew ashen, and he trembled. His miserly 
 soul was wrenched by the loss of those dol- 
 lars he had hoped to fondle. An uncontrol- 
 lable wrath mounted against the lad who had 
 thus betrayed him. His watery, red-rimmed, 
 blinking eyes cleared suddenly and flamed. 
 He strode a step forward, and lifted a 
 clenched fist. 
 
 "Take thet, ye damn' thief I" he screamed. 
 His voice came shrill, cracked with rage, as 
 he struck out blindly. 
 
 David guarded himself against the attack, 
 but made no offensive movement in return. 
 He was in the full of his strength, while the 
 elder man was old for his years, and by no 
 means strong. The youth had no fear of 
 suffering any serious injury from the vicious 
 assault, and so limited himself to defensive 
 measures in which he was successful enough. 
 He had no wish to aggravate his fault by 
 thrashing the man he had already injured 
 so dolorously in the pocketbook. Moreover, 
 he could not forget that William Swaim was 
 the father of Ruth, and as such necessarily 
 immune from violence at his hands. 
 
 Ruth, having just finished her milking, heard 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 31 
 
 her father's shouted words, and echoed them 
 with a stifled shriek of alarm. She dropped 
 the cup of milk, and raced toward the barn. 
 She was just in time to see her father, more 
 than ever infuriated by his failure to break 
 down David's guard, turn and leap to a 
 pitchfork lying on the barn floor. Armed 
 with this dangerous weapon, he again faced 
 David. Ruth knew well the peril of the 
 moment, for she was aware that her father 
 possessed a temper which, though usually 
 controlled, was when unleashed a madness 
 that knew no bounds. The pitchfork was 
 almost at her breast when she hurled herself 
 between the two men, and cried out wildly 
 to her father to stop. 
 
 William Swaim halted, a dazed expression 
 on his face at the unexpectedness of the girl's 
 intervention. 
 
 "Oh, pap," Ruth gasped, "ain't you 
 ashamed of acting like that with Dave — 
 Dave been so kind and helpful to us 
 
 all!" 
 
 The old man was checked, but the wrath 
 still flared. He retorted with such haste that 
 the words came stammeringly. 
 
 "He'pful!" he sneered. "He's a thief — 
 
32 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 thet's what he is. He done stole my apples, 
 my limber twigs what meant real money fer 
 me. An' he's wuss nor a thief — he's a fool, 
 plumb daffy, fer he says he done fed 'em t' 
 the Yank' pris'ners down t' Salisbury. But 
 I don't swaller no sech lie like thet-thar. 
 Nary thief kin stuff Bill Swaim thet-away 
 s 'long's he loves the lady on the dollar." 
 
 The outbreak of speech had served as a 
 safety-valve for Swaim 's fury. David 
 realized that the father would not assault 
 him further in the daughter's presence. For 
 the time being at least, the crisis was past. 
 He put his hands on Ruth's shoulders, and 
 swung her about to face him. Even in this 
 moment of stress, he noted with a thrill of 
 new delight the loveliness of her flushed face, 
 the splendor of the violet eyes that met his 
 so steadfastly and so loyally. Then his lips 
 twisted to a whimsical smile, and he spoke 
 in a tone half of raillery, half of serious- 
 ness. 
 
 "I'm plumb guilty, Ruth," he declared. 
 "I'm jest that-there fool what your pap 
 spoke of. But I done stole the apples t' feed 
 starvin' humans — not fer love o' the lady 
 on the dollar. ' ' 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 33 
 
 "Tell me!" Ruth urged. Both she and 
 David had forgotten William Swaim, who 
 lowered the pitchfork until the prongs 
 touched the ground, and then stood leaning 
 on the handle, staring malevolently at the 
 young man. 
 
 David told his story with great earnest- 
 ness. He suddenly felt that the most import- 
 ant thing in the world was to make Ruth 
 understand exactly what had occurred. 
 Nothing else mattered if only he could retain 
 her good opinion. To this end he recounted 
 his adventure in detail from the first blowing 
 back of the canvas flap by the wind through 
 all the incidents to the final scene with her 
 father. And through it all Ruth listened 
 breathlessly, at the outset astounded by the 
 extraordinary happening, soon sympathetic, 
 and finally happy over his generous im- 
 pulse. 
 
 Swaim, too, listened. Somehow, greatly to 
 his surprise, he felt his anger passing. He 
 forgot in part his sorely wounded avarice. 
 Now that he had sustained the first shock 
 to his greed, he gave ear to the narrative 
 with a curious mingling of emotions. Against 
 his will, he was compelled to a feeling of 
 
34 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 admiration for this lad who had robbed him 
 in a fit of extravagant generosity. More- 
 over, he was ashamed now that he had let 
 his temper so master him. He was horror- 
 struck at thought of what he might have 
 done, had Ruth not interposed between him 
 and his mad desire. Remorse gnawed at 
 his heart. Lest he reveal the softening of his 
 spirit, he stealthily moved away, and passed 
 out of sight behind the barn. 
 
 Ruth and David took no note of Swaim's 
 departure. They were absorbed in each 
 other, and in the story the young man told. 
 
 As he ended, the girl exclaimed in praise : 
 
 i l Oh, it was splendid of you, Dave ! I love 
 you for it!" 
 
 There was no thought now of the embar- 
 rassment created between them by that last 
 kiss in the orchard. She threw her arms 
 around David's neck, and, with the ease of 
 old habit, lifted her mouth to his, and kissed 
 him. 
 
 Even in the act, recollection came to her, 
 and the blood flooded her cheeks. She would 
 have drawn back, but it was too late; their 
 lips were already joined. And at the con- 
 tact she felt a vibrant joy that eddied in 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 35 
 
 every atom. Thought ceased. There was 
 only an exquisite rapture that pervaded all 
 her being. Her senses seemed to fail. But 
 nothing mattered — only the bliss singing in 
 her heart. David's arms were like bands of 
 steel about her, holding her close, so close! 
 as if he would never let her go. And she 
 had no wish save to be held thus always. 
 His lips lay on hers like a flame that thrilled 
 through the flesh to warm and gladden the 
 soul. 
 
 For David understood at last the mystery 
 that had so baffled him. In that second when 
 she threw herself before him to save him 
 from her father's frenzy his heart had 
 leaped in an emotion deeper and sweeter and 
 nobler by far than gratitude. He recog- 
 nized that emotion for what it was — the love 
 of a woman, concerning which hitherto he 
 had only guessed crudely. The very intimacy 
 through all the years of adolescence between 
 him and Ruth had served to prevent his 
 thinking of her as other than a sister, a 
 comrade. Now, however, he knew her for 
 the concrete verity of vaguely tender rev- 
 eries. She was the one woman. He held 
 her crushed to his bosom, and his lips were 
 
36 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 eager. He was exultant, masterful in the 
 joy of possession. He loved her, and he 
 knew that she loved him. Her lips told him 
 that in silence. Nothing else in the universe 
 mattered at all. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 AFTER a long interval, the lovers drew 
 apart. They glanced about them with 
 a guilty air, and were relieved that no one 
 was observing them. They were both very 
 happy, but, too, after the period of abandon- 
 ment, they were now a little confused and 
 embarrassed toward each other, made self- 
 conscious by the bigness of this thing that 
 had developed in their lives with such amaz- 
 ing suddenness. 
 
 It was David who first returned to prosaic 
 thought. His gaze chanced to fall on the 
 empty wagon. The sight of it brought back 
 to memory the evil fashion in which Swaim 
 had reviled him as a thief. The radiance of 
 his face vanished. In its place came a somber 
 darkening. His eyes hardened, and his lips 
 set in lines of grim determination. 
 
 "I've gotter git out," he said curtly to 
 Ruth, who stared at him in astonishment 
 over the abrupt change in his manner. His 
 
 37 
 
38 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 voice was gentle, but held a stern note of 
 resolve. 
 
 "Why, what do yon mean, Dave?" the 
 girl asked anxiously. 
 
 "I must git out o' here tonight," was the 
 answer. "I'm goin' somewhere t' earn a 
 bit o' money fer a bill I'm owin' t' William 
 Swaim. ' ' 
 
 "No, no!" Ruth remonstrated. Her heart 
 sickened at the thought that she must lose 
 this lover whom she had only just found. 
 
 David shook his head obstinately, and the 
 firmly modeled chin was thrust forward a 
 little. 
 
 "There's no two ways about it," he de- 
 clared. "It will be powerful hard t' leave 
 ye, Ruth, just after we've got t' be sweet- 
 hearts, but it can't be helped. I can't thrash 
 yer pap, Ruth — jest 'cause he's an old man, 
 an' cause he's yer pap. An' if I can't lick 
 him, why, I just naturally gotter pay him fer 
 them apples." His face lightened a little 
 as he smiled wryly. " T ' pay him I got t ' git 
 money, an' t' git money I got t' git out o' 
 here." 
 
 "I know pap better than you do, Dave," 
 Ruth argued. She was eager to change his 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 39 
 
 decision, even though an instinct told hor 
 that her hope was in vain. " Pappy has an 
 awful temper, and he's pretty close. He 
 just flew offl the handle, and didn't know 
 what he was doing. He's all over his mad 
 by now, and mighty ashamed of himself. 
 And, anyhow, he knows you're good for the 
 money. 'Tisn't as if your father was poor." 
 
 David shook his head once again. 
 
 "My pap's money ain't any help, 'cause 
 there's no way fer me t' git hold of any of 
 it till he comes back from that-there prison 
 up North. Ye see, Ruth, I ain't hankerin' 
 t' 'company none with Bill Swaim till I pay 
 him an' prove I ain't the damn' thief what 
 he called me." There was a tone of finality 
 in the utterance, which the girl recognized. 
 She yielded to it, though bitterly reluctant. 
 
 "When will you go, Dave?" she inquired, 
 almost timidly. 
 
 "Sometime in the night," David replied; 
 "like a thief should." He disregarded 
 Ruth's protest. "An' don't ye breathe a 
 word about it t' yer pap er yer mammy." 
 
 "But if I told pappy, he might — " Ruth 
 began. 
 
 David interrupted her. 
 
40 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 "Not a word t' yer pap, Ruth," he com- 
 manded. The girl yielded, though somewhat 
 grudgingly. 
 
 "I suppose I must do as you say," she 
 pouted. "Wherever do you 'low to go, 
 Dave?" There was a tremor of curiosity in 
 her voice, and she added pleadingly: "Oh, 
 don't go far away, dear!" 
 
 The young man regarded her with great 
 tenderness. 
 
 "Not a mite further than I have t'," he 
 declared. "I ain't noways pinin' t' be shet 
 o' ye, Ruth. An' ye can bet that I'll come 
 back a-runnin' the first chance I git." 
 
 The conversation ended in new caresses 
 between the lovers, which left them palpitat- 
 ing with happiness, the more intense because 
 it had for a background the shadow of a 
 parting so soon to come. 
 
 Throughout his work that day, David's 
 brain was teeming with contradictory plans 
 concerning the direction his journey should 
 take. He decided after long considera- 
 tion that his best hope of speedy success 
 with the undertaking would lie in following 
 the Yadkin River down to Georgetown in 
 South Carolina, where in all probability em- 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 41 
 
 ployment might be found. Or perhaps lie 
 might strike across inland from Georgetown 
 to Charleston, on the coast, where the op- 
 portunity would be still greater. 
 
 No words were passed between David and 
 Swaim at meals. Mrs. Swaim, whose deli- 
 cate face showed the ravages wrought by the 
 sorrows of an uncongenial marriage, be- 
 trayed by her nervous manner that she knew 
 of what had occurred between the two men, 
 but neither she nor her daughter made any 
 reference to Davids trip to Salisbury or its 
 unfortunate outcome. After supper Ruth 
 found an opportunity to speak alone with 
 David in the orchard where he had gone to 
 smoke his pipe. 
 
 "You're really going to-night V 9 she 
 queried, when they had kissed each other. 
 
 "Yes," David answered simply. He ex- 
 plained to her his purpose of going down 
 the river in his skiff. "I'll slip away as 
 soon as the old folks are asleep," he con- 
 cluded. 
 
 "I'll make you a package of provisions," 
 the girl promised. There came a ripple of 
 laughter. "Pappy won't know. Mammy 
 will, but she won't mind. She'll be glad." 
 
42 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 The girl was serious again now. "Mammy 
 likes you, Dave." 
 
 The lover was a bit confused by this in- 
 direct praise. He spoke sheepishly, but with 
 sincerity. 
 
 "Yer mammy's a fine woman." 
 
 But Ruth, though usually a dutiful daugh- 
 ter and affectionate, was not now interested 
 in her mother's excellence. Her whole in- 
 terest was absorbed by this being who had 
 been her playfellow and intimate companion 
 for years, yet to-day was revealed to her 
 as a stranger — the lover whom she adored 
 and whom, because he was her lover, she 
 did not feel that she knew at all. The 
 mystery of the new relation fascinated her. 
 And by so much as there was charm in the 
 present relation by so much there was grief 
 at thought of the coming separation. 
 
 "I'll bring the package of rations down 
 to the boat," she said. "I'll have it ready 
 for you by ten o'clock." She regarded him 
 accusingly as if she had subconsciously de- 
 tected in his mind some idea of evasion. 
 "Don't you dare to go before I get there." 
 
 And David assured her that he would not, 
 and ratified the pledge with many kisses. 
 
THE HOMEWABD TRAIL. 43 
 
 They were not night-owls in the Swaim 
 household. By nine o'clock all had gone to 
 bed — ostensibly. As a matter of fact, Swaim 
 and his wife had duly retired, and had al- 
 most immediately fallen asleep. David and 
 Ruth, however, were wide-awake. On going 
 to his room after supper, the young man at 
 once busied himself with the modest prepara- 
 tions for departure. It was indeed a simple 
 matter to pack in his carpet-bag the few 
 articles of a very limited wardrobe. "When 
 his preparations had been completed, he sat 
 down by the window, and comforted himself 
 with a pipe while awaiting the lapse of time 
 sufficient to insure sound sleep on the part 
 of the elder Swaims. Finally he struck a 
 match and saw by the flare that his watch 
 marked almost ten o'clock. Carrying his 
 shoes in one hand, and the carpet-bag in the 
 other, with his rifle in the crook of the arm, 
 he crept out of the room in his stockinged 
 feet, and made his way with as little noise as 
 possible over the board flooring that creaked 
 alarmingly under his weight, past the bed- 
 room door through which sounded William 
 Swaim 's raucous snores and the softer 
 breathing of the woman, and on down the 
 
44 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 stairs. He entered the lean-to kitchen, and 
 felt his way through the darkness to the 
 pantry door, which stood ajar. He whis- 
 pered Ruth's name. There was no answer, 
 and he guessed that the girl had finished her 
 task already, and had gone on before him 
 down to the river. He was confirmed in this 
 belief, when, after recrossing the kitchen, he 
 found the back door standing half-open. 
 Sure that he would find her waiting for him 
 by the boat, he went out into the night. 
 
 After the dense dark within the house, the 
 night seemed well lighted with starlight 
 streaming from the cloudless heavens and 
 the golden glory of the hunter's moon. The 
 tension under which David had been acting 
 was suddenly relaxed as he felt the spell 
 of the night's serenity. The hush of an in- 
 finite peace encompassed him, and for a long 
 minute, he stood motionless, yielding to the 
 charm of it. A tang of autumn chill was in 
 the air. The young man filled his lungs with 
 a deep breath, which at once soothed and 
 stimulated him. Then, abruptly, his thoughts 
 veered to the girl who waited for his com- 
 ing by the river. Now, as he looked on the 
 still splendors of the night, he saw them as 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 45 
 
 the fit setting for the loveliness of Ruth. In- 
 stantly, he was impatient to be with her, 
 and set off running lightly down the lane 
 that led to the river. He covered the quarter 
 of a mile quickly. As he drew near where 
 the skiff was moored, the girl caught a 
 glimpse of him. 
 
 "Dave?" she called questioningly. There 
 was a hint of anxiety underlying the music 
 in the soft utterance, which David, in his 
 happier mood, missed altogether. 
 
 "Supplies all stored aboard, eh?" he ques- 
 tioned in his turn, by way of answer. 
 
 Ruth tried rather unsuccessfully to meet 
 his gayety in kind. 
 
 ' ' Ay, ay, sir, ' ' she replied briskly. ' ' Ship 's 
 fully provisioned for the voyage, captain." 
 Despite her effort, the words came quavering 
 a little. And now David perceived the dis- 
 tress she was striving to conceal. He swept 
 her into his arms, and kissed her many 
 times. 
 
 "Ye mustn't be unhappy, Ruth," he com- 
 manded with a gentleness that was none the 
 less authoritative. "I couldn't bear t' think 
 o' ye mournin' here while I'm out there in 
 the world." 
 
46 THE HOMEWAKD TRAIL 
 
 The girl understood that he had no thought 
 of giving up his purpose to save her from 
 grief. The idea had not even occurred to 
 him. She called it to his attention, but quite 
 hopelessly. 
 
 "Can't you stay with me, Dave?" she 
 asked, and in the inflection of the words was 
 a prayer that he would. 
 
 Dave spoke sternly. 
 
 "I've done got t' square my debt t' yer 
 pap. There ain 't no other way. ' ' His voice 
 softened, and he held the girl closer as he 
 went on speaking: "But I'll be a-pinin' fer 
 you-all, Ruth, all the time I'm away. An' 
 it'll seem a mighty long time, too." 
 
 "You don't reckon it will really be very 
 long, do you, Dave?" the girl asked, with a 
 pathetic inflection of dismay at the sugges- 
 tion. 
 
 ' ' Shucks ! No, o ' course not. 'Twon 't take 
 scarcely any time wuth mentionin' t' earn 
 enough t' pay fer them cussed limber twigs. 
 An' the minute I git a holt on the money, 
 I'll come a-runnin'. An' I won't be scramb- 
 lin' back so all-fired fast jest fer the sake 
 o' seein' yer pap ag'in. It's you-all my eyes 
 an' my lips will be achin' fer." He kissed 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 47 
 
 her liair very gently, again and again. The 
 perfume of it was like incense to him. The 
 parting so near at hand pained him, but he 
 felt that he must not give way to his own 
 sorrow, since she must need his greater 
 strength to comfort her in her womanly 
 weakness. He patted her back in a clumsy 
 effort to console. 
 
 Ruth stood clinging to him with her head 
 buried in his bosom. She was crying softly, 
 with little muffled sobs. This separation was 
 to her a very terrible thing. It seemed to 
 her that its coming thus immediately after 
 their mutual confession of love made it all 
 the more dreadful. There had been no time 
 to realize the intercommunion of their hearts 
 before a cruel fate interposed to thrust them 
 apart. Even had matters stood merely on 
 the former friendly footing between them, 
 she must have found the abrupt departure 
 of David a cause for suffering. Now, since 
 the intimacy between them had developed 
 into a mutual passion, she was stricken to 
 the soul that the man she loved should go 
 from her and leave her in desolate loneliness. 
 
 Ruth ceased weeping after a time, though 
 she had heard but dully the murmured en- 
 
48 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 couragement and endearments with which 
 David sought to cheer her flagging spirits. 
 The change in her was due chiefly to a sudden 
 thought that the expression of her despair 
 would tend to make her lover too unhappy. 
 So, with the instinct of self-sacrifice that is 
 natural to the fond woman, she used all her 
 strength of will to cast off the external signs 
 of depression in order that she might not 
 inspire melancholy in David when he most 
 required courage for his adventuring out 
 into the world. She raised her face and gave 
 him kiss for kiss, and joyous words of love 
 and trust. The young man responded gladly. 
 He spoke with confidence of the future, of 
 his hopes for a speedy return to her arms, 
 of the perfect life they would live together 
 through the long years to come. 
 
 It was midnight when the last farewell 
 was spoken between them, and David pushed 
 the skiff from the shore, and let it swing into 
 the current of the river. The girl stood 
 tense in restraint on the land, peering with 
 dilated eyes to detect the final bit of shadow 
 moving over the water, which gave the vague 
 outline of the man she loved. And David, 
 looking back as the boat drifted slowly down 
 
THE HOMEWARD TEAIL 49 
 
 the stream, held his gaze fast to that gray 
 silhouette, dimly seen beneath the moon- 
 light on the shore, which was Euth — Ruth, 
 his sweetheart ! Then, presently, the ghostly 
 figure vanished in the mist-wraiths, to be 
 seen no more. A pang of infinite loneliness 
 pierced David's breast as the vision of the 
 girl faded from his view. For long moments 
 he sat brooding, disconsolate and rebellious 
 over the destiny that tore him from her. 
 But, presently, the peace of the night touched 
 him again with its benediction, and his sor- 
 row fell from him. His fancy turned to the 
 adventure that awaited him in the coming 
 days. He bent to the oars and sent the skiff 
 forward with long steady strokes. And as 
 he sped on through the night, he was no 
 longer lonely, for he was companied with 
 his dreams. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 FOR some hours David rowed steadily, 
 though with a leisurely stroke. But 
 on passing beyond that portion of the river 
 most familiar to him, he gave over rowing, 
 and with an oar for rudder, was content to 
 let the skiff float lazily with the sluggish 
 current. He chose this method of journeying 
 not so much to escape fatigue as for the 
 sake of caution. The waters of the winding 
 stream were usually shallow, and although 
 his craft was flat-bottomed with a draft of 
 only a few inches, it was necessary to steer 
 with care to avoid driving on one of the pro- 
 jecting rocks. So, the progress was slow, yet 
 made with a luxurious ease that suited the 
 traveler's mood and left him free for pleas- 
 ant reverie. There was something almost 
 hypnotic in that silent, stately floating over 
 the velvet dark surface, between serried 
 sentinel ranks of poplars and sycamores, 
 which lined either shore. The moon dropped 
 
 50 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 51 
 
 toward the western horizon so that the boat 
 moved within the heavy shadows of the trees, 
 and David guided it almost by instinct rather 
 than by sight. The moon dipped lower 
 swiftly and set. The scene became weird; a 
 vague and melancholy vista. A breeze 
 sprang up before the dawn. The air grew 
 colder, so that David felt the dank chill of 
 it, and shivered. He shook off the sense of 
 oppression that crept upon his spirits, and 
 determined to make camp on shore. 
 
 He sent the boat rustling through the 
 reeds that opposed their frail barrier be- 
 tween the channel and the bank. The skiff's 
 bow lifted and slid up easily on a sandy 
 beach. David clambered out. His move- 
 ments were stiff at first from his hours of 
 sitting during the cool night. But, very soon, 
 his blood quickened its flow, his muscles be- 
 came warm and supple again. His simple 
 preparations were speedily made. The boat 
 was uptilted on its side, propped in position 
 by the oars, to serve as a wind-break. He 
 did not trouble to cook a meal, but was satis- 
 fied with a few mouthf uls of cold meat. Then 
 he rolled himself snugly in his blanket, and 
 almost within the second was fast asleep. 
 
52 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 The sun was hours high when finally David 
 stirred, yawned noisily, stretched his muscles 
 until the joints crackled in protest, and sat 
 up. His mood was harmonious with the joy- 
 ous day, and he felt a cheerful readiness to 
 fare forward on his quest. He was beset 
 with a ravenous hunger, and hurried the 
 preparation of hot food from his store of 
 corn meal, bacon and coffee. Then, replete, 
 he resumed his journey. 
 
 For three days, David followed the course 
 of the river at his ease. By night he would 
 lie up in some sheltered nook on the bank, 
 and by day he would drift with the current, 
 rowing only occasionally in the more open 
 and level stretches of water. The weather 
 held fair, so that he suffered no discomfort 
 from this source. The food supplies were 
 ample for his needs, and he added to them 
 with game that fell to his rifle. Flocks of 
 wild duck and geese were frequent. Often 
 as he rounded a bend of the river he would 
 find them clustered thick before him. More 
 than once his bullet caught a green-headed 
 mallard before it could rise into the air. 
 
 It was on the third day, when he had 
 traversed a distance of perhaps seventy-five 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 53 
 
 miles from the Swaim homestead, that David, 
 at nightfall, drew near the city of Salisbury. 
 Though unfamiliar with the river itself in 
 this direction, he was able to recognize his 
 surroundings by certain landmarks. Chief 
 among these was the stockade of the Con- 
 federate prison, which loomed through the 
 gloaming, sinister and hideous, on the higher 
 ground above the river. The sight of it, thus 
 vaguely seen at dusk, touched the adven- 
 turer's spirit with an unreasoning bitter- 
 ness. He was not in the least repentant for 
 what he had done here in a flush of generous 
 enthusiasm. But just now he keenly re- 
 gretted the miles that lay between him and the 
 girl he loved. Here was the cause of their 
 separation, and he loathed it accordingly. 
 Then, inevitably, his thought jumped to the 
 red-whiskered man, who had been first to 
 rob the cripple, and thereby had precipitated 
 the catastrophe. David felt a flare of fury 
 against this fellow, as he had before while 
 returning from Salisbury. Now, however, 
 his feeling was even fiercer, for this con- 
 scienceless rogue by his theft had come be- 
 tween the lovers. A surge almost of hatred 
 swept up in the lad's bosom. His fingers 
 
54 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 twitched convulsively, as if lie longed to be 
 at grips with the man, to thrash into him 
 some sense of decency in his conduct toward 
 cripples. 
 
 A faint, bell-like rhythm came down on the 
 breeze. It seemed to issue from the direc- 
 tion of the stockade, and moment by moment 
 it grew louder. David knew the sound, and 
 his pulse quickened. He had meant to push 
 on to the ferry landing a little way below, 
 where the flat-bottomed scow was still poled 
 across the stream, when any traveler blew 
 a summons on the tin horn. He had intended 
 to camp there for the night, and thence to 
 walk the two miles into Salisbury next morn- 
 ing, to inquire for possible news of his 
 father. But now he forgot the swift ap- 
 proach of night in this new interest in the 
 sound borne to his ears by the wind. With 
 a thrust of his steering oar he turned the 
 skiff's bow to the shore. The bank here was 
 high and steep, and the current ran swiftly. 
 He caught hold of an out-jutting branch 
 from a birch that grew on the shore, and so 
 held the boat from being swept on. The 
 rhythmic booming noise sounded more 
 loudly. It was the baying of hounds. 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 55 
 
 The instinct of the chase set David quiver- 
 ing with excitement. What the quarry of 
 the dogs might be he had no means of know- 
 ing, but he guessed that they must be on the 
 trail of either a fox or a deer. He hoped 
 that it might be the latter. His mouth 
 watered at the possibility of venison broiled 
 over the coals for supper. Still keeping the 
 skiff in position by his grip on the bough, 
 he seized the rifle with his right hand in 
 readiness for instant action if the prey 
 should come his way. Thus prepared, he 
 stood poised, listening intently. 
 
 There could be no doubt that the chase 
 was drawing nearer. There seemed every 
 likelihood that the fleeing creature w^as striv- 
 ing to reach the river in a last desperate 
 effort to escape its pursuers. The light 
 was going fast now, but in the open space 
 of the river it was still sufficient to afford 
 a fair aim. 
 
 A crackling sound came from the under- 
 brush that covered the shore. The noise of 
 it increased. David wondered at the volume 
 of it. Even a stag running its swiftest could 
 hardly go crashing like that. It was head- 
 ing straight for him, too — whatever the 
 
56 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 thing might be. He still hoped it would 
 prove to be a deer, although he doubted. 
 The floundering body bursting through the 
 thickets was almost upon him. He knew that 
 in another second, unless pulled down by the 
 dogs, it must break from the concealment 
 of the woods. It was so close that there 
 could be no danger of losing his opportunity 
 by letting the boat drift, and he must have 
 both hands for the shot. He loosened his 
 clutch on the branch, the skirl dropped down 
 the river. Even as it moved with the cur- 
 rent, there was a final clatter of broken 
 boughs at the edge of the high bank. A 
 bulky something leaped from the shadows 
 there, and hurtled forward in a long arc 
 toward the water. And in that same second 
 when the boat began to move, David's rifle 
 sprang to his shoulder, and his eyes lined 
 the sights on the thing chased by the dogs. 
 But the weapon did not belch its deadly 
 missile. Instead, a gasping cry of horror 
 broke from David's lips; his forefinger fell 
 from the trigger as if palsied. 
 
 "Good God! an' I almost got him!" 
 
 He shuddered, and felt a nausea. 
 
 "It's a man — an' I almost got him! I 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 57 
 
 might have killed him! It was a powerful 
 close squeak. An' I thought I was jest a-gun- 
 nm' fer supper!" 
 
 David sat staring in fascinated horror at 
 the man who had thus escaped the trailing 
 of the hounds, which now whimpered their dis- 
 tress from the shore. The fugitive had gone 
 beneath the surface at his plunge. "When he 
 reappeared, spluttering, he started swim- 
 ming at full speed toward the farther bank 
 of the river, fifty yards away. But the shock 
 of the cold water put too great a strain on 
 his body, weakened and overheated as he was 
 by his flight from the hounds. Suddenly, he 
 uttered a shrill cry, threw up his hands, and 
 sank. 
 
 The skiff, unchecked, had floated a con- 
 siderable distance down stream. David was 
 too far aAvay to give immediate succor. But 
 he lost no time before acting. In a moment 
 he had dropped the rifle, and the oars were 
 placed. He tested their strength in short, 
 jumping strokes that sent the boat swiftly 
 toward where the body must be swept along 
 in the current. 
 
 It was the shallowness of the stream that 
 gave David the chance of rescue. He caught 
 
58 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 a glimpse over his shoulder of the drown- 
 ing man's form being swept over a sand 
 strip hardly submerged. He was able to 
 bring the skiff alongside before reaching 
 deeper water, which would have made his 
 task difficult, if not impossible. He dropped 
 his oars, and caught the half-unconscious 
 man by the shirt collar. When he had se- 
 cured a safe grip under the arms, he was 
 able to get the fugitive aboard, thanks to 
 the steadiness of his clumsy flat-bottomed 
 skiff. This accomplished, he stretched the 
 victim face downward, supported by a 
 thwart under his belly, and proceeded first 
 to empty him of the water and then to re- 
 store him to full consciousness by such vigor- 
 ous methods as he knew. The treatment 
 was, in fact, remarkably efficacious, so that 
 within a few minutes, the man, after a final 
 bit of strangling, aroused to consciousness 
 with a piteous appeal for mercy from further 
 ministrations. 
 
 David, greatly pleased with this result, 
 lifted the fellow and turned him, so that he 
 was in a sitting position. It was then, with 
 his face close to that of the man he had pulled 
 from the river, that David saw the features 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 59 
 
 clearly. At sight of them he started back 
 with an exclamation of disgust. 
 
 "You!" he grunted savagely. 
 
 The irony of fate had made him the rescuer 
 of the one man in the world against whom 
 he cherished a grudge. He felt bitterly to- 
 ward William Swaira, who had called him a 
 thief. But he knew the justification for the 
 old man's anger, and the fact that it was 
 due to his own fault kept him from nourish- 
 ing resentment. That fault on his part, 
 however, had come as the direct effect of 
 another man's mean action. The red- whisk- 
 ered Union prisoner, who had stolen the 
 first apple meant for the cripple, was the 
 real cause of all the trouble. David had 
 cursed that greedy prisoner often. Now he 
 cursed once again, for it was the red- 
 whiskered individual whom he had just saved 
 from drowning and who now sat before him, 
 gasping and shivering from his immersion 
 in the chill stream. The young man made no 
 secret of his feeling, but let his mood gush 
 forth in stinging words. 
 
 "Ye thievin', hard-hearted Yank'! As if 
 ye hadn't given me trouble 'nough a 'ready. 
 Te'r' a plumb-ornery scallywag, a-stealin' 
 
60 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 the apple I done throwed t' a cripple. I 
 ain't aimin' t' save sicli as you-all from bein' 
 et by dogs er drownded. Hang yer carcass ! 
 Go ashore an' let them dogs chaw ye np 
 piecemeal as ye deserve. Er ye can drown. 
 Git out, I'm tellin' ye!" 
 
 The man, who had been dazed at the out- 
 set by David's violent denunciation, now in 
 his turn recognized the young man who had 
 thrown the apples over the stockade. Weak- 
 ened by the peril through which he has just 
 passed, he would have pleaded for mercy 
 from the stalwart young man who stood over 
 him so threateningly. But he had no time. 
 As he shrank from the fierceness of the 
 other's speech, David moved closer. When 
 he ceased speaking, the mountaineer, in a 
 final access of fury, picked up the wretched 
 fugitive, and tossed him overboard toward 
 the shore. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 AS the unfortunate victim of adversity 
 disappeared under water with a huge 
 splash, David jumped to the oars, which he 
 plied briskly to hold the skiff: against the 
 current. He had no fear lest the man drown, 
 since he had tossed him into the shallows 
 close to the shore under the bluff. But his 
 indignation was not yet satisfied, and he 
 meant to tell the fellow a few more candid 
 truths concerning thieves and Yankees and 
 oppressors of cripples. He only waited until 
 the escaped prisoner should be in a position 
 to give him due attention. 
 
 For the moment, the soldier was in too 
 serious a plight to listen even to the worst 
 abuse. He managed to get to his feet after 
 hard struggling and stood tottering and 
 choking from the water he had swallowed. 
 The river rose to his armpits, and it was 
 evident that he had need of all his strength 
 to withstand the sweep of the current. When 
 
 61 
 
62 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 lie had cleared his lungs a little, he moved 
 with clumsy, staggering caution toward the 
 shore. He slipped, and only with difficulty 
 saved himself from going down. Plainly, 
 the man was almost at the end of his re- 
 sources. David in the boat two rods away 
 could hear the hiss of the hurried, painfully 
 drawn breath, the panting sigh with which it 
 was exhaled. The mountaineer was touched 
 with compunction. The fires of his anger 
 died. He felt ashamed of the harshness he 
 had displayed toward one who, whatever his 
 fault had been, was now deserving of pity 
 at least for the suffering he had under- 
 gone already and those which he still faced. 
 David was influenced, too, by the fact 
 that the Union soldier made no plea to him 
 for mercy, but maintained a stoical silence 
 as he battled against the clutch of the 
 stream. 
 
 The sympathy that stirred in David's 
 bosom was quickened to action by a new 
 factor in the situation. The dogs, at the place 
 on the river bank from which the fugitive 
 had leaped into the water, had been attracted 
 by the sound of David's voice at the point 
 below to which the boat drifted, or they had 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 63 
 
 caught the scent of their prey borne toward 
 them on the wind. They came charging 
 along the shore and only halted when they 
 reached the high overhanging bank opposite 
 their quarry. They rushed to the brink, but 
 slunk back, unwilling to make the plunge 
 down into the stream. They bayed and 
 whimpered and growled with bared fangs. 
 Even were the soldier to keep his pre- 
 carious footing and escape out of the grip 
 of the current, he would still have the 
 bloodhounds to face, and they would be 
 ruthless. 
 
 David had declared that he wished the 
 fellow might be thrown to the dogs, but he had 
 said this in a gust of wrath. Now that the 
 reality threatened, he was horror-struck at 
 the possibility of such a fate for any fellow 
 human being. Moreover, there came to him 
 in this tense moment a thought of his own 
 father in the Northern prison, who might be 
 in flight as this man and fighting to escape 
 with his life from merciless foes. David 
 felt the impulse to help the hapless Union 
 soldier against his adversaries, even as he 
 would wish some Northern lad in a position 
 like his own to give aid to his father. And, 
 
64 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 too, he was moved by an instinctive sympathy 
 in favor of one against whom the odds were 
 so heavy. 
 
 Now, another weight was dropped in the 
 balance to make David 's decision in behalf 
 of the fleeing prisoner. A noise of shoutings 
 sounded out of the woods some distance back 
 from the river bank. There could be no 
 doubt that these cries came from the guards 
 who were in pursuit of the fugitive, and 
 were now hastening in the direction indicated 
 by the baying of the bloodhounds. If as- 
 sistance were to be of avail, no time must 
 be lost. The man himself was incapable of 
 avoiding recapture. He had managed to ap- 
 proach more closely to the bank, and stood 
 where the water was not above his waist 
 line. But it was apparent that his strength 
 was well-nigh exhausted. Even in the fad- 
 ing light he was visibly shivering from his 
 contact with the stream. In his weakened 
 condition, it would be manifestly impossible 
 for him to breast the current and gain the 
 farther shore of the river. On the bank be- 
 fore him, the dogs waited, frantic with de- 
 sire to set upon him, to rend and throttle 
 him. The beasts would be reinforced by the 
 
With a strong push on the oars, he sent the skiff shoreward 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 65 
 
 pursuing men, whose shouts indicated that 
 they were rapidly drawing nearer. 
 
 David hesitated no longer. With a strong 
 push on the oars, he sent the skiff shore- 
 ward. He saw that the man feared his ap- 
 proach, naturally enough, for the fellow be- 
 gan a stumbling progress up stream away 
 from the advancing boat. After the treat- 
 ment he had meted, the mountaineer could 
 not wonder that he was regarded as an 
 enemy. He called out to advise the soldier 
 of his change of heart. 
 
 "I cal'late mebbe I was a mite ha'sh. 
 Leastways, I ain't a-goin' t' see ye et up 
 by them durn bloodhounds.' ' The man had 
 halted at David's placating address, and the 
 skiff now drew close to him. "I 'low I'm 
 plumb foolish, but I aim t' git ye acrost the 
 stream away from them dogs an' the humans, 
 too. Jest ye climb in here right-smart spry. 
 There ain't no time fer shennanigin. ' p 
 
 The miserable object of the young man's 
 compassion had no choice but to obey, though 
 the expression on his face was of mingled 
 alarm and perplexity over the kindly offer 
 from the one who had just treated him with 
 heartless violence. It is likely that he sus- 
 
66 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 pected the lad in the skiff of being either 
 drunk or crazy — a belief easy enough in view 
 of the rapid and amazing inconsistencies in 
 conduct. This astonishing and dangerous 
 person had first rescued him and then thrown 
 him out to drown, and now promised to 
 rescue him yet once again. But, since he 
 had no choice, he yielded to David's impa- 
 tient command, and with much difficulty, due 
 to his weakened state, managed to climb 
 awkwardly over the side of the skiff, which 
 the mountaineer held balanced against his 
 weight. Then, the tension of his effort re- 
 laxed, he rolled on the boat's bottom in a 
 huddled heap of misery, shuddering and 
 groaning. The instant he was aboard, David 
 bent to his oars, and sent the skiff at full 
 speed out into the channel of the river. 
 
 The shadows of night had drawn down 
 until even in mid-stream it would be diffi- 
 cult for those on the shore to pick out the 
 shadowy movement of the boat. David made 
 all haste, increasing his speed a little as the 
 voices of the men indicated their arrival at 
 the bank. Since no new outcry came from 
 those assembled there, the mountaineer was 
 sure that the presence of the boat had not 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 67 
 
 been detected. But he continued rowing 
 down stream with the current as swiftly as 
 possible for a long way, until full darkness 
 had settled over land and water. No sound 
 or movement came from the collapsed form 
 of the fugitive, except a feeble moaning and 
 now and then a convulsive trembling. As 
 David felt the chill of the autumn night, it 
 occurred to him that the exhausted man in 
 his drenched garments might suffer seri- 
 ously from the exposure. He rowed in to- 
 ward the shore opposite the prison, and 
 peered sharply through the shadows for a 
 landing place. He made out a tiny cove, 
 and beached the skiff on the shelving sand. 
 Then he busied himself alertly in caring for 
 this enemy whom he had saved from the 
 cruelty of the elements and beasts and men. 
 The fellow, half -unconscious, yielded himself 
 to David's hands without any attempt at 
 resistance. The young man stripped off the 
 sodden garments, and then rolled the soldier 
 snugly in a blanket, and bestowed him in 
 the bottom of the boat. This done, he 
 launched the skiff again, and continued on 
 down the river steadily throughout the long 
 hours of darkness, until a ghostly gray 
 
68 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 stealing into the horizon told that the dawn 
 was near. Then, once more, he turned the 
 boat's bow toward the western shore. After 
 some search, he found an excellent landing 
 in a little bay, where the entrance was al- 
 most concealed from any passing on the river 
 by a luxuriant growth of reeds and alders. 
 Pine woods ran down to the shore, offering 
 protection from the wind, and affording 
 abundant fuel. Here David made his camp. 
 The escaped prisoner, who was now sleep- 
 ing soundly, and whose moaning had ceased, 
 was left undisturbed in the skiff where it 
 was drawn up on the gravelly shore. Soon, 
 a brisk fire was burning. David spread out 
 the soldier's tattered garments close by the 
 blaze to dry. Then he betook himself to the 
 preparation of a meal, for which he himself, 
 having worked through the afternoon and 
 the night without any supper, was nearly as 
 ravenous as he knew his starving companion 
 must be. 
 
 The savory odor of sizzling bacon and eggs 
 penetrated to the consciousness of the fam- 
 ished fugitive. Hardly had the bubbling be- 
 gun in the skillet which David held over the 
 coals when the soldier, although a moment be- 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 69 
 
 fore sunk in profound slumber, suddenly sat 
 up, sniffing rapturously. Drawn as the steel 
 to the magnet, he got to his feet and climbed 
 out of the boat and hurried toward the fire. 
 He was not checked at all by the discovery, 
 that he was stark naked. He merely pulled 
 the blanket about him Indian fashion, and 
 went on. 
 
 David nodded in recognition of the man's 
 need. 
 
 " Ready in a minute," he vouchsafed. 
 
 When presently the fellow had been sup- 
 plied with a tin plateful of the hot food, 
 David was moved to new pity by the mani- 
 fest hunger the man displayed. He let his 
 own appetite go unsatisfied for a little in 
 order to give his guest another helping. 
 Then he cooked a second mess, which he 
 divided between the two of them. 
 
 When the meal was ended, the mountaineer 
 shifted into his best suit of clothes, and gave 
 the other to the soldier, who, he now learned, 
 was named Sam Morris. The clothes were 
 ridiculously large for the Yankee, but they 
 were whole and decent and he was pathetic- 
 ally grateful for the gift. His single pos- 
 session of value that he had retained was 
 
70 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 a battered old pipe, which had been long 
 without tobacco. His happiness was com- 
 plete when David gave him a filling for the 
 pipe, and he sat for a time in silence, puffing 
 luxuriously with that appreciation which is 
 known only to those long deprived of such 
 solace. 
 
 "I guess you saved me from bein' 
 drownded," Morris said at last. "Your 
 feelin's seem to be kind o' mixed. I guess 
 you meant well all the time except for a 
 minute you lost your temper. ' ' 
 
 "I 'low I was plumb het up," David ad- 
 mitted reluctantly. 
 
 "An' I ain't the one to blame you," the 
 soldier declared. "I don't wonder you had 
 it in for me. It was a cussed mean trick, 
 my swipin' that apple from that poor one- 
 legged boy of ours. But I tell you, mister, 
 when a man's starvin' he ain't rightly re- 
 sponsible for the things he does. A man's 
 belly is a mighty sight bigger than his con- 
 science. Why, mister, I just couldn't help 
 swipin' that apple. Was you ever hungry — 
 real hungry, mister?" 
 
 David laughed at the patent absurdity of 
 the question. 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 71 
 
 u Three er four times a day, 's fur back 
 as I can remember. ' ' Then his face sobered. 
 "But I cal'late I hain't ever been hungry 
 like ye Yankees there inside the stockade. 
 You-all was so pesky peaked and pinin\ it 
 got me a-goin' with them apples plumb reck- 
 less. If I hadn't been so wrought up, I 
 wouldn't 'a' been so darned free with an- 
 other man's apples." He chuckled amusedly 
 over his own discomfiture. 
 
 "They wasn't your'n!" Morris cried. 
 
 David shook his head and his face 
 lengthened. Then he told the full narrative 
 of his exploit, while Morris listened eagerly, 
 with many ejaculations of astonishment, of 
 admiration, of sympathy. 
 
 "Gosh all hemlock!" he vociferated, when 
 the tale was ended. "I certingly did get you 
 into a peck of trouble, and now you're 
 a-heapin' coals of fire on my head, as it 
 were. ' ' 
 
 "I owe ye something" David replied with 
 a grin, "fer that extry duckin' I give ye in 
 the river." 
 
 The two men continued talking together 
 for a time, discussing their future course of 
 action, David, having embarked on the work 
 
72 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 of rescue, was anxious to carry it to a suc- 
 cessful conclusion. He felt a personal re- 
 sponsibility for the man whom he had saved 
 from recapture, and the feeling offset his 
 natural antagonism to this enemy from the 
 North, so that he was willing to work in the 
 fugitive's behalf. The fellow's frank con- 
 fession of fault in stealing the apple meant 
 for the cripple had done much to change the 
 mountaineer's hostile mood to one of friend- 
 liness. It was quickly decided that the two 
 should journey together to the coast. The 
 soldier 's identity would hardly be penetrated 
 by the few persons they were likely to meet 
 on the voyage, since in David's clothes there 
 was nothing of his outward appearance to 
 betray him. The chief need for caution 
 would be in the matter of speech. He must 
 speak little if at all, lest his Yankee drawl 
 excite suspicion. With their plans thus set- 
 tled, the men wrapped themselves in their 
 blankets, and, both alike over-wearied, slept 
 soundly until noon of the next day. 
 
 Their leisurely traveling down the river 
 was for the most part uneventful. There 
 were no signs of pursuit, and the few persons 
 whom they encountered showed no suspicion, 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 73 
 
 for David did the talking, and they regarded 
 his taciturn companion with the stubble of 
 red beard as a fellow mountaineer. It was 
 not until they came near to the South 
 Carolina border that adventure befell. 
 
 Several miles before the Yadkin River 
 crosses the state line, beyond which it flows 
 peacefully on its way as the Great Pedee 
 to mingle its cloudy waters with the clearer 
 element of the sea, it passes through a nar- 
 row defile worn down through the stone of 
 the cliffs by the ceaseless friction of the 
 waters during untold ages. Here, within the 
 canyon, the stream rushes madly in a sharp 
 descent, crowded within lofty walls. The 
 cavernous place echoes with the roaring 
 turbulence of the stream. To-day the huge 
 power of the rapids has been harnessed for 
 the making of electric current to supply 
 cities and towns far and near. But half a 
 century ago, the waters raced in wasteful 
 riot through a region that was a wilderness. 
 
 David, who was wholly unfamiliar with 
 this portion of the river, was able never- 
 theless to calculate his near approach to 
 the rapids by estimating the distance he had 
 traveled from Salisbury. 
 
74 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 He spoke of the rapids to Morris. 
 
 "I 'low we're plumb close t' some rough 
 water. I hain't never been this fur before, 
 but, shucks! I ain't worryin'. I cal'late it 
 ain't likely t' be as bad as some rapids I've 
 shot up in the mountains." He regarded 
 the soldier doubtfully. "Be ye a-f eared? 
 If so be, I'll set ye ashore when we hear the 
 river begin thunderin'. Ye '11 have a mighty 
 hard climb t' the foot o' the rapids, I reckon, 
 but it'll be safer, like's not, even if ye break 
 a leg on the rocks. But I'm thinkin' ye 
 wasn't born t' be drownded." He chuckled 
 reminiscently. 
 
 Morris, too, grinned in response. 
 
 "I guess I'll stick to the boat," he as- 
 serted. "I've been down rapids myself," 
 he added boastfully. "Up home, our Sunday 
 school had an excursion to Ausable Chasm. 
 Fine rapids there, by cricky! Went down 
 in a steamer. It bobbed around something 
 scandalous. The women was all a-squawkin' 
 an' hangin' onto the men. I was close up to 
 a pippin of a girl, but she didn't seem 
 to have her right senses like, and hugged 
 an old mossback with a fat wife, what 
 clean forgot about them rapids in tell- 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 75 
 
 ing the girl she was a hussy and how to be- 
 have.' ' 
 
 It so chanced, as the skiff drifted down 
 the current toward the beginning of the 
 rapids, that the wind, which had been blow- 
 ing with increasing violence, and veering 
 from the west, now blew straight from the 
 north. The effect of it was to prevent the 
 men in the boat from hearing the earlier 
 sullen muttering of the troubled waters be- 
 low. They were already within the grasp 
 of the hurrying current before they were 
 aware that the rapids were at hand. Even 
 when they perceived from their increased 
 speed that they were close to the descent, 
 they were quite undisturbed, all unconscious 
 of any grave peril before them. Had it not 
 been for the wind, the mighty din would have 
 warned them, would have bade them beware 
 and investigate ere facing the danger that 
 menaced them. But their ears were stopped. 
 So, without a qualm of apprehension, they 
 sat contentedly in the skiff, which darted for- 
 ward with the smoothly hastening water at 
 a speed that increased swiftly from moment 
 to moment. Then, of a sudden, the river 
 made a turn. Within the minute they were 
 
76 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 rushing through a sunless space of somber 
 shadows inclosed by massive cliffs which 
 towered, grim and relentless, between them 
 and the outer world. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 WITHOUT warning the uproar of the 
 elements crashed on the ears of the 
 two men in the skiff as their frail craft was 
 swept into the rock-bonnd recess. Yet, at 
 the outset, the clamor that came from the 
 frantic waters further on was the only thing 
 likely to cause alarm. 
 
 This first stretch of the rapids gave no 
 visible hint of the dangers lying in wait be- 
 yond. The waters, while hurrying ever more 
 swiftly, showed here a smooth surface, un- 
 broken by projecting rocks. The fluid body 
 moved forward calmly and evenly between 
 the straight, parallel stretches of rock that 
 hemmed it in. There was nothing threaten- 
 ing in this movement so far as the eye could 
 detect, though the swift increase in speed 
 was a terrifying thing. But it needed no 
 more than the thunderous din reverberating 
 among the cliffs to proclaim the deadly peril 
 that menaced close at hand. The enormous 
 
 77 
 
78 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 noise at first astounded the two men, then 
 appalled them. They shuddered and shrank 
 back as if in recoil from the hideous up- 
 roar. But the skiff bore them on remorse- 
 lessly. The gaunt, pallid face of the Union 
 soldier showed ghastly gray through the red 
 bristles of beard; David's ruddy cheeks 
 whitened beneath the tan. The escaped 
 prisoner needed not to be told that a des- 
 perate, if not fatal adventure confronted 
 him. Here was nothing like the sportive 
 liveliness of Ausable Chasm. This level 
 flight forward toward the tumult of sound 
 was unspeakably dreadful, ominous of de- 
 struction lurking only seconds away, just 
 beyond a break in the straight line of the 
 canyon's walls, where now flashed the danger 
 sign of white, far-flung masses of spray. 
 David, too, felt terror's cold grip on his heart. 
 The rapids he had known had been nothing 
 like this. 
 
 With the singular lucidity that so often 
 marks the memory in moments of gravest 
 import, he recalled the various accounts he 
 had heard of these rapids near the border. 
 It seemed to him that each single word ever 
 spoken to him concerning them now flashed 
 
THE HOMEWAKD TRAIL 79 
 
 through his brain. He realized, too, with a 
 pang of shame for his own conceited heed- 
 lessness of youth, that he had only himself 
 to blame for the extremity in which he found 
 himself. He had had warning enough of the 
 trap set by the river here. Only, in the blind 
 pride of his personal prowess, he had wil- 
 fully discounted the tales told him concern- 
 ing these ravening waters. He had only his 
 own folly to accuse for the fatal pass into 
 which he had entered so recklessly. It was 
 a folly for which he might have to pay with 
 his life. He knew from the infernal clamor 
 bursting out of the distance that only a 
 miracle could save any one alive out of such 
 turmoil. 
 
 Panic fell on David. He knew fear for 
 the first time in his life. His heart failed 
 him in the opening seconds of that stealthy, 
 sinister volleying speed with the river's cur- 
 rent. He saw the terror-stricken face of his 
 companion turned toward him, vaguely out- 
 lined against the gloom; he saw the man's 
 mouth moving grotesquely, whether in pray- 
 ers or curses he could not tell, since the 
 booming clangor from the cliffs stilled all 
 other sound. For that matter, David just 
 
80 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 then had no care for his fellow victim of the 
 river; his sole concern was for himself — the 
 selfish instinct of the creature for its own 
 life, without a thought to spare for aught 
 else in the universe. 
 
 The impulse of fear drove David to vain 
 endeavor. He swung the steering oar from 
 its place in the stern, and beat with it fran- 
 tically in furious swings through the water. 
 He put every ounce of his strength into this 
 assault against a relentless enemy. The ef- 
 fort was futile. The skiff did not even swerve 
 in its flight onward. It was the tragical 
 struggle of a pygmy against a Titan. 
 
 Morris was crouching on the bottom of the 
 boat, as if seeking protection behind its frail 
 bulwarks from the river's f rightfulness. His 
 eyes were glazed; his lips were writhing in 
 impotent soundlessness. The soldier who 
 had fought undismayed and bravely on many 
 bloody fields, now huddled cowering and gib- 
 bering in the grasp of stark despair. 
 
 Something of sanity returned to David. 
 Fear still possessed him, but his momentary 
 panic passed. He realized the utter ab- 
 surdity of any attempt to match his puny 
 strength against the river's might. He 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 81 
 
 recognized as well the futility of his pur- 
 pose even could it have been achieved in turn- 
 ing the skiff's course to either side, for the 
 twin walls of stone that confined the stream 
 rose sheer for a long way. There was no- 
 where any possibility of a landing place, 
 nowhere a projection to which one might 
 cling. Those bleak, slimy, perpendicular sur- 
 faces were absolutely unscalable. The moun- 
 taineer abandoned further effort. He strove, 
 without much success, to regain some mea- 
 sure of courage and to face the outcome, 
 whatever it might be, in a spirit of manly 
 fortitude. Mechanically he shipped his oar, 
 and sat with countenance grimly set in 
 readiness for whatever might befall. A de- 
 fiant energy welled up in him. He would 
 not cringe in the presence of the final catas- 
 trophe, though he had no least hope of 
 escaping alive out of this evil place. 
 
 All this in a matter of seconds. The skiff 
 fairly flew the length of the canyon's level 
 stretch. It came with incredible quickness 
 to the bend where against the outer cliff 
 the pounding waters cast high wreaths of 
 spume. David expected that the boat would 
 be hurled against the rock, would be crushed 
 
82 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 to splinters, leaving them helpless in the 
 race. But the time was not yet. The skiff 
 had been in the very center of the channel, 
 and, though it now swung down within inches 
 of the stern rampart, it did not quite touch. 
 The falling spray came in a drenching 
 shower. In the same instant the boat was 
 swept with the stream in a great curve, and 
 went hurtling along the second stage of the 
 rapids. 
 
 Here the din was deafening. But through 
 it pierced a thin thrust of sound — the shrill 
 shriek of the soldier as his affrighted gaze 
 beheld the chaos now revealed. David gave 
 no conscious attention to the man's cry, but 
 somehow it seemed like an echo from his 
 own emotion as he stared aghast at the 
 spectacle of the river in its rage. 
 
 It was as if the stream had suddenly gone 
 mad, and wallowed in an insensate fury, yet 
 was subtlv aware of its own crazed condi- 
 tion, and sought to flee from this, its torture 
 chamber, out into the distance, where the 
 sane peace of the valley waited with smiling 
 welcome. The rocky floor of the rift through 
 which the river tore fell away in a slope so 
 steep that the torrent seemed rather to leap 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 83 
 
 than glide. And the course of the stream 
 was roughly meandering. The cliffs, too, 
 were jagged, worn to uncouth shapes by the 
 buffetings of the waves, ridged and furrowed, 
 here with prongs like the tusks of some fero- 
 cious monster, avid to rend and devour, there 
 with eroded grottoes, dim and mysterious, 
 within which the baffled waters whispered 
 and moaned. But the chief danger spots 
 were where rocks reared their crests in 
 steadfast resistance to the endless batter- 
 ing of the river. Each protruding point, 
 though itself veiled from view, was made 
 known by white sheen of spray from the 
 water shattering against it. Others, too, 
 there were, which, though without such warn- 
 ing of their presence, were none the less 
 deadly — those that did not quite clear the 
 surface, but lay beneath in ambush to destroy. 
 The skiff plunged downward with the 
 flood. It rocked perilously under the pound- 
 ing of opposing currents. The two men were 
 forced to cling with all their strength to the 
 gunwales, to avoid being carried into the 
 river's hungry maw. The instinct of self- 
 preservation made them hold fast with des- 
 perate energy to the frail support that alone 
 
84 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 lay between them and destruction in the rabid 
 coil of waters. But reason forbade any ex- 
 pectation that their respite could endure for 
 more than a few flitting moments. 
 
 The boat reeled under a sudden vicious 
 blow. As it careened, one side scraped 
 against an outthrust of rock. The little 
 craft shuddered at the contact like a living 
 thing, but there was no pause in the onward 
 rush. David gasped in relief as he saw that 
 no injury had been wrought. He wondered 
 dully how long it would be before the com- 
 ing of the crash that must mean the end of 
 all things. Already the clothes of both men 
 were wringing wet. The skiff was half -filled 
 by fallen spray. The boat veered violently 
 to the left, missing the cliff by a hand's 
 breadth. It was caught in an eddy and spun 
 dizzily for what seemed a long time. In 
 reality it was no more than the fraction of 
 a second. Then again it leaped downward. 
 It fled like a sentient thing, swerving this 
 way and that to dodge the lethal rocks. It 
 came to David's mind that now the chief 
 turmoil was behind them. A flame of hope 
 kindled in him. His eyes roved the canyon 
 before him and he saw that the cliffs were 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 85 
 
 less towering, more broken. The place was 
 visibly lightening. And there could be no 
 mistake : the bedlam of the river was dimin- 
 ishing. Yes, surely, there could be no mis- 
 take: the end of the rapids was at hand. 
 The flame of hope in David's breast blazed 
 high. 
 
 The skiff hesitated, quivering like a 
 wounded thing. Its bottom rasped over a 
 toothed surface of hidden stone. A great 
 mass of boiling water drove against it, as it 
 lay wavering, half-capsized. The force of 
 the impact hurled the boat aloft into the air 
 as if it had been a feather. It descended in 
 a long arc and fell full on an immobile, piti- 
 less bulk of rock, which crushed it instantly, 
 smashed it into tiny fragments, which went 
 swirling and dancing away on the tide like 
 thistledown before the gale. The crash of 
 the riven boat filled David's ears. He felt 
 himself locked fast in the embrace of the 
 river, felt himself dragged forward, down- 
 ward. A pain like fire burned through his 
 brain — and consciousness ceased. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE greatest mysteries are not those 
 conceived by the fiction-makers. The 
 mysteries that have to do with things actual 
 are the most fascinating and the most baffling 
 — when there can be no certain solution, 
 Plato, twenty-odd centuries ago, wrote a few 
 words concerning the lost Atlantis. Through- 
 out those ages the learned have sought with 
 all diligence to prove the verity amid a vast 
 jumble of speculations over the fate of a 
 vanished continent. They have searched in 
 vain. To-day, as always, that bit of world 
 history remains enticing, elusive, unknown. 
 There was the Man in the Iron Mask. He 
 is the one utterly unrecognized personage 
 in civilization's record. A great novelist 
 portrayed him, and offered an explanation 
 of his identity. There have been other ex- 
 planations of that identity, ingenious and 
 excellent every one. The only flaw is that 
 the various theories presented are totally 
 
 86 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 87 
 
 irreconcilable. As a matter of fact, the 
 mystery of the Man in the Mask remains 
 still pathetic and dreadful — and entrancing. 
 ■So, too, the mystery of a lost colony ; summed 
 in a single word, Croatan — of which word no 
 man knows the source or the significance. 
 
 The mystery is none the less absorbing in 
 that it has to do with folk of our own blood, 
 dwelling in our own land. 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh sent no less than three 
 unfruitful expeditions to Roanoke Island, at 
 the junction of Albemarle and Palmico 
 Sounds. This land of Virginia seemed in- 
 deed one flowing with milk and honey, and 
 there was every reason to believe that a 
 colony here would flourish exceedingly. The 
 woods were alive with game, the waters 
 teemed with fish, the rocks in the sounds 
 bore oysters in inexhaustible supply, the soil 
 was extraordinarily fertile. The third ex- 
 pedition brought colonists for a permanent 
 settlement. There were men, women and 
 children. Houses were built, clearings were 
 made and crops were planted. There was 
 not a qualm of foreboding on the part of 
 any when the ships set sail for England, to 
 return in a year's time with supplies. It 
 
88 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 was in this colony on Roanoke Island that 
 Virginia Dare was born — first white child 
 born in America. 
 
 There came troublous times in England. 
 The return of the ships was delayed for 
 three years. When at last the little fleet 
 sailed into the island harbor, officers and 
 men alike were amazed. They had expected 
 the colonists to come swarming in welcome 
 of the returning vessels after the long period 
 of isolation from the rest of the world. In- 
 stead, not a single person was anywhere 
 visible. The houses of the community stood 
 with closed doors. Investigation only deep- 
 ened the puzzle presented by the situation. 
 The place was wholly deserted. The houses 
 were carefully searched, but there was no 
 trace of recent occupancy in any of them. 
 It was plain that the dwellings had been de- 
 serted, and for a long time. Nowhere was a 
 hint given to tell the story of this strange 
 disappearance. There were no signs of com- 
 bat, such as might have appeared had the 
 colonists been slaughtered by Indians. There 
 was nothing to suggest that starvation had 
 destroyed the little band. No cluster of 
 rudely marked graves proclaimed an inva- 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 89 
 
 sion by virulent disease. There was in 
 truth absolutely no clue from which to de- 
 duce a reason for the weird thing that had 
 befallen. 
 
 No clue — save one. 
 
 Near the landing stage a tall pole had been 
 erected. Its conspicuousness gave it signi- 
 ficance. A word was carved on it; a single 
 word. That word was: 
 
 "Croatan." 
 
 Such is the mystery. None knows the fate 
 of the colony that disappeared so strangely. 
 One may only surmise as to what occurred. 
 And surmise here, in view of all the facts, 
 has small justification in any aspect of the 
 matter. The mystery as to how and whither 
 these men, women and children went forth 
 from their homes may be indicated in that 
 one word, Croatan. But that word itself 
 too, is a mystery — fit symbol, if symbol it be, 
 of the folk who left it. 
 
 Centuries afterward, that portion of Vir- 
 ginia which was to become the interior of 
 the two Carolinas began to be settled by 
 hardy and industrious adventurers. Into the 
 tier of counties situated between the Lumber 
 River and the Yadkin, contiguous to the 
 
90 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 South Carolina border, came the advance 
 guard from a body of Scotch pioneers. Find- 
 ing soil and climate to their liking, they sum- 
 moned their fellows, and made a permanent 
 settlement. 
 
 They found, however, that in and about 
 the section which they had selected they were 
 not, after all, the first comers. Here was 
 already established a flourishing community. 
 The people that constituted it was a strange 
 sort. The race showed an amalgamation 
 that was unique. These individuals were dis- 
 tinctly unlike the neighboring tribes of Red 
 Men, even though they displayed some racial 
 characteristics in common with the Chero- 
 kees, whom they most resembled. They 
 spoke the English language; they had Eng- 
 lish usages; they wore clothes fashioned 
 after English custom ; their homes were sub- 
 stantial log houses; they kept droves of 
 ponies and herds of cattle and flocks of 
 sheep. The men displayed good physiques; 
 the women were comely. Perhaps the one 
 thing that most differentiated them from the 
 Indians was the fact that the heaviest labor 
 was performed by the men instead of the 
 women. They had little to tell of a definite 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 91 
 
 kind as to their origin. The familiar myth de- 
 clared that they had come from a long way 
 off. There was evidence of an Indian strain 
 in the blood from the cheekbones, which 
 while not extremely prominent were higher 
 than the average among whites. A final 
 peculiarity was fonnd in the nomenclature. 
 Many members of the tribe had English 
 names. And these names were identical with 
 those of the lost colonists ! 
 
 On the face of it, there are reasons a plenty 
 why the members of this tribe should call 
 themselves the Croatans. Anyhow, their 
 neighbors have given them the name, and 
 they have accepted it. What strange, per- 
 haps horrible, history lies hidden here, we 
 cannot know, we may not guess with any pre- 
 cision. And, since there is no definite evi- 
 dence to the contrary, we may best take this 
 people at its own estimate as comprising the 
 sole descendants of the colony that aban- 
 doned Roanoke Island in a fashion so inex- 
 plicable more than three hundred years ago. 
 
 In the centuries that elapsed after the 
 mingling of the blood of whites and red men 
 in the Croatans, the tribe passed the years 
 in leisurely, migratory living on the main- 
 
92 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 land. Thus they grew to know all the coastal 
 region. They became familiar with every 
 detail of the Atlantic plain. They were at 
 home on the savannahs that reached levelly 
 toward the sea, and they knew the innu- 
 merable secret trails that penetrated the laby- 
 rinths of the swamps, where the treacherous 
 ooze steamed beneath canopies of funereal 
 cypress, garlanded with Spanish moss in 
 endless drooping festoons. They fattened 
 their larders with the game to be found 
 among the open forests of yellow pine spread 
 over the coastal plain. They came to inti- 
 mate acquaintance with the higher ground of 
 the Piedmont plateau, where their rifles took 
 toll of the creatures that harbored on slopes 
 thickly timbered with oak and elm and hick- 
 ory. They even pressed their hunting up 
 higher into the Brushy Mountains of the 
 Blue Eidge, where hard wood and conifers 
 mingled. 
 
 Wherever the Croatans made their camp, 
 they were formerly rather undesirable as 
 neighbors. They were a people apart. All 
 others were by way of being their natural 
 enemies, and, as such, legitimate prey, to be 
 plundered as opportunity served. The chief 
 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 93 
 
 pastime of the men was in forays against the 
 peace, property and prosperity of honest 
 settlers who were so unfortunate as to excite 
 the cupidity of the lawless band. The sparsely 
 settled region was powerless to protect it- 
 self from such depredations. The strongest 
 force must have failed to track them through 
 the swamps, where they alone could pass 
 safely by quaking bog and slimy morass. 
 Their camp was always adequately prepared 
 to resist attack, and could easily have re- 
 pelled any siege that might possibly be 
 brought against it. 
 
 So the Croatans lived and thrived through 
 the centuries and their consciences were not 
 a whit troubled by their thievery, for in- 
 deed they thought no moral wrong of it. 
 They regarded themselves, in a somewhat 
 vague, but very practical way, as overlords 
 of the country round about, with all the 
 rights of suzerainty. 
 
 Chief Lowrie built his camp not far from 
 the Yadkin River and close to the border of 
 South Carolina. The outbreak of the Civil 
 War was not of supreme importance to him 
 or to his people. Some of the Croatans were 
 loyal to their Southland; but the fact that 
 
 
94 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 the nation was in the throes of mortal strife 
 distressed many of them not at all. On the 
 contrary, it caused rejoicing, since the draft- 
 ing of men to the colors made raiding easier. 
 On the very day that David and the soldier 
 gave themselves so recklessly to the merci- 
 less fury of the rapids, Chief Lowrie sum- 
 moned to his presence for a very serious 
 conversation his only child, the Princess 
 Elizabeth. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE princess was in her bedroom, em- 
 broidering an intricate design in beads 
 on a moccasin of finest bnckskin, when she 
 heard her father's call. She wondered a 
 little at the summons, which had a peremp- 
 tory ring not usual in his speech to her. She 
 got up obediently, laid aside her work, and 
 went out into the living-room of the cabin 
 where her father awaited her. 
 
 This room was a spacious one, running 
 the whole length of the cabin, with two 
 smaller chambers opening from it on either 
 side. The huge fireplace with a kettle of 
 stew simmering from the crane indicated 
 that the kitchen was here, while the rudely 
 fashioned table spread with oilcloth showed 
 that the place served as a dining-room also. 
 Other furnishings proved it to be the family 
 sitting-room. The composite character of 
 the place was revealed in the orderly array 
 of shining copper and iron cooking utensils 
 
 95 
 
96 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 hung upon the walls, in the display of coarse 
 crockery arranged on a set of shelves, in 
 the high desk and smaller table, on which 
 stood a candle before a row of well-worn 
 books. 
 
 Chief Lowrie had been oiling his rifle. 
 Now, as his daughter entered the room, he 
 set the weapon against the wall, and from 
 his place in a heavy armchair regarded her 
 gravely, yet with manifest pride and tender- 
 ness. And Elizabeth returned his gaze 
 levelly. She stared at him half-curiously, 
 as if she felt somehow that this interview 
 was fraught with a significance beyond the 
 ordinary. It appeared to her that her father 
 was a little strange in his manner, his bear- 
 ing more authoritative than that to which 
 she was accustomed in his relation to her. 
 
 The chief of the Croatans was in truth a 
 striking figure. He was a man of much more 
 than the average height, and the length of 
 his body made him appear so even when 
 sitting. He was broad-shouldered, too, 
 evidently the possessor of an exceptional 
 physique. At fifty, his form had coarsened, so 
 that he had lost something of the elasticity 
 and swiftness of his movements. But the 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 97 
 
 great strength remained undiminished. It 
 was a strength that had made him able to 
 rule his people by might as well as by the right 
 of inheritance, for there was no man in the 
 tribe to stand against him, nor ever had been. 
 His head and face, too, were those of a 
 natural ruler, massive and powerful. His 
 iron-gray hair, still unthinned by the years, 
 waved a little, and the abundant locks gave 
 dignity. The features were of a Roman 
 type, haughty and rugged, usually a little 
 cruel, a little savage. 
 
 But there was nothing either cruel or 
 savage in their expression now as he con- 
 templated his daughter. On the contrary, 
 the sloe-black eyes glowed with affection as 
 they scrutinized the girl from beneath shaggy 
 brows. 
 
 The daughter was assuredly one to delight 
 a father's heart. She was taller than most 
 women. Evidently she had inherited a share 
 of her father's physical vigor. She stood 
 straight and pliant, and the unconscious pose 
 revealed an exuberant energy. She had the 
 strength that comes from muscles of steel 
 sheathed in the soft, yet firm flesh of a 
 woman. For she had inherited not only the 
 
98 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 strength of her father, but also the beauty 
 and charm of the mother who had died to 
 give her birth. At eighteen, she had reached 
 full development of her womanly grace. She 
 wore a one-piece homespun gown, which 
 reached just below her knees. A thong of 
 deer-skin belted it at the waist. The homely 
 garb became her well, since it displayed the 
 exquisite lines of a figure gently rounded, 
 slender and lithe. There was a suggestion 
 of the princess in the dainty feet, trimly 
 shod in high moccasins. But the quality of 
 her found its best display in her face, which 
 was not merely striking for its delicate love- 
 liness, but for its intelligence and nobility. 
 In some remarkable manner the slight ac- 
 centuation of the cheekbones increased the 
 effect, as did the rich bronze tint that under- 
 lay the red and white of her complexion. 
 There was firmness in the rather generous 
 mouth, and with it tenderness, perhaps a 
 subtle prophecy of passion. The slightly 
 arched nose gave her the look of a patrician, 
 and it harmonized well with the great black 
 eyes, set wide apart. The brow seemed now 
 a trifle too high for womanly perfection, for 
 the heavy masses of her hair were drawn 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 99 
 
 away from it and gathered in two heavy 
 braids which fell over the gently swelling 
 bosom to her waist. 
 
 She went forward slowly, until she was 
 immediately before her father. There she 
 stood sedately awaiting his pleasure. 
 
 After a moment of hesitation, he addressed 
 her. His voice was a little harsh, but not 
 unkind. It indicated that his feelings were 
 stirred more deeply than they usually were, 
 that this was an occasion of peculiar im- 
 portance, in which she, the daughter whom 
 he loved, was intimately concerned. 
 
 "Ye'r' eighteen year old, 'Liz'beth," he 
 began. "An* ye'r' a woman grown. An' 
 ye'r' my darter — " he smiled wryly — "the 
 nearest thing t' a son an' heir what I've got. 
 I ain't complainin' edzackly 'cause ye ain't 
 a boy. But, 'cause I ain't got a son t' take 
 my place as chief o' the tribe, why, ye see, 
 'Liz'beth, hit's up t' ye t' take fer yer man 
 the one what's fitten t' rule the Croatans in 
 my stid, when I'm dead an' gone. Ye un- 
 derstand don't ye, gal?" He waited for an 
 answer, surveying his daughter with somber 
 eyes. 
 
 A trace of trouble showed in the lines 
 
100 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 of the princess ' face. She did indeed un- 
 derstand perfectly the significance of her 
 father's words. In a crude way, both the 
 father and daughter felt themselves subject 
 to the principle of noblesse oblige. The pride 
 of birth was strong in both of them. Chief 
 Lowrie often boasted to his daughter con- 
 cerning his high birth. He claimed descent 
 from the chiefs of the red men, and, too, he 
 vaunted a white lineage, which went back to 
 Virginia Dare in this country and to her 
 forebears in the old world. The girl had ac- 
 cepted his vainglorious pretensions without 
 question. She regarded herself as the prog- 
 eny of a great ancestry, and, as such, hedged 
 in with responsibilities due to her position. 
 She was well aware that since she was 
 the only child of the chieftain, the continu- 
 ance of the blood must come from her mar- 
 riage. She had no thought of revolt against 
 her father's decree, which seemed to her in- 
 evitable under the circumstances. Rather, 
 she welcomed it as a duty to be done. Never- 
 theless, now that the crisis approached, she 
 found herself reluctant. She was not with- 
 out her maidenly dreams. The father, full 
 of an inordinate pride in his beautiful daugh- 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 101 
 
 ter, had sent her to the seminary at Fayette- 
 ville, where she had completed a course that 
 gave her an excellent education. She had 
 been fond of reading. Romances thrilled her. 
 In her reveries, she had fancied herself a 
 princess who awaited the coming of Prince 
 Charming to awaken her soul by the touch 
 of his lips. That imagined Prince Charming 
 was, alas! totally unlike any one of the 
 young men among the Croatans. He was 
 most unlike Goins, the man next in au- 
 thority to her father, in whom the chief 
 put most reliance. Now, as she nodded as- 
 sent to her father's question, she waited 
 unhappily to hear this suitor's name pro- 
 nounced. And it came in the chief's next 
 utterance. 
 
 "Ye must take Charlie Goins fer yer hus- 
 ban\ Thar ain't no two ways about hit. 
 'E 's got more gumption than any other feller 
 in the tribe. An' 'e's mighty nigh as strong 
 as I be. 'E'll be able t' keep 'em in order, 
 when I'm done." He cast a eugenic eye over 
 his daughter's form. "Yer children orter 
 be fust class. Charlie ain't no ravin', tearin > 
 beauty t' ketch a gal's eye. I 'low thet 
 But 'e's a man, an' thet's the main thing 
 
102 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 atter all. We're inbred too damn' much, an' 
 thet's the truth. Charlie ain't good enough 
 f er ye, 'Liz 'beth ; but 'e 's the best we 've got, 
 an' thet settles hit. Ye'r' old enough t' be 
 wed. Charlie's only been waitin' fer my 
 word. I'll give hit t' 'im now. Ye hear!" 
 In the father's voice was the ring of patri- 
 archal authority. 
 
 The girl bowed her head in meek assent 
 to the implied command, though she felt an 
 inward shudder of repulsion as the face of 
 the man she was destined to marry rose be- 
 fore her mental vision. An instinctive de- 
 sire at least to postpone this final bestowal 
 of herself on one whom she detested caused 
 her to speak for the first time since she had 
 entered the room. 
 
 ' ' Give me a few days, to prepare myself. ' ' 
 She hesitated, and then went on, almost 
 timidly, with a great wistfulness in her tones. 
 "It's a — sort of shock, you know." 
 
 "Why, 'Liz 'beth, ye ain't s 'prised none, 
 be ye!" the father exclaimed. 
 
 "No, not surprised, really," the girl ad- 
 mitted. "But now that it's come, it's 
 a shock just the same, even though I was 
 expecting it. I reckon it's just because 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 103 
 
 that's the way girls are." She smiled placat- 
 ingly. 
 
 The chief grunted scornfully. 
 
 "All women's cussed foolishness!" he re- 
 torted. Then his manner softened. "But 
 ye always been a good gal, 'Liz'beth, an' 
 thar ain't no sech a 'mighty hurry 'bout yer 
 gittin' spliced. The only anxious one, I 
 cal'late, is Charlie, an' 'e kin stand hit fer 
 a few days — leastways 'e'll hev tV 
 
 The princess smiled radiantly, joyous over 
 having achieved her object. 
 
 "I'll go for a hunting trip," she an- 
 nounced. "I'll go at once. I don't want to 
 meet Charlie until — afterward. I'll have 
 Minnie meet me, and bring rations." 
 
 "All right," came the father's consent, 
 and he nodded dismissal. 
 
 The girl's preparations were quickly made. 
 They consisted for the most part in donning 
 a heavier pair of moccasins, in slinging the 
 powder-horn and bullet-pouch over her 
 shoulders, in a hurried summons to Minnie, 
 her most intimate companion, to whom she 
 gave directions to meet her near sundown 
 at the secret hunting lodge with supplies. 
 These things done, Elizabeth, carrying her 
 
104 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 small-bore rifle with its octagonal barrel, 
 mounted her pony, and rode swiftly toward 
 the river, with intent to pass in solitude the 
 few free hours that still remained to her of 
 maidenhood. 
 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE princess followed a trail that led 
 to the westward through the forest. 
 When she reached a point near the river, she 
 left her pony tethered in a thicket, with a 
 feed of meal from a bag which had been 
 hidden in the underbrush. Then she made 
 her way on foot in a southwesterly direction 
 until she came to the eastern bluff of the 
 Yadkin, at a point near the lower end of the 
 rapids. It was here that the hunting lodge 
 was located, the whereabouts of which she 
 had kept jealously guarded as a secret from 
 every one, except her confidante, Minnie. 
 Soon after finding the place, the idea of build- 
 ing a shelter there had occurred to her, and 
 with her friend's aid the task had been ac- 
 complished. Chief Lowrie alone knew of the 
 existence of the lodge, but even he was ig- 
 norant of its precise location. The princess 
 was fond of wandering in the wilderness for 
 days at a time, and on such occasions usually 
 
 105 
 
106 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 returned to the lodge at night, where Minnie 
 would meet her and bear her company. 
 
 Now she climbed down from the top of the 
 bluff, following a rough and precipitous path 
 in a rift of the cliff. This brought her to 
 a broad ledge, overhung by the hollowed 
 rock of the higher cliff. Thus was formed 
 a shallow natural cavern, fronting toward 
 the west and open on three sides. At either 
 end was rude matting, made by the girls 
 themselves from woven sedge-grass, sup- 
 ported on poles. Protected as it was from 
 the north and the east winds, the cavern was 
 snug enough for comfort in that mild climate. 
 If the night air came chill, there was always 
 a brisk fire of pine knots burning on the 
 rocky shelf. For the rest, the lodge was 
 equipped with two bunks where blankets 
 were spread over thick layers of pine needles. 
 Deal boards, collected from a pile of drift 
 at a bend in the river below, had been nailed 
 to a section of stump to make the table. 
 Other bits of stump served in lieu of chairs. 
 A few cooking utensils completed the furnish- 
 ings. 
 
 There would still be many hours before 
 sundown and the coming of Minnie. The 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 107 
 
 princess was grateful for this period of soli- 
 tude. She felt that she must commune with 
 herself searchingly over the change that was 
 imminent in her life. Her mood was an ad- 
 mixture of melancholy and rebelliousness. 
 She was half-frightened at herself for the 
 bitterness of her antagonism to the project 
 commanded by her duty to her father and 
 to her people. 
 
 She laid down the rifle and placed the 
 powder-horn and bullet-pouch with it. Then 
 she seated herself cross-legged on the level 
 stone, and stared up and down over the vast 
 and splendid scene. In her ears was the 
 roaring of the rapids, but softened by dis- 
 tance. Usually, Elizabeth looked long in 
 fascinated wonder at the seething waters in 
 their ceaseless race past her refuge. The 
 power and the strangeness of them never 
 failed to excite in her an admiring awe. And 
 she loved the majestic, yet peaceful pan- 
 orama that was outspread around about. 
 Always hitherto a kindred serenity had 
 stolen into her soul as she contemplated the 
 tranquil beauty of the valley to the south. To- 
 day, it was more than ever lovely, for field 
 and forest, upland and bottom, were alike 
 
108 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 gorgeously colored, yet in most delicate har- 
 mony of tints, by the autumn air. The girl's 
 mood, however, was unsympathetic to the 
 gracious charm of nature. Her spirit was 
 in turmoil. Her eyes turned inevitably to 
 the rioting waters in the canyon. She felt 
 within herself a like frantic, though invisible, 
 struggle to escape. The near prospect of 
 union with the man whom her father had 
 selected appalled her. The coarse-featured 
 face of the fellow rose in her memory, and 
 she recoiled from it in loathing. She re- 
 called how once he had tried to kiss her — 
 recalled, too, the nausea his touch had 
 caused. She had sought to evade even his 
 gaze, affronted by its leering attempt at in- 
 timacy. She realized that the surrender of 
 herself into this man's keeping would tax 
 her to the utmost of her strength. She had 
 no thought of resistance. Her ideal of con- 
 duct demanded this sacrifice of herself. But 
 she understood that she would have need of 
 all her will to go through with the perform- 
 ance of her duty graciously. She thanked 
 God that her father had accorded this inter- 
 val in which to prepare herself. She would 
 have need of it to the full. 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 109 
 
 For a long time the girl sat there, brood- 
 ing over a future that appeared altogether 
 dismal and repellent. She was distraught 
 with apprehensions concerning the life that 
 stretched before her. Her natural intelli- 
 gence had been broadened by education. She 
 could not doubt that this union with a man 
 whom she so detested would mean unbroken 
 misery. Yet, she had no choice, as it seemed 
 to her, save to accept such sorrow for her 
 lot. Thus only could she fulfill the obliga- 
 tion imposed upon her by birth as daughter 
 of the chief of the Croatans. She sighed 
 gently in a tender sadness of renunciation 
 at thought of the ideal man of her dreams. 
 Him she could never know. She could never 
 thrill to his touch, never bask in the ardor 
 of his glances, never yield herself to him in 
 lovers' raptures. Instead, there would be 
 only and always Goins, bestial and vicious, 
 with the gorilla-like arms to clasp her, with 
 the thick, loose lips to kiss her. She shook in 
 a spasm of anticipatory dread. The tears 
 of a self-pity welled from the limpid eyes, 
 and trickled slowly over the velvet curve of 
 the cheeks. And ever she stared downward 
 at the mad riot of the canyon's waters. 
 
110 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 She saw the skiff as it was swept into the 
 last, most furious stage of the rapids. She 
 uttered an ejaculation of horror as she 
 realized that the tiny craft, reeling and rush- 
 ing with the raging stream, carried two men. 
 It seemed certain that they were doomed to 
 destruction in the cauldron where rock and 
 water battled so unceasingly against each 
 other, but joined their forces to annihilate 
 any that came between. Her spirit grew 
 faint with fear for the two hapless victims of 
 the river. She watched the craft's wild 
 flight in a trance of terror. It was a recur- 
 ring miracle second by second that it still 
 remained afloat despite the constant assaults 
 on every side. For a moment she even ven- 
 tured to hope that, after all, the final miracle 
 might come to pass, that the boat might 
 plunge unscathed into the pool at the rapid's 
 foot, and bear its freight alive out of the 
 jaws of death. 
 
 The hope was killed almost in the instant 
 that gave it birth. Aghast, she saw the skiff 
 rise high in air as if driven up by a dyna- 
 mite charge. She saw it swing forward in 
 the long arc of its fall back to the water. She 
 saw it crash down upon the rock, saw it dis- 
 
THE HOMEWABD TRAIL 111 
 
 integrate before her eyes, saw its occupants 
 in the grip of the river. She saw one man 
 swept by an eddy toward the wall on her 
 side of the canyon. She saw that he was 
 apparently uninjured, for he was swimming 
 in a desperate effort not to be carried away 
 into the resistless grasp of the channel cur- 
 rent. She knew that there was a chance of 
 life for him, since the cliffs were much broken 
 at this point, so that, could he attain to the 
 river's edge, he might find a way to safety. 
 
 But that other ! The girl's heart stood still 
 in dread. It seemed impossible that he could 
 win through. In another moment, a cry of 
 pity broke from her lips. She could not 
 doubt that the man was marked for death. 
 Her eyes caught the white blur of his face 
 as it gleamed for an instant and was gone, 
 engulfed by the torrent. He had made no 
 struggle. It was clear that he had been ren- 
 dered helpless by some injury, had been left 
 the toy of the merciless stream. 
 
 Suddenly, a new thought broke the par- 
 alysis of fear that had fallen on Elizabeth. 
 It was the thought of rescue. The possibility 
 was too remote for credence, yet it spurred 
 her to action. She did not pause to consider 
 
112 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 her course. The single means that offered 
 a chance of success flashed on her conscious- 
 ness. She moved with swiftness and preci- 
 sion, as if carrying out a carefully considered 
 plan. She sprang to her feet, and went hur- 
 rying down the cliffs toward the river. 
 
 The route she took was one perilous to 
 the careful and plodding climber. It prom- 
 ised to prove fatal to one who fled at such 
 reckless speed, skirting ledges that gave 
 barely foothold, leaping from shelf to shelf 
 where any slip meant death. But anxiety 
 drove the girl ever faster, regardless of the 
 danger. She knew the need of haste — the 
 vital need. She must reach the base of the 
 cliffs before the body of the stricken man 
 was borne past the bend in the river a little 
 way below. The winding of the stream gave 
 her a slight advantage. There was, how- 
 ever, no time for painstaking care in the 
 descent, if she would not be too late. So she 
 darted downward, undeterred by risks that 
 seemed certain destruction. It was only the 
 splendid strength of her and the perfect co- 
 ordination of eye and muscle, and, above 
 all, the brave spirit of her that enabled her 
 to cover the precarious trail unharmed. 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 113 
 
 At the very end, disaster almost over- 
 whelmed her. When she was a score of yards 
 above the river, whence a rough, steep slope 
 ran to the water, a fragment of rock gave 
 way under her light footfall. She stumbled, 
 lost her footing for an instant, and was 
 thrown from her balance, though she did not 
 fall. Nevertheless, she was compelled to 
 continue on downward at increased speed, 
 powerless to check her headlong career over 
 the sharply slanting litter of broken rocks. 
 She went leaping in great strides, each 
 longer than the one before. At the river's 
 brim, she sprang high, and was carried out 
 clear of the bowlders that edged the stream. 
 She fell uninjured in the pool formed here 
 by a backset of the water within the half- 
 encircling arm of rock that was thrust for- 
 ward from the cliff. 
 
 Elizabeth knew the place well. In the air, 
 she had turned bodily to face downstream. 
 While still immersed, she began swimming 
 with every bit of her strength toward the 
 rocky point just below, which bordered that 
 side of the pool. So quick was her effort, 
 and so sturdy, that the avaricious hold of 
 the water was powerless against her. In a 
 
114 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 moment, she had reached the reef, and 
 clambered out upon it, uninjured. 
 
 The girl could not pause to think of her 
 own escape. Her sole concern was over the 
 man whom the river had claimed for its own. 
 Was she in time? She advanced to the 
 farthest point of rock lying above the sur- 
 face. Beyond her the stone showed dimly 
 a little way under water. If the body were 
 swept just here, it would move a little more 
 slowly, being rolled over and over along the 
 rocky shelf. Here, if anywhere, was the 
 solitary opportunity to effect a rescue. But 
 was she in time f Elizabeth straightened and 
 gazed with straining eyes over the tortuous 
 length of pounding waters upstream. 
 
 Almost instantly, she glimpsed him. 
 
 The face vanished, reappeared yards lower 
 down. Elizabeth knew that the moment had 
 come. It was now, or forever too late. The 
 one poor chance for this stranger's life was 
 in her hands. She nerved herself for the 
 ordeal. The body would be floundering past 
 her in another instant. She half-crouched, 
 tense, expectant, a-quiver with eagerness. 
 
 The body was swept into view. It came 
 tumbling — as she had known it would — 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 115 
 
 through the shallows over the rocky shelf. 
 It was there before her now, ready to her 
 grasp. Her heart jumped, then missed a 
 beat. The body would pass just beyond her 
 reach. 
 
 She did not hesitate in the least, but 
 stepped into the race of smooth water that 
 slid over the submerged rock. 
 
 The slithering quiet of the surface masked 
 a treacherous fierceness below. The current 
 clamped like a vice on her leg and pulled 
 her down. But, as she fell, her left hand 
 lunged forward — caught a grip in the man's 
 long hair, and held. Her other hand, when 
 she struck the water, quested wildly for a 
 hold on the slimy stone. She was swept 
 along a short distance, then her fingers 
 found their opportunity in a tiny rift. The 
 fingers clutched convulsively. She held her- 
 self against the savage dragging of the 
 stream. She was able to lift her head above 
 the water, and to take a long breath. She 
 rested a moment to prepare for the final con- 
 test. The beating of the current against the 
 man's inert form wrenched the arm that held 
 him, so that the pain of it was almost in- 
 tolerable. The strain on the other arm was 
 
116 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 steadier, but the anguish from it was even 
 greater. It seemed to her that she had no 
 strength left for any slightest movement. 
 Nevertheless, she meant to try still further, 
 to the utmost, for her life and for his — if it 
 yet remained in him. 
 
 Presently, she bestirred herself to action. 
 Very cautiously, she moved one foot over 
 the slippery stone. The toes within the 
 flexible moccasins sought a fissure or a pro- 
 jection to which to cling. And, very soon, 
 a cleft place offered a safe foothold. Then, 
 the search was continued with the other foot 
 — successfully, at last. Still moving with the 
 utmost care, she got to her knees. The pull 
 of the current on the body was such that she 
 could not flex the muscles of the arm that 
 held it, and her suffering from the strain 
 was almost more than she could bear, but 
 she set her teeth, and endured it. The tax 
 on the other arm was relaxed, since the feet 
 had come to its support. This partial relief 
 comforted her, and cheered her to renewed 
 endeavor. She secured a safer hand-hold. 
 So, with tedious slowness, in physical tor- 
 ment from the buffeting of the current 
 against her and against the burden she bore, 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 117 
 
 Elizabeth crawled to the bank. There, in a 
 last frenzied output of waning strength, she 
 hauled the body of the man after her, clear 
 of the river's clutch. She did not know 
 whether he was alive or dead. For the mo- 
 ment, she hardly cared. Beside the twisted, 
 sodden figure of the man, she sprawled in 
 collapse, now that the ordeal was ended, and 
 lay in a stupor of fatigue. 
 
CHAPTEK XI 
 
 THE princess moved slightly and moaned 
 like a hurt child. She remembered 
 dully the man she had seen in the rapids, 
 her run down the cliffs, her fight against 
 the voracious river. It all seemed to have 
 happened ages and ages ago, in some other 
 strange lifetime. Then, in the twinkling of 
 an eye, her consciousness cleared. She 
 recollected every detail distinctly. She sat 
 erect with quick energy, though the motion 
 of her stiffened muscles was torture. She 
 looked down at the still form by her side. 
 Was he dead? Had her fierce struggle in 
 his behalf been all in vain? 
 
 She stoically disregarded her own physical 
 misery, and set herself to complete the work 
 she had begun — if indeed it were not already 
 too late. She bent over the body, and thrust 
 her hand within the bosom. To her joy, she 
 detected a beating of the heart, feeble and 
 
 broken, but unmistakable none the less. New 
 
 118 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 119 
 
 strength flowed into her from this encour- 
 agement, and she entered on the task of 
 restoration with hopeful vigor. She turned 
 the man on his face, with his head down the 
 slope, in order to clear Ms lungs of the water 
 he had swallowed. Then she turned him 
 back, and seized his arms and worked them 
 to stimulate the breathing. She disregarded 
 the cut on his head, which had doubtless 
 stunned him. The immersion in the stream 
 had kept it open, but now the blood was 
 clotting and only a little flowed sluggishly 
 from the gash. The wound must await its 
 turn. Death from drowning was the vital 
 peril. 
 
 There came a choking gasp from the un- 
 conscious man; his body was racked by a 
 convulsive shudder. The girl hastily pulled 
 him about, so that his head was on the higher 
 ground. This done, she stood erect, and 
 looked down into his face. She was thrilled 
 to see that the eyes were open and gazing 
 dazedly up at her. In the same second, the 
 lids fell, and remained fast shut. Elizabeth 
 bent close and watched, and saw the rise and 
 fall of the chest in the rhythm of breathing. 
 Triumph filled her. She alone had fought 
 
120 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 for this man, and she had brought him alive 
 back from the very gates of death. 
 "Hi, there!" 
 
 Elizabeth looked up in astonishment, as 
 there fell on her ears this hail in a high 
 nasal voice. She saw on a ledge some rods 
 above her a man in garments which, though 
 they clung to him dripping wet, were plainly 
 several sizes too large for the emaciated 
 frame. The face, too, was gaunt, but its 
 thinness was half-concealed by a short growth 
 of stiff red whiskers. The hatless head 
 showed a thatch of like ruddy color, made 
 sleek for the moment by water. The girl 
 knew that this must be the other occupant 
 of the boat. The fact was confirmed in the 
 fellow's next words. 
 
 "You've got him!" There was great ex- 
 citement in his tone. "Is he alive?" 
 
 The princess nodded. 
 
 "Come on down and help," she com- 
 manded. 
 
 She studied the man curiously as he hur- 
 ried down the descent toward her. While 
 he was yet some distance from her, she spoke 
 with a singularly impersonal note of disdain. 
 
 "You're a damn' Yank'." She was quite 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 121 
 
 unaware that she used the profane adjective, 
 so familiar had it become on the lips of those 
 about her. "Is he one?" Her glance went 
 to the face of the unconscious youth lying 
 beside her. 
 
 Morris shook his head in violent dissent. 
 
 "He's a Johnny Reb, all right," he de- 
 clared. "He saved me from the river when 
 the bloodhounds was after me, and so he sort 
 of had me on his hands. But there's more to 
 it than that," he added, as he came to a halt 
 by the girl. "It's a long story." 
 
 "No time for it now," Elizabeth stated, 
 with cold authority. "We've got to get him 
 up the cliffs in a hurry, wiiere he can be dry 
 and warm." 
 
 Morris cast a doubtful eye up the way 
 along which he had just come. 
 
 "That Salisbury prison kinder took the 
 tuck out of me," he admitted. "I'm too 
 darn' puny for any use." 
 
 "I 'low you can help some," was the an- 
 swer. "Cut two birch poles about eight foot 
 long. ' ' 
 
 "Hain't got any knife," Morris objected, 
 "They didn't leave us anything there in the 
 stockade." 
 
122 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 Elizabeth bent over the form of the man 
 she had rescued, and searched the pockets. 
 She uttered an ejaculation of satisfaction as 
 she drew out a big clasp-knife. 
 
 6 l There !" she exclaimed, and tossed it to 
 the Union soldier, who caught it and straight- 
 way set about the task she had imposed. 
 
 When, after a little, he returned with 
 the required lengths of sapling, the girl was 
 in readiness with David's coat, which she 
 had removed, and some strips of worn can- 
 vas, which she had brought from the heap 
 of drift at the edge of the inset. With Mor- 
 ris' aid, she buttoned the coat over the two 
 poles, and, to make it more secure, cut slits 
 in it, and laced the two sides firmly together 
 with the latches from her moccasins. The 
 pieces of canvas were bound on, to increase 
 the length of the supporting part in this im- 
 provised litter. She added also the belt from 
 her waist at a point where it would support 
 the body at the knees. To complete the work 
 to her satisfaction, she removed the moun- 
 taineer's suspenders, and made a mesh of 
 them for a head-rest. 
 
 "Now help me lift him," came the curt 
 order. She herself took the body under the 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 123 
 
 arms, and carried most of the weight, as 
 they raised it and placed it on the narrow 
 litter. 
 
 "I'll take the foot," she explained. "It 
 will be heavier going up, and I'm stronger 
 than you. Go on down the bank a little way. 
 You'll see a path up that's easier." 
 
 Morris seized the poles, and went forward 
 obediently. With the girl's voice guiding 
 him, he duly turned into the trail that led 
 upward. It was an arduous ascent. It taxed 
 the strength of the girl on whom most of 
 the burden rested. It was almost too much 
 for the debilitated fugitive, whose weakness 
 had been increased greatly by the experiences 
 of the day. But, with many rests on the 
 way, the work was at last achieved, and the 
 summit of the bluff attained. Afterward, it 
 was a simple matter to carry the litter along 
 the comparatively level top, to the point 
 above the hunting lodge, and thus down the 
 short descent to the cavern itself. As they 
 came to the place, Morris cried out in sur- 
 prise, and uttered numerous questions, to 
 which the girl gave absolutely no heed. 
 
 "Help me get him into this bunk," she 
 ordered the wondering soldier. When this 
 
124 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 had been accomplished, she brought a flask 
 of peach brandy from the stores in the lodge, 
 and with some difficulty managed to make 
 David swallow a little. "Now you get his 
 clothes off, and rub him dry, and wrap him 
 up well in the blanket." She dropped a 
 towel on the bunk, and turned away. "I'll 
 get some water to bathe his wound," she 
 added. She took up a tin pail and went out. 
 
 When Morris had done, he issued from the 
 cavern, and found her waiting for him. She 
 gave him instructions for building a fire of 
 pine knots at the entrance, and then went 
 within. She bathed the injured man's head 
 with the cold water from the spring, and 
 bandaged it neatly. Afterward, she gave 
 him more of the brandy, which he now took 
 readily, whereat the girl sighed in relief. 
 
 Morris came and stood looking down at 
 David with an expression of deep solicitude 
 on his homely face. 
 
 "Oughter have a doctor," he remarked 
 gloomily. 
 
 But Elizabeth moved her head in negation 
 that seemed strangely emphatic. As a mat- 
 ter of fact, she already felt a proprietary 
 interest in this bit of flotsam which she had 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 125 
 
 plucked from the river, and she meant to 
 make the saving of him her own exclusive 
 work. She resented the soldier's suggestion 
 from an instinct of jealousy lest any other 
 should interfere between her and the com- 
 pletion of her work. 
 
 "This cut on his head isn't very bad," she 
 said; and her voice was a little sharp. "I've 
 cleaned it and done it up. Pretty soon I'll 
 have some salve to put on it." She glanced 
 toward the westering sun, which was now 
 close to the horizon, and knew that Minnie 
 would speedily be at her service to send for 
 the supplies needed in the sick man's behalf. 
 She turned her eyes to David, and noted the 
 slight dew of sweat on his forehead. "No," 
 she concluded decisively, "he won't have any 
 chill now, and that's what I was most afraid 
 of. No, he won't need any doctor. We'll 
 nurse him between us." 
 
 Morris, more than ever bewildered, choked 
 back the questions that crowded to his lips. 
 There was much concerning which he would 
 have liked to ask, but somehow the manner 
 of this extraordinary girl, so beautiful, so 
 dominant, and so efficient, halted the expres- 
 sion of his inquisitiveness. Without ventur- 
 
126 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 ing any further remark, lie went out of the 
 cavern, and squatted on the far side of the 
 fire, close by the flames, to dry his clothes, 
 and incidentally to ponder in great perplexity 
 the remarkable situation with which he found 
 himself confronted. 
 
 It was perhaps half an hour later, and the 
 cavern was beginning to fill with the shadows 
 of dusk, when at last David stirred feebly. 
 His eyelids unclosed, and he gazed up dream- 
 ily into the face bending over so near to 
 his own. There was only a lazy contentment 
 in his regard at first. But, presently, this 
 vanished. The eyes narrowed a little and 
 grew brighter. Amazement glowed in them. 
 His lips moved, but the words were inaudible. 
 The girl put her ear close to his mouth, and 
 listened, and heard the whisper: 
 
 "Who are your' 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE answering voice came in a mnsic that 
 was inexpressibly soothing to the lad 
 who listened. The sound of it charmed his 
 spirit, though the words so softly spoken 
 scarcely penetrated his consciousness. 
 
 "I am Elizabeth, the daughter of Chief 
 Lowrie, of the Croatans." 
 
 "How did I git here? Where is this place, 
 anyhow ? ' ' David demanded. He was anxious 
 to know something concerning his surround- 
 ings and the events that had brought him 
 hither ; but he was more anxious to hear again 
 the melodious cadences of that voice. 
 
 "You were in our country — you and your 
 companion — when you were wrecked in the 
 rapids. We brought you here as the near- 
 est place.' ' 
 
 David's eyes left the girl's face for the 
 first time. He looked about the chamber in- 
 quiringly. 
 
 "We!" he questioned. 
 
 127 
 
128 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 1 ' The man who was with you helped me to 
 bring you up here,'' she responded. "The 
 Yankee soldier from the prison," she added, 
 answering the young man's puzzled glance. 
 
 David's face cleared. 
 
 "Oh, Morris !" he exclaimed. Full mem- 
 ory rushed back on him. He remembered 
 that last instant of consciousness, when the 
 waters had closed over him, and there had 
 come the stabbing pain through his head. 
 "Morris escaped then?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Somethin' must have hit me on the 
 head," David murmured, more to himself 
 than to the girl. 
 
 But she heard and answered him. 
 
 "Your head was cut on a rock. I have 
 bound it up. It will be sore, but it's nothing 
 very serious." 
 
 David put his hand to his head and touched 
 the bandage gingerly, wincing as he did so. 
 
 "I 'low yeVe been plumb kind t' me, Miss 
 Elizabeth." He smiled in warm gratitude, 
 which was not the less because of the radiant 
 loveliness of the face into which he looked. 
 He experienced a thrill of pleasure in this 
 intimate association with a woman unlike 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 129 
 
 any lie had ever known. She bore herself 
 with a dignity that was unfamiliar in his ex- 
 perience, but had in it something singularly 
 attractive. In this case, the effect was sof- 
 tened by the beauty of her face and by the 
 gentle kindliness of her manner toward him. 
 He felt himself in the presence of a being 
 superior to any he had ever known before. 
 Yet, she was in no wise repellent or aloof. 
 Rather, she displayed toward him an amia- 
 bility at once maternal and tender. The fact 
 that she had wrought the rescue of this man 
 aroused in her of itself a profound interest, 
 and this interest she unconsciously revealed. 
 Its effect on the object of it was immediate 
 and pervasive. Though he did not as yet 
 know that he was indebted to the girl for his 
 life, he already felt drawn to her with an 
 emotional intensity that was startling, yet 
 delightful. Under her direction, he drank 
 again of the brandy, and soon was able to 
 speak aloud, though weakly. 
 
 Morris, from his place outside beyond the 
 fire, heard the two voices, and came hurrying 
 into the cavern, which was now lighted only 
 by the flames. 
 
 " Hurrah !" he cried, as he came up to the 
 
130 THE HOMEWABD TEAIL 
 
 bunk. He got hold of one of David's limp 
 hands, and shook it heartily. "Feelin' fit 
 as a fiddle — I don't think !" he exclaimed, 
 with a chuckle. "You gotter thank this girl 
 here that you can feel anything at all. How 
 she ever did haul you out of them rapids 
 I don't know. I hain't hearn the story yet, 
 and I wasn't there to see. But I do know 
 for myself that she's mighty spry, and pow- 
 erful as a man." 
 
 David regarded the girl with new wonder 
 and respect, and, too, with a sense of vital 
 relationship. 
 
 "You — you-all pulled me out?" he ques- 
 tioned, half -timidly. 
 
 Elizabeth showed no embarrassment. She 
 had done the thing, and it was not to be de- 
 nied or belittled. The honesty of her char- 
 acter caused her to speak frankly. 
 
 "I saw you upset. I was up here. There 
 was just a chance. I took it. I got down to 
 the point below in time to catch you. It was 
 close work. I thought once I couldn't do it. 
 But it came out all right." 
 
 David looked into the limpid brown eyes 
 of the girl with a reverent admiration. 
 
 "Ye put yerself in danger t' save me !" he 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 131 
 
 said softly. There was such a tone of feel- 
 ing in his voice that for the first time Eliza- 
 beth was a little confused. But she answered 
 as candidly as before. 
 
 "Yes. There was no other way." She as- 
 sumed an air of brisk command. "And now 
 you must rest." She turned toward Morris. 
 "You go," she bade him. Then she spoke 
 again to her patient. "You must sleep. I'll 
 watch by you. Go to sleep." Almost in- 
 stantly, David obeyed. 
 
 It was a half -hour later when a sound of 
 voices from outside attracted the attention 
 of Elizabeth. A glance at her patient showed 
 that he was sleeping soundly. She got up 
 quietly, and went out to investigate. Within 
 the circle of light from the flames, the Union 
 soldier was standing with his arms stiffly 
 stretched above his head and an expres- 
 sion in which surprise, chagrin and fear 
 were blended on his uncomely features. As 
 Elizabeth appeared on the scene, a high 
 feminine voice came incisively from out the 
 night's shadows. 
 
 "Now turn yer back, an' keep yer han's 
 up ! " The last words were spoken with men- 
 acing emphasis. 
 
132 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 Morris, as he turned, saw Elizabeth, and 
 his face lighted in relief. He called out 
 whiningly. 
 
 "Say, miss, can't you call off this durned 
 she wildcat? She's drawed a gun on me, 
 and stuck me up, and if she ain't just plain 
 crazy, I miss my guess. She's been ravin' 
 about some princess, and accusin' me of 
 havin' her tucked away in a pocket some- 
 wheres." 
 
 "You can put down your hands," Eliza- 
 beth vouchsafed, and as Morris complied 
 with a grunt of satisfaction, she called in a 
 louder tone: "It's all right, Minnie. You 
 needn't be worried any about this man." 
 Unconsciously, she spoke with a contemp- 
 tuous inflection, under which the fugitive 
 writhed. There and then was born in his 
 heart a feeling of enmity against the girl who 
 was herself so strong and competent, and 
 who regarded him in his weakness so scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 Minnie stepped within the lighted space by 
 the fire. She was a pretty girl, much smaller 
 than the princess, of a more markedly In- 
 dian type, very vivacious and intelligent. 
 Under her arm was the rifle which she had 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 133 
 
 held trained on Morris. Her explanation 
 was to the point. 
 
 "I saw this man an' hailed him. I knew 
 he was a damn' Yank' soon's he spoke. I 
 asked him whar you-all was, an* he said he 
 didn't know anything 'bout ye. So I stuck 
 him up." 
 
 Morris broke in indignantly. 
 
 * ' She never said a blamed word about you, 
 miss — just some highfalutin josh about a 
 princess. Ain't the little spitfire crazy as a 
 loon?" 
 
 The answer came with a serene dignity 
 that left the New Englander utterly flab- 
 bergasted. 
 
 "I am the Princess Elizabeth." 
 
 Having thus said, the girl ignored Morris, 
 and spoke briefly to her friend. She ex- 
 plained what had occurred, and sent Minnie 
 to bring the additional supplies required for 
 the injured man. 
 
 While awaiting her messenger's return, 
 Elizabeth reentered the cavern, and took her 
 place beside the sleeping man. It was only 
 after considerable hesitation that Morris 
 ventured to approach her. He was in a state 
 of almost ludicrous bewilderment. He could 
 
134 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 by no means solve the puzzle of this girl, 
 who was at once so beautiful and so capable, 
 who spoke with a propriety that even his 
 unaccustomed ears appreciated to some ex- 
 tent, who was called a princess, and herself 
 claimed the rank. He recognized his own 
 inferiority to her, and he knew that she, too, 
 recognized it. The fact filled him with bit- 
 terness, which was the more humiliating be- 
 cause he was now dependent upon her bounty 
 for food and shelter and protection in this 
 country of his enemies. A princess who 
 lived in a cave ! He was baffled by the mys- 
 tery of it all, and exasperated by his own 
 helplessness. It was his hunger that com- 
 pelled him to address her. 
 
 Elizabeth frowned at his approach, and 
 lifted a warning finger, lest he disturb the 
 sleeper. So Morris came on tiptoe, and in 
 a whisper asked for something to eat. The 
 girl pointed toward the shelves stocked with 
 provisions. 
 
 "Help yourself," she said indifferently. 
 
 The man made a full meal, but it was un- 
 favored by gratitude. 
 
 When Minnie returned, the two girls 
 rigged a blanket across a corner of the 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 135 
 
 cavern to form a private chamber. Then, as 
 a little fever set in, and David became rest- 
 less, Elizabeth redressed the wound with a 
 healing ointment, and afterward soothed him 
 with repeated applications of the cold spring 
 water on his head. Morris was given the 
 second bunk, and Minnie slept on blankets in 
 the curtained corner. But Elizabeth, despite 
 the strain to which she had been subjected 
 in the day's adventure, watched over David 
 in wakeful solicitude through all the long 
 hours of the night. It was not until after 
 dawn, when Minnie had arisen, that she 
 shared the meal prepared by her friend, and 
 then took a few hours for her own repose. 
 
 When she reappeared, Elizabeth found 
 David just waking from a refreshing sleep. 
 Only a slight trace of the fever remained. 
 
 "Are you hungry?" she asked. 
 
 "As a b'ar!" he declared promptly. His 
 voice showed how greatly he had improved. 
 
 Though David protested that he was no 
 longer an invalid, Elizabeth regulated his 
 diet with scrupulous nicety. She was indeed 
 over-careful throughout the days that fol- 
 lowed, even absurdly solicitous for the health 
 of this man whom she regarded as her own 
 
136 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 personal responsibility since she had saved 
 him from the river. She early admitted the 
 truth that this stranger whom fate had 
 brought filled all the requirements of her 
 ideal mate. It almost seemed to her that 
 her heart had gone out to him at the first 
 instant of seeing his face. She accepted the 
 fact of her love for him, and rejoiced in it. 
 It never occurred to her to doubt that her 
 love would be returned. Though her charge 
 spoke no word of direct tenderness, his eyes 
 were eloquent, and his tones were vibrant 
 with a feeling that found its response in her 
 breast. Morris, always ill at ease in the 
 presence of the princess, spent most of his 
 time smoking on the ledge before the cavern. 
 Minnie was absent a great part of the time. 
 In consequence, Elizabeth and David were 
 for the most part alone together, and in- 
 evitably the intimacy between them devel- 
 oped by leaps and bounds. The young man 
 was in the throes of a great passion, though 
 he refused to confess the truth to himself. 
 The duty of loyalty to Ruth sealed his lips 
 to any word of love. But duty was power- 
 less to stem the emotion that surged within 
 him. He denied his heart for very shame, 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 137 
 
 but he knew the denial was a lie. And, too, 
 often shame vanished, and in its stead was 
 exultation over the loveliness and the worth 
 of this wonder-woman who ministered to 
 him. From hour to hour, from day to day, 
 he lived in a glamour. He dared not face 
 the future ; he turned away resolutely from 
 the past. But in the present he was divinely 
 blest. 
 
 It was on the sixth day after the rescue 
 of David from the rapids that Elizabeth 
 called Morris to her, and gave him an order. 
 
 "Take my rifle, and go out and get some 
 fox squirrels.' f 
 
 The girl's cool tone was disdainful as al- 
 ways when she addressed this enemy from 
 the North. 
 
 The soldier took the weapon, and went 
 obediently; but within him the smoldering 
 hostility threatened to burst into a blaze. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 CHIEF LOWRIE and his lieutenant, 
 Goins, were riding through the forest 
 some half-dozen miles to the northwest of 
 the Croatan camp, on their return from a 
 scouting expedition, which had in prospect 
 a raid for plunder. The sharp report of a 
 rifle sounded near, and caused the two men 
 to regard each other in surprise, since none 
 of the tribe was likely to be in this neigh- 
 borhood. But, in another moment, a thought 
 came to the chief, which caused him to urge 
 his pony in the direction of the sound. There 
 was something familiar in the note of the 
 weapon, and he recalled the fact that his 
 daughter was still isolated somewhere in this 
 vicinity. It seemed to him probable that it 
 was she who had fired the shot. He was 
 anxious for her return home. So, now, he 
 pressed forward in the hope of meeting her 
 and making known his wish. Goins followed 
 his leader, mildly curious as to who the 
 hunter might be. 
 
 138 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 139 
 
 As the two horsemen rode into a little glade 
 within the wood, they saw a man stand- 
 ing with rifle grounded, who was an utter 
 stranger. The fellow faced the newcomers 
 with an attempt at bravado, which was visi- 
 bly denied by the involuntary shrinking of 
 his body. The whole effect of the stranger 
 in his ill-fitting garments and with his gaunt 
 face half -hidden by the short red beard, was 
 such as to provoke suspicion. There was 
 something outlandish about him, something 
 that declared he did not belong in the region, 
 even before he opened his mouth. For a 
 few seconds, the Croatans scrutinized the 
 hunter with sharp glances. Then, suddenly, 
 the chief's brows drew down in a black 
 frown. His heavy voice boomed out, stri- 
 dent and menacing. At the first sound of 
 it, the stranger recoiled a pace as if from a 
 blow. 
 
 "Whar did ye git thet-thar rifle?" Lowrie 
 demanded. His eyes glowered savagely. 
 Then, as the other hesitated, confused by the 
 fierceness of the unexpected query, the chief 
 continued even more harshly in direct accusa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Thet-thar rifle's my darter's. Whar'd 
 
140 THE HOMEWAKD TRAIL 
 
 ye git hit? Speak up damn' quick, if ye 
 wanter save yer wuthless hide." 
 
 The unhappy Morris, for the hunter was 
 he, was momentarily stricken speechless by 
 the verbal onslaught. He stood in dumb con- 
 sternation, his pale, red-rimmed eyes dilated 
 in fear, his jaw sagging. The chief leaped 
 from his saddle with an agility astonishing 
 in one of his bulk. He strode close to the 
 soldier, and towered over him threateningly. 
 
 "Whar's my gal, ye whelp!" he demanded 
 furiously. "Find yer tongue, er I'll find hit 
 fer ye." 
 
 The fear that had held Morris speechless 
 now drove him to utterance. He babbled 
 quaveringly, brokenly. 
 
 "The girl give it to me herself — the girl 
 that says she's a princess — she sent me to 
 shoot squirrels — I hain't stole the gun — I 
 hain't done nothin' at all, mister — " 
 
 The stammering whine broke off, for the 
 huge hand of the chief fell on his shoulder, 
 and he was shaken like a rat in the jaws of 
 a terrier. When Lowrie let go his hold, 
 Morris staggered and fell, and then sat cring- 
 ing abjectly while his assailant spoke again. 
 
 "YeV a poor liar, ye damn' Yank'. My 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 141 
 
 darter ain't runnin' the country with sich as 
 you-all scum out o ' Salisbury. Ye don 't need 
 t' more'n open yer yawp t' tell whar ye come 
 from. An' yell be back thar sudden, if I 
 don't kill ye fust." His voice, which had 
 lightened a little, burst in a mighty roar. 
 
 "Whar's my darter?" 
 
 Morris scrambled to his feet, and remained 
 half-crouched in terror, ready for instant 
 flight if an opportunity came. But, as the 
 chief stood waiting for an answer, the sol- 
 dier's brain cleared a little. He guessed that 
 the strange girl who had given him the rifle 
 was in fact the daughter of this raging giant 
 who threatened to destroy him. To his 
 memory came the father's indignant refer- 
 ence to the girl's associating with such as he. 
 It occurred to him that the man would be 
 equally outraged should he become aware 
 of the fact that she was nursing another 
 stranger, with whom she dwelt in a lonely 
 retreat. The enmity that he felt toward 
 Elizabeth moved him to betrayal of her to 
 her father. He was sure that in this wise 
 he could divert wrath from himself to her, 
 and thus perhaps save himself while injuring 
 her. He was still greatly alarmed, but the 
 
142 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 hope of escape and of satisfying his hostility 
 toward the princess gave him strength to 
 speak boldly for the first time. 
 
 "I can lead you to where your girl is, and 
 she'll tell you she give me her gun herself, 
 to go shootin' with. She's in a kind of cave 
 with a young chap she's fished out of the 
 river. ' ' 
 
 Lowrie, who had listened with a fair de- 
 gree of patience, shouted a curse, and Morris 
 shuddered again at the venom in the raucous 
 voice. 
 
 "Ye lyin' hounM I'll cut out thet dirty 
 tongue o' yer'n." 
 
 Yet, some subtle note in the man's voice 
 conveyed a hint of doubtfulness, which gave 
 the soldier courage. 
 
 "Time enough for that," he retorted, 
 "when I've led you to the place, and you've 
 found out what I've said wa'n't true. Meb- 
 be you know where the cave is." 
 
 The chief shook his head. 
 
 "I knew she had a place some 'res," he 
 admitted, with manifest reluctance, "but I 
 don't know whar hit's at. I 'low you-all 
 kin lead me thar. An' when I've proved 
 yeV lyin', I'll tend t' ye 'cordin' t' yer de- 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 143 
 
 serts, an' it won't be no ways pleasant fer 
 ye nuther." 
 
 He reached out, and took the rifle from 
 Morris, who made no effort to retain it. 
 Then he climbed back on his horse, and spoke 
 gruffly to Goins, who throughout the scene 
 had remained a silent, but profoundly inter- 
 ested observer. 
 
 "You-all git along t' the camp, Charlie,' ' 
 he ordered. "I'll look arter this-hyar critter 
 myself. ' ' 
 
 Goins knew the chief too well to attempt 
 any argument against the decree, but turned 
 his horse, and rode away in the direction of 
 the Croatan encampment. As he disappeared 
 from view in the wood, Lowrie spoke a word 
 of command to the soldier, and the two 
 moved away briskly together in a southerly 
 direction toward the rapids of the Yadkin. 
 Each was busy with thoughts not to be shared 
 by any one, least of all by the other, so they 
 covered the miles in silence. 
 
 And even more silently a third man fol- 
 lowed their trail. Goins, aflame with jeal- 
 ousy over the soldier's report concerning the 
 woman he expected to marry, had tethered 
 his horse when safely out of sight, and then 
 
144 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 had returned to stalk the others, and so to 
 be guided to this cave of which he had never 
 before heard, where Elizabeth companied 
 shamelessly with a foreigner. 
 
 Lowrie left his horse at Morris ' sugges- 
 tion when they neared the hunting lodge, and 
 the two men proceeded on foot, moving as 
 noiselessly as possible by tacit agreement. 
 The soldier led the way down the precipitous 
 path to the broad ledge from which the 
 cavern extended. There was no one visible 
 on the shelf to give warning of their ap- 
 proach, but a low murmur of voices sounded 
 from within, made indistinct by the matting 
 that intervened. Morris tiptoed softly to a 
 point in the woven wall where he had dis- 
 covered a little opening in the sedge-grass. 
 He beckoned to the chief, who had halted, 
 somewhat at a loss, and Lowrie cautiously 
 advanced until he stood by the other's side. 
 After a glance within, the Yankee drew back, 
 and indicated the aperture. The father put 
 his eye to the rent, and looked within. For 
 a few seconds, his gaze, accustomed to the 
 clear outer light, could distinguish nothing 
 plainly within the dim interior of the shelter. 
 But presently his vision adjusted itself to 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 145 
 
 the obscurity, and he was able to see with 
 a distinctness that caused him to choke back 
 with difficulty the imprecations leaping to his 
 lips. 
 
 His daughter was seated on the floor, re- 
 clining in a posture of graceful ease against 
 the rough wooden side of a bunk. Her face 
 was all animation, and she was speaking 
 earnestly, in a soft, hurried voice. Her bril- 
 liant black eyes were fixed on her listener 
 with an expression of devotion that was un- 
 mistakable. That listener answered the 
 confession in her glances with a like emotion 
 in his own. But he did not speak; only 
 nodded mute acquiescence to her words. At 
 the moment when the father thus spied upon 
 her, Elizabeth was saying: 
 
 "It has always seemed my duty to marry 
 him." Even in that dusky light, the chief 
 could detect the flush that mantled his 
 daughter's cheek. "But now, lately, I have 
 come to know that I can never marry Charlie 
 Goins." 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 LOWRIE withdrew his gaze from the 
 opening in the matting, and noiselessly 
 went back along the path up the bluff for a 
 little way, beckoning the soldier to follow 
 him. When they were at a distance so that 
 he could speak without being overheard, he 
 gave a gruff command to Morris. 
 
 "I'll go back thar, an' you-all go 'long 
 inter the cave, an' talk t' my darter. I'll 
 know by the way she acts whether ye been 
 lyin' er not. If ye've tol' the truth, I hain't 
 a-goin' t' hurt ye none." He turned and 
 went cautiously back to the spying place, and 
 an imperative gesture directed Morris to- 
 ward the entrance of the cavern. 
 
 The soldier went forward readily enough, 
 but doubtfully, for he was more than ever 
 bewildered by the course of events. He had 
 expected to see this fierce old man convulsed 
 by rage over the discovery of his daughter's 
 secret association with the stranger. To 
 
 146 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 147 
 
 his amazement, the man showed no signs of 
 anger, not even of a natural indignation on 
 account of the treachery practised against 
 him by his own child. Instead, the rugged 
 features seemed somehow curiously softened. 
 There was the suggestion of an immense 
 satisfaction in his expression. Morris felt 
 once again that he was utterly at a loss to 
 understand the situation into which he had 
 been thrust. He was well content, however, 
 despite his confusion of mind, since the man 
 who had threatened him now seemed com- 
 paratively well disposed and tractable. So 
 he entered the cavern confidently, and dis- 
 played the two fox squirrels, which he had 
 carried in his pocket. Elizabeth curtly bade 
 him clean them against Minnie 's coming, and 
 nodded dismissal. On his return outside, 
 Lowrie with a wave of the hand indicated that 
 he should ascend to the top of the bluff. But 
 the chief himself chose to remain at his espial 
 a little longer. Thus it came about that he 
 heard himself mentioned by the girl. 
 
 "I'm worried about pappy. It will hurt 
 him when he knows that I must go against 
 his wishes. He's always expected me to 
 marry Charlie Goins." Elizabeth's voice 
 
148 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 was half-apologetic. "You see, he's father's 
 lieutenant, and so he'd naturally be the next 
 chief if he married me. But I can't marry 
 him, and that's all there is about it. I 
 thought I could, but I can't." Her voice 
 had hardened a little, with a note of defiance 
 in it. "What's more," she added resolutely, 
 "I'm going to tell pappy all about it this 
 very night — and about you, too, David," she 
 added impulsively. She seemed unaware of 
 the implication in her words by this associa- 
 tion of her refusal to marry Goins with the 
 fact of the young man's coming into her life. 
 But the implication was not lost on either 
 of her hearers. In that moment, it was as 
 if a light flamed in David's heart so that the 
 truth stood out naked and unashamed, and 
 beautiful — the truth that this girl, so capable 
 and self-reliant, yet so delicately lovely, so 
 adorably feminine, that this girl, to whom 
 he owed his life, loved him. It flashed on 
 him that he should pay this debt to her with 
 his own heart. But the sense of another 
 duty pressed hard upon him. He felt in every 
 atom of his being the instinct of response 
 to the love which the girl so innocently be- 
 trayed. It took the utmost strength of his 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 149 
 
 will to resist the surge of passion that would 
 have swept him toward her. But he remem- 
 bered Ruth, and the spirit of loyalty held 
 him motionless and mute, sternly unyielding 
 to his desire. Nevertheless, he could not veil 
 the fires burning in his eyes as they met 
 those of Elizabeth. The girl's gaze fell in 
 a maidenly confusion, half-troubled, wholly 
 sweet, as for the first time, under the im- 
 pact of that ardent regard, she felt the stir- 
 rings of womanly passion within her own 
 breast. 
 
 The other listener, the father, who might 
 have been expected to be greatly disturbed 
 by the overthrow of his most cherished plans, 
 showed a surprising indifference to the dis- 
 appointment. His face was not distorted by 
 either anger or grief over the shattering of 
 his hopes. On the contrary, his heavy fea- 
 tures were relaxed into a grin that seemed 
 one almost of approbation. He turned away 
 and very quietly mounted the path that led 
 to the summit, where he found Morris wait- 
 ing. He gave the fellow his daughter's 
 rifle, which he had retained up to this time, 
 and spoke roughly. 
 
 "Ye kin git back thar. I 'low ye was 
 
150 THE HOMEWAED TEAIL 
 
 tellin' the truth. I hain't got no likin' fer 
 pizen critters sich as ye be. I meant t' put 
 ye back in the prison thar at Salisbury, an' 
 git the bounty fer ye, if I didn't kill ye fust. 
 But my darter's tuck up with ye, an' thet 
 saves yer hide. But I reckon ye needn't say 
 any thin' t' my darter 'bout hevin' seen an' 
 talked with me. Thet's my business, an' not 
 her 'n. Keep yer mouth shet, er hit '11 be the 
 wuss fer ye." 
 
 As he ceased speaking, the chief hurried 
 off toward where he had left his horse. 
 Morris stood staring after the man, more 
 perplexed than ever, for he had vaguely 
 sensed a geniality about Lowrie, which was 
 contrary to all his expectations. There was 
 an air of satisfaction pervading the chief 
 which was not dispelled in the least by the 
 harshness of his speech. The soldier shook 
 his head despondently as he watched the 
 brawny form disappear within the wood. 
 The mystery of it all was beyond his solving. 
 
 There was another who watched the chief. 
 Hardly had Lowrie vanished within the 
 shadows of the forest when Goins left the 
 place in which he had been lying concealed 
 behind some bushes a few rods further up 
 
THE HOMEWARD TKAIL 151 
 
 the bluff. He hurried in his turn to his 
 horse, which he had left at some distance in 
 order to escape observation. He mounted 
 and rode at full speed for the encampment. 
 But he was at pains to take a somewhat 
 roundabout route to avoid being seen by 
 Lowrie. He was sure that the chief would 
 ride slowly, and thus give him ample time 
 to reach the settlement before the other's ar- 
 rival, even though he took a longer trail. 
 And in this he was justified. When Lowrie 
 dismounted at his cabin door, he was greeted 
 by his lieutenant, who lounged there, smok- 
 ing. It never occurred to him to suspect that 
 the man whom he trusted had come into the 
 encampment only a few minutes before him, 
 and not an hour agone. But it did occur to 
 him to scrutinize Goins' face with unaccus- 
 tomed keenness. He saw with new clearness 
 the bestiality of the fellow's countenance, 
 and for the first time he experienced a lively 
 distaste for the one whom he had regarded 
 hitherto as inevitably his successor in the 
 government of the tribe. He became re- 
 motely aware, too, of the aversion which such 
 a man as this must provoke in such a woman 
 ids daughter. He perceived with an ab- 
 
152 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 rupt sense of self-disgust the monstrousness 
 of the marriage which he had projected be- 
 tween Elizabeth, a girl of purest life and 
 highest ideals, and this creature, so repulsive 
 and so debased. He wondered at the blind- 
 ness that had permitted him even to con- 
 sider a union so grotesquely incongruous. 
 He felt a sudden exaltation as he recalled his 
 daughter's decision spoken to David in the 
 cavern, that she would not wed Charlie Goins. 
 The grin that had so mystified Morris a 
 little while before, now reappeared on the 
 chief's face as he considered his lieutenant — 
 a grin equally smug and crafty. Goins, in 
 his turn, was perplexed to know what might 
 lie back of Lowrie 's expression. But he was 
 wise enough to bide his time and to ask no 
 question. He guessed that affairs in connec- 
 tion with his wooing were not progressing 
 as he could wish. A rabid jealousy had been 
 aroused in him already by what he had heard 
 from the soldier and the practical verifica- 
 tion of it which he had witnessed from his 
 place of hiding on the occasion of Lowrie J s 
 visit to the hunting lodge. He swore a silent 
 oath of hatred against the man whom Eliza- 
 beth had rescued from the river, and re- 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 153 
 
 solved to remove that obstacle from his path 
 ruthlessly, should the need arise. 
 
 True to her avowed purpose, the princess 
 returned to the encampment that evening 
 with Minnie, and at once sought a private in- 
 terview with her father. She narrated first, 
 verv brief! v, the events connected with the 
 coming of David. Her father listened closely, 
 smoking steadily, his face quite expression- 
 less under the anxious eyes of his daughter. 
 When, finally, she paused for some comment, 
 he spoke in a tone of seeming indifference. 
 
 " 'E needs a little more rest afore goin' 
 on 'is way, ye say? Wall, I cal'late we'll 
 hev to hev 'im hyar till 'e gits right peart 
 ag'in. I 'low 'e kin stop by right hyar, 'e 
 bein', 'cordin' t' yer say-so, a fitten pusson. 
 I'll find a place fer the sojer some 'res till 
 we kin git rid o' 'im." 
 
 A dainty blush of pleasure warmed the 
 girl's cheeks as her father thus gratified the 
 wish which she had not directly expressed. 
 The chief was not unobservant of the effect 
 upon her, and his complacency increased, al- 
 though his features remained as stolid as 
 ever. 
 
 The princess, encouraged by her success 
 
154 THE HOMEWAED TEAIL 
 
 thus far, took heart of grace, and broached 
 the subject of the proposed marriage be- 
 tween her and Charlie Goins. She was in 
 some degree abashed by her own temerity 
 in going counter to her father's wish, but 
 she was upheld by a spirit of determination 
 born of the new emotion that had come into 
 her heart. The feeling for David was not 
 to be denied, and the first effect of it was 
 to forbid her from entering into a loveless 
 union with a man whom she despised and 
 loathed. So, with much faltering, she made 
 known the fact of her insurmountable anti- 
 pathy for the man selected by her father, 
 and her final resolve to resist the fellow's 
 suit, even to the point of direct disobedience 
 to her father's command. The girl spoke 
 humbly, but there was an under-note of de- 
 liberate decision, which her father recognized 
 and respected, though he still maintained his 
 austere demeanor. Elizabeth was distressed 
 by the sternness of his visage, and added a 
 pitiful plea for forgiveness of her fault, if 
 such it seemed to him. Then, at last, she 
 ceased speaking, and for a little time silence 
 rested between the two. 
 When presently he answered, the chief's 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 155 
 
 voice was grave, but with a kindliness in 
 it that the girl had not expected. 
 
 "I 'low yeV honest, 'Liz'beth. Now I 
 jist want ye V tell yer ol' pappy one thing 
 right out fr'm yer heart, gal. Ye didn't say 
 nothin' like this t'other day, when I axed 
 ye 'bout gittin' spliced t' Charlie." The 
 rugged countenance softened swiftly, and a 
 gentle glow lighted the piercing black eyes 
 that studied his daughter's face. "I aim t' 
 hev ye tell me jist how 'tis with ye. Ye 
 seem t' hev got a mighty sudden notion 
 ag'inst pore Charlie. Has this stranger fr'm 
 up yender got anythin' t' do with yer new 
 way o ' lookin ' at things ? Tell me thet, 'Liz '- 
 beth." He waited in silence. 
 
 A great wave of color flooded the girl's 
 face. She dropped her head in her hands, 
 and sat bowed, unable for the moment to 
 reply, shaken by emotion. The father did 
 not urge her. There was unaccustomed ten- 
 derness in the gaze that he held steadfastly 
 on the agitated figure before him. And, too, 
 now that he was himself unobserved, the 
 stolidity of his expression relaxed, and there 
 was a recurrence of the grin that told of a 
 secret satisfaction. 
 
156 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 Elizabeth dropped her hands at last, and 
 raised her face, which was radiant in spite 
 of the embarrassment it showed. The limped 
 lusters of her eyes were unusually brilliant, 
 flashing from the emotion that vibrated in 
 her heart. She met her father's scrutiny 
 bravely, and uttered her confession in a voice 
 which, while hardly more than a whisper, 
 was firm, and resonant of pride and joy in 
 the avowal. 
 
 "Yes, I — I love him." She hesitated for 
 a moment, and then continued falteringly. 
 1 ' I never knew — what it meant before — love ! 
 It's because I didn't know that I thought — 
 I supposed of course I could — marry Charlie. 
 Now, it's all different — oh, so different ! I've 
 learned something about what love is — what 
 it means. I could never marry Charlie now. 
 Just the thought of it sickens me. Even if 
 I could never marry him — David, I mean — 
 it wouldn't make any difference about 
 Charlie. No, I couldn't marry Charlie — 
 never ! ' ' The abhorrence written on her face 
 gave emphasis to the words. She looked 
 away, brooding, while the father watched 
 her, tracing the trend of her thoughts as 
 she mused by turns on David and Goins by 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 157 
 
 the changing play of her features from light 
 to gloom. 
 
 After a long interval, the chief put a ques- 
 tion. As a matter of fact, he had no doubt 
 as to the final answer of that question. He 
 was sure that no man could prove insensible 
 to the beauty and charm of his daughter. 
 He interrogated her now rather for the sake 
 of learning her own attitude than for any 
 other reason. 
 
 "An* 'im, now? What about 'im — this 
 feller fr'm some'eres up bey on'? Is 'e a-say- 
 in , as how 'e loves you-all, , Liz , beth? ,> 
 
 The girl looked at him, startled, with wide 
 eyes. 
 
 i l Does this-hyar feller, David, love ye?" 
 he demanded again. 
 
 A shadow of fright dimmed the radiance 
 of the face which had been joyous a moment 
 before. Thus far, in the newness of the 
 great emotion excited in her by the stranger's 
 coming, she had hardly let her thoughts 
 dwell on what his feelings for her might be. 
 On the occasions when the idea had occurred 
 to her, she had somehow taken it for granted 
 that his feeling must be like hers. Now, 
 confronted with the blunt question, she found 
 
158 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 herself suddenly overwhelmed with doubt. 
 She realized that she had no actual knowl- 
 edge of his heart. She had had hope, but no 
 certainty. He had uttered no least word of 
 love to her — only the expressions of a natural 
 gratitude for the service she had rendered 
 him. Now, hope seemed blasted by the crude 
 clarity of her father's question. Her face 
 went white. 
 
 She answered tremulously, yet with the 
 courage that was characteristic of her. 
 
 "Why, pappy," she said very low, and 
 there was a childish quiver of the curving 
 red lips, "why, I — I don't know!" 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 NEXT morning early, Elizabeth mounted 
 her pony and rode to the hunting 
 lodge. She was brimming with delight at 
 the manner in which her father had received 
 her confession the night before. She had 
 thought that he would be at least greatly dis- 
 tressed over her refusal to accept Goins as 
 a husband. She had even feared that he 
 might fly into one of his red rages, and insist 
 on the exercise of his authority to compel 
 her acquiescence in the marriage. Thus his 
 tractability in the matter had surprised her 
 as much as it had gratified her. She was 
 somewhat at a loss to understand this unac- 
 customed adaptability on his part. But she 
 was not minded to disturb herself over rea- 
 sons why. She was content with the relief 
 afforded, and took joy of it. To add to her 
 happiness, there was the fact that her father 
 showed no disfavor over the presence of 
 David within his territory — seemed rather 
 
 159 
 
160 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 to welcome the young man, as was proven by 
 a ready invitation to his own home. 
 
 Elizabeth found David and the soldier 
 sunning themselves and smoking comfortably 
 on the level of rock before the cavern. Both 
 men arose as the girl came hurrying down 
 the path from the top of the bluff, and David 
 strode quickly forward to greet her, his face 
 alight with pleasure. He smiled for sheer 
 sympathy as his eyes took in the radiance 
 of her expression. Elizabeth put out both 
 hands, which he seized in a warm clasp, as 
 their glances met and mingled. For a long 
 moment neither spoke while they thrilled 
 under the contact of hand to hand and eye 
 to eye in a delicious intimacy of emotion. 
 The impulse to draw her to him was strong 
 on David, and he sensed in her a yielding 
 as if she were ready to give herself to his 
 embrace. But, once again, the mountaineer 
 fought down the passion that assailed him, 
 though his gaze, charged with tenderness, 
 could not deny his heart, and answered the 
 adoration that shone in hers. 
 
 The princess recovered herself first. Some- 
 thing of her usual poise returned to her 
 manner as she drew her hands from David's. 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 161 
 
 There was still a deeper color flooding the 
 golden tint of her cheeks, and her expression 
 revealed the delight that filled her heart. 
 Her first words explained the cause of her 
 mood. 
 
 "It's all right, David. I told pappy, as 
 I said I would, and he didn't make any fuss 
 at all — you know, about Charlie." She had 
 lowered her voice at the name, lest Morris 
 overhear. "And I told him about you, too, 
 David." She spoke shyly now. "He was — 
 oh, so interested ! I didn 't know — I thought, 
 perhaps — " She broke off, in confusion, but 
 controlled herself, and went on speaking 
 more quietly. "Pappy wants you to visit 
 him at the camp. You must come at once." 
 
 "I ought to be on my way," David pro- 
 tested, half-heartedly. "Ye've done enough 
 fer me already. I ain't sick now, an' I don't 
 'low I've got much of any excuse fer visitin' 
 yer pappy. ' ' 
 
 Elizabeth dismissed his objection with the 
 imperious petulance of the true princess. 
 
 "Nonsense!" she exclaimed. "You'll do 
 as I say, and come home with me right off." 
 
 The voice of Morris sounded querulously, 
 with a suggestion of alarm in it. 
 
162 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 " And what about me, miss? What's gom' 
 to become of me!" 
 
 "Oh, you!" The girl lifted her eyes, and 
 regarded the man disdainfully. "Why, 
 you're to eome, too. My father will not in- 
 terfere with your escape, though he hates 
 your kind. And I reckon you'd better be 
 starting pretty soon after we get to the camp. 
 You can have a guide. If he stayed around 
 long, some of the tribe might get to playing 
 tricks on him," she explained to David. 
 ' ' They naturally despise those Northerners. ' ' 
 
 Morris scowled, but ventured no comment, 
 and followed the two as they set forth for 
 the Croatan encampment, the girl riding and 
 David walking beside her. 
 
 On their arrival at the settlement, David 
 was both astonished and pleased at the 
 warmth of friendliness in the chief's greet- 
 ings. While Morris was gruffly dismissed to 
 another place in the little village, the moun- 
 taineer was taken into Lowrie's cabin and 
 most hospitably entertained there. The chief 
 gave him a share of his own bed, and in 
 every way treated the newcomer as a favored 
 guest. His personal interest in this stranger 
 was witnessed by the constancy of his as- 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 163 
 
 sociation, which was such as to annoy Eliza- 
 beth, who missed the intimacy she had so 
 enjoyed in the cavern. It was evident that 
 the chief took pleasure from the outset in 
 the society of this new companion, and his 
 instantaneous liking rapidly developed into 
 a warm regard. The two talked together 
 freely, for David, in his turn, was attracted 
 by the powerful personality of this autocrat 
 in the wilderness. He responded frankly to 
 the elder man's searching questions, until 
 there was nothing more to be told of his 
 simple history. And all that he learned 
 pleased the chief hugely. But he kept strict 
 silence as to those plans for the future in 
 which David and his daughter were alike con- 
 cerned so vitally. 
 
 Morris was eliminated from the scene on 
 the day he reached camp. Lowrie gave him 
 in charge of one of the older men to be guided 
 to those Union sympathizers who would fur- 
 ther his escape. 
 
 "He'll git ye t' the undergroun' railroad, 
 an' then yer friends kin look arter ye. Ye '11 
 be safer with them than hyar-abouts. My 
 boys mostly hain't got no likin' fer sich 
 varmints as you-all." 
 
164 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 And Morris, frightened by the sullen 
 hatred so plainly visible on the faces of the 
 Croatans, was thankful to be quit of sur- 
 roundings equally uncongenial and danger- 
 ous. He hastened off without even a word 
 to David or Elizabeth, each of whom had 
 succored him in the hour of need. 
 
 On a Sunday afternoon, Lowrie and David 
 sat chatting and smoking in the living-room, 
 while Elizabeth busied herself with braiding 
 strands of rawhide into a long whiplash. A 
 group of the younger Croatans was engaged 
 in trials of strength and skill on the level 
 strip of sward that stretched before the 
 chief's cabin. The main attraction was the 
 wrestling bouts where the rivalry was keen, 
 and many of the competitors displayed 
 marked ability. David, who from the circum- 
 stances of the case had a particular interest 
 in Charlie Goins, observed with some sur- 
 prise that the lieutenant took no active part 
 in the wrestling. He questioned Lowrie. 
 
 "Why don't yer lieutenant, that Goins, try 
 a fall? He looks plumb powerful." 
 
 Lowrie nodded. 
 
 "Charlie's right-smart strong," he de- 
 clared; "pretty nigh strong's I be. 'E ain't 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 165 
 
 wrastlin' none, 'cause 's too good fer the 
 other boys." He cast an appraising glance 
 over his guest's stalwart form. "Mebbe so, 
 you-all kin wrastle some yerself. ' ' 
 
 David grinned sheepishly, with a muttered 
 word of deprecation concerning his own 
 prowess. As a matter of fact, his excep- 
 tional strength and quickness, together with 
 his mental shrewdness, had won him fame as 
 the champion wrestler of his county. Lowrie, 
 after a second and longer scrutiny of the 
 young man, spoke again. There was a trace 
 of eagerness in the rumbling voice, and, too, 
 just a hint of anxiety, as if his suggestion had 
 a graver import than the mere words seemed 
 to justify. 
 
 "I 'low now ye wouldn't wanter take a 
 try with Charlie yerself." Then he added, 
 hastily, as though in answer to a smothered 
 ejaculation from Elizabeth: "Course hit 
 hain't no disgrace t' be throwed by Charlie. 
 Ain't nobody kin put 'im on 'is back 'cept 
 me." 
 
 Though he spoke so lightly, the chief was 
 already regretting the impulse that had led 
 him to suggest this match. He realized fully 
 that its consequences might jeopardize his 
 
166 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 whole project of making the mountaineer, as 
 his daughter's husband, his successor in the 
 chieftainship of the tribe. The ruler of the 
 Croatans must be their proven master physic- 
 ally as well as mentally. If Goins were to 
 vanquish David in the presence of the tribe, 
 the stranger's prestige would suffer a fatal 
 blow from the defeat. The dismay in Eliza- 
 beth's exclamation had brought the truth 
 home to Lowrie. He studied David's form 
 once again as the young man stood up, and 
 what he saw encouraged him to risk the issue, 
 though he was at pains to avoid the reproach- 
 ful glance of the princess, who expostulated 
 indignantly : 
 
 "Why, pappy, David isn't well again yet." 
 
 But David himself shook his head in ve- 
 hement denial of her assertion. 
 
 " Shucks, now!" he asserted. "If I was 
 feelin' any better, they'd have t' put a ring 
 in my nose, an' lead me on a rope." The 
 confidence in his glance cheered the girl, 
 though she still feared for the outcome. 
 "I'm willin' t' try yer champeen," he added 
 to the chief . 
 
 The matter was speedily arranged, and 
 David and Goins, stripped to the waist, 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 167 
 
 faced each other with mutual respect, if not 
 liking. David did not make the mistake of 
 underestimating his opponent. He guessed 
 that the Croatan's strength was superior to 
 his own, and determined to place his reliance 
 on excelling in quickness and strategy. To 
 him, however, there was no crisis in this 
 meeting beyond a natural desire to win 
 against one whom he instinctively disliked, 
 and whom he actively detested on Elizabeth's 
 account. Goins, however, was overjoyed at 
 this opportunity of meeting in combat the 
 man whom he regarded as his rival, an inter- 
 loper threatening his whole scheme of love 
 and life. Neither Lowrie nor his daughter 
 had said anything to imply a change in the 
 lieutenant's status, but Goins was not lack- 
 ing in intelligence of a sort, and he was able 
 to make a shrewd estimate of the possibili- 
 ties. The public worsting of his antagonist, 
 while it would by no means satisfy his hatred, 
 would go far toward reestablishing his men- 
 aced supremacy in the tribe. 
 
 The chief boomed a command, and the two 
 contestants set themselves to the struggle. 
 For a few moments, they circled each other 
 warily, eying each other alertly, seeking an 
 
168 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 opportunity. Then there carne a swift inter- 
 play of movements, and the two men were 
 on all fours, grappled. The action was rapid, 
 unhesitating, for each knew just what he 
 meant to do. The circle of Croatans and their 
 chief watched in tense silence, thrilled by a 
 display of force and skill in which the two 
 seemed equally matched. There came grunts 
 of exultation from the members of the tribe 
 when their champion secured the scissors 
 hold, famous for the adversaries it had van- 
 quished. 
 
 Goins straddled David's back. His legs 
 locked under his enemy's thighs. Then the 
 constriction by the powerful muscles across 
 the belly would drive the breath from his 
 foe, crumple him to limp helplessness. But 
 David knew his danger — knew his powerless- 
 ness within that crushing grip, once the full 
 strength of it was exerted against him. In 
 the instant that Goins secured the hold, the 
 mountaineer acted with every atom of speed 
 and energy which he possessed. His hands 
 clutched the other's toes, and wrenched at 
 them savagely. The shock of the pain forced 
 the Croatan to relax his locked ankles; the 
 legs fell apart. Still in that same instant, 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 169 
 
 one of David's arms shot up under the lieu- 
 tenant's shoulder and clasped over the back 
 of the neck ; the other slipped to a crotch hold 
 from below. Mighty as his muscles were, 
 Goins found them impotent within that clutch, 
 for the suddenness and sureness of the at- 
 tack took him at a disadvantage, without a 
 counter. The pressure on his neck weakened 
 him. His frantic effort of resistance was 
 pitifully futile. In a frenzy of impotent 
 rage, he felt his shoulders bent lower and 
 lower toward the ground. Came a heave 
 from the arm at his middle, followed by the 
 impact of the other man's full weight as his 
 body turned, and he crashed full length on 
 the turf, shoulders and hips unmistakably 
 touching the ground before the eyes of all the 
 startled circle. 
 
 "Fall!" 
 
 The chief 's bellowed word snapped the ten- 
 sion. The spectators broke into groups, mut- 
 tering excitedly, their faces glad or sullen 
 according to their individual feeling toward 
 the beaten wrestler. David got up quickly, 
 and stood regarding Lowrie somewhat self- 
 consciously, his chest heaving from the vio- 
 lence of his exertion, his forehead wet with 
 
170 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 perspiration. From her place in the window 
 of the living-room, whence she had watched 
 the encounter in tremors of alternating hope 
 and fear, Elizabeth looked down on the form 
 of the man she loved, and the adoration of 
 her heart was told by her eyes for all the 
 world to see. Goins, rising heavily, saw, and 
 the rage over his defeat swelled to a black 
 hatred that there and then took oath of 
 vengeance against the stranger. 
 
 Lowrie spoke with the voice of author- 
 ity, though he smiled as he met Davids 
 eyes. 
 
 "Now, youngster, I'll jist take ye on my- 
 self." 
 
 "But— " David began. 
 
 The chief interrupted. 
 
 "Got t' down ye, er the boys'd think I was 
 gittin' old." 
 
 The subsequent event astounded David by 
 its unexpectedness. He found his skill and 
 agility of no avail now. At once Lowrie 
 wrapped him in an embrace that could not 
 be broken. He was as helpless as a child 
 within the iron arms of the elder man, who 
 stood like a rock, unshaken in any degree by 
 the violent writhings of his victim. It was 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 171 
 
 almost with gentleness that Lowrie laid the 
 young man on the ground, while the tribes- 
 men — all save Goins — roared acclamations 
 to their chief. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 COINCIDENCE is only a mystery to us 
 by reason of our ignorance concerning 
 causes. The most extraordinary event is 
 easily explained by a knowledge of all the 
 facts. Thus the meeting of three principal 
 characters in this story, two days after the 
 wrestling, was indeed a coincidence, but that 
 coincidence was the inevitable effect of cer- 
 tain causes working on the wills of the trio. 
 There was a certain likeness between the 
 moods of Elizabeth and David. Each of 
 them experienced the distress due to a love 
 thwarted. The girl realized daily more and 
 more the fact that some barrier stood be- 
 tween her and the man to whom she had 
 given her heart. She was sure by her wo- 
 man's intuition that he loved her, and yet 
 he spoke no word. She grieved in silence. 
 The only assuagement was to hope still, even 
 against conviction of the truth. David, for 
 his part, knew what the barrier was that 
 
 172 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 173 
 
 reared itself between him and this woman of 
 his longing. Each of the two lovers was con- 
 strained in the presence of the other, fear- 
 ing a more explicit self-revelation. Each 
 was inclined to seek relief from the strain 
 in solitude. Each mused with peculiar ten- 
 derness on their time together in the first 
 period of their association. That gloomy 
 cavern in the cliff above the Yadkin River 
 became the sanctuary of fondest memories. 
 Naturally, then, each thought of the place 
 as a refuge to be sought for melancholy medi- 
 tation. 
 
 On this autumn morning, Elizabeth, more 
 than ever unhappy over the aloofness of 
 David, determined to ride forth alone. She 
 had just finished attaching the whiplash she 
 had braided to a handle of hickory, wilich 
 had been deftly fashioned for her by old 
 Amidas Durr, the expert hewer of ax helves 
 for the tribe, who had dyed the wood to a 
 rich red with pokeberries, and had carved 
 the knobbed butt cunningly. 
 
 1 ' Just for a ride, ' ' she explained to David, 
 as she went out. She trembled with hope 
 that he might offer to accompany her, but 
 he did not. She rode slowly over the wood- 
 
174 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 land trail until she came to the river bluff. 
 There she dismounted, and, descending to 
 the cavern, entered the chamber, and gave 
 herself to bitter-sweet meditations. 
 
 She had hardly gone from the encamp- 
 ment, when David, too, slipped away by him- 
 self. And his steps were drawn by the same 
 magnet that had guided her. He walked 
 swiftly with the elastic, loping stride of the 
 mountaineer, and his course led straight 
 along the woodland trail over which Eliza- 
 beth had just ridden. 
 
 Between these two went a third traveler 
 through the forest. Goins had been watch- 
 ing for an opportunity to speak privately 
 with Elizabeth, in the hope of pressing favor- 
 ably his claims as her suitor. When he saw 
 her ride off, he determined to follow, and 
 did so on horseback. He was careful to 
 maintain a considerable distance between him 
 and the girl, so that she would not be aware 
 of his pursuit. It had rained during the night, 
 and the Croatan's trained eyes easily picked 
 out the hoofmarks of the princess' pony on 
 the soft ground. Despite his carefulness, he 
 came near being discovered by the girl, since 
 she rode at a pace much slower than was 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 175 
 
 usual with her, so that he came in sight of 
 her unexpectedly. He reined his horse into 
 a place of concealment, behind some chin- 
 quipin bushes beside the trail, and then, 
 after a considerable interval, proceeded more 
 slowly. When he found that she was evi- 
 dently bound for her secret retreat in the 
 cliffs, he rejoiced exceedingly. It seemed to 
 him that fate was playing into his hands by 
 providing this chance of an interview safe 
 from the possibility of any interruption. At 
 last, he would be free to speak his mind in 
 full. He felt a savage glee at the prospect 
 of being able to intimidate the girl accord- 
 ing to his will. In his experience of women, 
 brute strength had proved the best subju- 
 gator. He would not hesitate to take violent 
 measures, should gentler persuasions fail. 
 
 Elizabeth had seated herself on the floor 
 of the cavern, with her back against the bunk, 
 in the posture that had become familiar dur- 
 ing the days there with David. Now, the as- 
 sociation of her surroundings recalled memo- 
 ries of him so vivid and so tender that they 
 filled her heart with a poignant anguish as 
 she realized how they were apart, not merely 
 as a matter of the miles that lay between at 
 
176 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 this moment, but apart by reason of that 
 barrier of which she knew nothing beyond 
 the dreadful fact of its presence. 
 
 The princess lifted her face, which had 
 been buried in her hands. Through the 
 shadowy sadness of her expression flashed a 
 gleam of hope. The crunching of heavy 
 steps had sounded from without. Could it 
 be — David? Had he, after all, followed her? 
 She stood up, her dark eyes aglow with ex- 
 pectation, the curving graces of her form 
 tensed, as she gazed toward the entrance of 
 the cavern. Then the light of the opening 
 was obscured by a bulky shadow. The first 
 glance sufficed to tell that her fond hope was 
 vain. The silhouette had neither the height 
 nor the elegance of David's figure. It was 
 broader, but much shorter, almost squat, with 
 the huge hands dangling from the long arms 
 almost to the knees. It needed no more than 
 the black outline to announce the presence of 
 the one man in the world whom she detested 
 — Goins. Elizabeth uttered an ejaculation of 
 disgust as she recognized the unwelcome 
 visitor. His coming meant that the privacy 
 of her retreat was destroyed. How he had 
 chanced upon the place she could not guess, 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 177 
 
 but she deemed it quite possible that he had 
 spied upon her. The coming of Goins into 
 this her sanctuary filled her with anger. He 
 profaned the spot sacred to her tenderest 
 memories. She resented his intrusion as an 
 audacity that merited harshest rebuke. Both 
 wrath and contempt were in her voice as she 
 spoke : 
 
 "What are you doing here?" 
 
 Goins came forward before he replied, 
 until he stood close to the girl, facing her. 
 His small eyes were blinking in an effort of 
 adjustment to the dim light of the interior. 
 His loose lips were twisted into a complacent 
 smirk, which still further incensed the girl. 
 Had his vision been clearer, perhaps he 
 might have read the storm signals in the 
 princess' sparkling eyes, drawn brows and 
 straightened lips. Or perhaps, even after 
 his eyes had become accustomed to the dim- 
 mer light, he would still have been blinded 
 by the vanity that is characteristic of his 
 type. He was a leader among his fellows. 
 He had had some successes with women of a 
 sort. His physical strength gave him cause 
 for self-glorification. He had no knowledge 
 of his faults, and his egotism was unalloyed. 
 
178 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 It was inconceivable to him that he could 
 be abhorrent both physically and mentally 
 to the purity of the princess, for of purity 
 he knew nothing at all. He had no doubt 
 that, given the opportunity, he could domi- 
 nate the girl. And the opportunity was 
 here. So, he answered her question now with 
 conceited insolence: 
 
 "I 'lowed ye must be pinin' fer yer Charlie, 
 honey. This is a right-snug place fer lovers' 
 cuddlm'. " There was a venomous signifi- 
 cance in the latter sentence, for he was think- 
 ing of the time that Elizabeth and David 
 had passed together in this retreat. 
 
 Elizabeth understood the allusion, and re- 
 sented it as an insult. She spoke with a 
 cold quietude that should have warned the 
 man before her, but did not. 
 
 "This is my private place. I choose my 
 own guests. I do not choose you. Go, please, 
 and never come back. ,, 
 
 Goins laughed boisterously. It was a joke 
 that she should speak to him like this, as if 
 he were to be put out of countenance by 
 high-and-mighty airs. She needed to be 
 taught a few things, and he would be the 
 teacher. He had let her play with him long 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 179 
 
 enough. It was time for her to learn what 
 was what. 
 
 1 'Show!" he exclaimed, in a tone of rough 
 joviality. ''This ain't no nice way fer a gal 
 t' talk t' her husban' what's t' be. Ye been 
 standin' off quite a spell now, 'Liz'beth," he 
 went on, with a harder note in his voice. 
 "An' I don't aim t' let ye git rambunctious 
 with ary other feller, nuther. 'Tain't fitten, 
 noways. You-all an' me is promised, an' I 
 cal'late as how ye got t' run straight, er it'll 
 be the wuss fer ye." He thrust his lowering 
 face close to the girl's, and scowled at her, 
 and the flabby lips were lifted in a snarl. 
 
 Elizabeth did not draw back, but stood un- 
 daunted, her eyes meeting the challenge in 
 his with a supreme scorn, as he concluded: 
 "I 'low we-all better kiss, an' make up." 
 
 ' ' Kiss you!" the girl retorted; and the 
 loathing in her voice brought a flush to the 
 man's cheeks, thick-skinned as he was. "I'd 
 rather Mss a rattler. You've never kissed 
 me yet, Charlie Goins, and, what 's more, you 
 never will." 
 
 The fellow's face grew black, and the little, 
 bead-like eyes shone dangerously. 
 
 "Ye'r' my promised wife, an' thet's by 
 
180 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 the chief's say-so. Thar hain't no goin' 
 back o' thet. I 'low a few o' my kisses '11 
 wake ye up a mite, an' warm ye inter bein' 
 more lovin'-like. An' I aim t' give 'em t' 
 ye." 
 
 The determination in the girl's face should 
 have made him pause. But he was mindful 
 only of the gross passion that burned in him 
 at sight of her loveliness. He was sure that 
 his own brutal resources, employed here in 
 this isolated nook where no interruption was 
 possible, would mold her to his desire, would 
 win from her that responsiveness which he 
 craved. He lunged forward. The long arms 
 swept out to embrace her. But the princess 
 had divined his attack. She eluded it by a 
 spring to one side. At the same time, she 
 swung the dogwhip. The lash hissed through 
 the air, and fell across Goins' face, over the 
 eyes. He yelled an oath, and staggered back, 
 blinded. The princess would have fled, for 
 an idea as to the peril to which she was ex- 
 posed shook her accustomed self-reliance. 
 But the man was between her and the mouth 
 of the cavern, and she feared to place her- 
 self within his reach. That this fear was 
 justified was proven a few moments later, 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 181 
 
 when the mumbling curses were broken off, 
 and Goins turned toward her the blurred, 
 bloodshot eyes, from which the tears were 
 streaming. 
 
 "I'll hev ye now, damn ye!" he shouted, 
 and jumped toward her. 
 
 Elizabeth dodged, and fled toward the exit. 
 But she was not quick enough. The man 
 whirled, sprang after in a mighty leap, 
 caught her. He held her crushed to him 
 in a vice-like embrace, and bellowed tri- 
 umphantly. 
 
 "YeV mine!" he gloated. "I'll show ye, 
 ye damn' little spitfire! I 'low I'll take 
 them-thar kisses. I'll l'arn ye how t' treat 
 yer promised man." 
 
 Even in her desperate plight, the girl's 
 spirit was not broken. 
 
 "I'll never marry you, Charlie Goins!" 
 she gasped. "I've told pappy so. Never — 
 never !" 
 
 Goins' ugly face, so close to hers that she 
 felt the fetid breath of him in her nostrils, 
 was distorted by an evil grin, leering and 
 unspeakably malignant. 
 
 "I reckin ye'r' plumb shore t' change yer 
 mind arter — " he paused significantly — 
 
182 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 "arter we've done finished our lovin' hyar 
 this mo'nin'." 
 
 Elizabeth shuddered at the implication in 
 the words. A dread that was like physical 
 sickness ran through her, and she went limp 
 within the constricting arms. She did not 
 gain the merciful relief of unconsciousness, 
 but she was wholly unnerved by the fright- 
 fulness of her situation, and so weak as to 
 be utterly helpless. Goins uttered a grunt 
 of satisfaction as he felt her form relax. He 
 lifted her easily, and bore her back across 
 the cavern. 
 
 Half-way between the entrance and the 
 bunk, Goins halted abruptly, and, still hold- 
 ing his burden, stood with his head turned 
 a little to one side, listening intently. He 
 heard now, as Elizabeth had heard a little 
 while before, the crunching of heavy steps 
 that approached the cavern. They came 
 swiftly, too, and at the sound of them the 
 Croatan's face changed its expression of 
 lustful cruelty for one of demoniac rage at 
 this interruption of his purpose. His fury 
 was even greater when the newcomer darted 
 into the chamber, and he recognized David. 
 
 The mountaineer had been on the top of 
 
THE HOMEWARD TEAIL 183 
 
 the bluff, about to descend to the hunting- 
 lodge, when he was startled by Goins' cries, 
 first of pain and wrath, and then of triumph. 
 David had no idea as to the meaning of the 
 shouts. He did not identify the voice. But 
 the mere fact that they issued from the place 
 consecrated to Elizabeth beset him with ap- 
 prehensions of some unimagined catastrophe. 
 He had no suspicion of the girl's visit to the 
 spot. Nevertheless, in some vague fashion, 
 he was filled with alarm, and before the 
 echoes of Goins' exultant yell had died, he 
 was racing down the path. 
 
 Within the cavern, David stopped short, 
 confused for some instants by the dimming 
 of his sight. The Croatan improved the 
 momentary respite by dropping the girl from 
 his arms. As she fell to the stone floor, he 
 leaped for his enemy. 
 
 There had been time for David's eyes to 
 clear. He recognized the man and the girl 
 before him — understood something of the 
 horror on which he had stumbled. An anger 
 even greater than Goins' own flamed in his 
 blood. It was greater, more deadly, because 
 it was righteous. The enormity of the man's 
 offense against the woman he loved roused 
 
184 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 David to a murderous frenzy. The brutal 
 carelessness with which the fellow cast her 
 from him maddened the mountaineer. Yet, 
 notwithstanding his rage, David's mind 
 worked clearly. He had no intention of risk- 
 ing defeat by any imprudence. He admitted 
 to himself the superior strength of his ad- 
 versary, and he meant to keep free from the 
 grip of those arms. His helplessness in 
 Lowrie's clasp was in his memory. He might 
 find himself equally powerless should he fall 
 into Goins' clutch. At all costs, he must 
 strive to avoid that risk. So, as the Croatan 
 charged, David swerved, and jumped outside 
 the sweep of the arms. But, as the other 
 man passed him, the mountaineer got in two 
 blows, which brought grunts of distress, 
 though they failed of other visible effect. 
 
 Thereafter for a long minute, it was "fist 
 and skull" between the two. David was far 
 more skilful in his footwork, and placed 
 his blows with greater accuracy. But they 
 seemed wholly unavailing against the Croat- 
 an 's iron frame. And always he was ham- 
 pered by the necessity of avoiding the clinch 
 which his antagonist as constantly sought. 
 Sheer desperation at last drove him to 
 
THE HOMEWAKD TRAIL 185 
 
 fiercer attacks, in which he was more careless 
 of his own safety. One of his blows sent 
 Goins staggering away from him, and he 
 closed in with the hope of a speedy victory. 
 He swung with all his weight for the jaw. 
 Goins ducked clumsily. David's knuckles 
 glanced from chin to cheek. He lurched out 
 of balance. Before he could recover, the 
 arms he had dreaded locked about him, and 
 he found himself impotent, strangling under 
 the pressure of his ribs against his lungs. 
 He fought as best he could to wrench himself 
 free, though he knew the task was beyond 
 his strength. The only effect of his strug- 
 gling was to send the two reeling drunkenly 
 to and fro. There w r as no loosening of the 
 Croatan's hold. 
 
 Elizabeth had been shocked out of lethargy 
 by the violence of her fall on the stone floor 
 when Goins spurned her. She sat up feebly, 
 and watched the combatants dully at first, 
 without any personal interest in the conflict. 
 Then, presently, her brain grew active again. 
 She remembered her own peril, and perceived 
 its sequel here in the fight between the two 
 men. She perceived as well that Goins must 
 be vanquished both for her own sake and for 
 
186 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 the sake of the man she loved. And, as 
 realization came to her, she groaned in utter 
 despair, for she saw David wrapped about 
 by the gorilla-like arms of their common 
 enemy, and she knew that he could not win 
 clear. It flashed on her then that the sole 
 hope for the two of them rested in her. The 
 fighting spirit of her race burned hot within 
 her. She did not pause for thought, but 
 acted on instinct. As the two men staggered 
 past her, she crouched and sprang, and 
 caught Goins below the knees. There she 
 clung. The momentum of the men carried 
 their bodies forward, but the girl's pull held, 
 and Goins crashed to the floor, dragging 
 David down with him. The under man's 
 head was beaten against the rock. A moan- 
 ing sigh fluttered from between the coarse 
 lips. The mighty arms unfolded and fell 
 limply at his sides, as he lapsed into uncon- 
 sciousness. 
 
 Elizabeth sprang to her feet, exultant, re- 
 vivified by the downfall of the man she hated. 
 For a moment, she regarded the ugly, flaccid 
 face with mingled scorn and detestation. 
 Then she put her hand on the shoulder of 
 David, who was getting to his feet slowly, 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 187 
 
 rather at a loss to understand the sudden- 
 ness of his victory, just when he had aban- 
 doned hope. He was wholly ignorant of 
 Elizabeth's part in the affair, and took it for 
 granted that his opponent had stumbled and 
 so fallen. 
 
 * ' Let us go, ' ' Elizabeth said gently. There 
 was coldness in her tones as she spoke again. 
 "He'll recover in time, probably. His sort 
 is hard to kill." 
 
 The two went forth from the cavern to- 
 gether. As they came into the clean, clear 
 light without, it was as if they shook off from 
 their souls a miasma bred by that other's 
 presence. 
 
 "Your coming saved me, David," the girl 
 said very softly, and the music of her voice 
 was vibrant with tenderness; "saved me 
 from worse than death." 
 
 It was true that his coming had resulted 
 in her salvation. It was true, also, that his 
 coming would have availed nothing at all 
 without her interposition at the crucial mo- 
 ment. But of that she said nothing to him — 
 either then, or ever. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE two covered the miles almost in 
 silence. Neither dared speak much con- 
 cerning what had just occurred from fear of 
 self-betrayal. Each of them was drawn 
 closer to the other by the peril to which the 
 girl had been exposed. To Elizabeth, after 
 contact with the vileness of Goins, the clean 
 manliness of David became more magnetic 
 by contrast. She longed for his embrace and 
 his kisses as an anodyne for the polluting 
 touch to which she had been subjected. But 
 she realized with a new and keener pang of 
 sorrow that the mysterious barrier still 
 reared itself between her and him. It seemed 
 indeed more than ever formidable, inexor- 
 ably shutting him away from her, making 
 him remote and unattainable. His face, when 
 she stole a look at it from time to time, was 
 sternly set, and his eyes were studiously 
 averted. Her first elation over having es- 
 caped in safety from a frightful danger, 
 
 188 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 189 
 
 subsided, and in its stead came a pervasive 
 misery. Her heart was aching for the solace 
 of love, which was denied her. A bitter 
 spirit of revolt stirred in her. She was 
 tempted to cry out, to demand an explana- 
 tion from this man, who went with sealed 
 lips always, though he loved her. But she 
 fought down the impulse, and rode on in a 
 silence that was filled with despair. 
 
 David fought even a fiercer fight, and his 
 victory over himself was at the cost of quiv- 
 ering nerves and a tortured heart. The sight 
 of this girl in the arms of Goins had re- 
 vealed to him with a new and startling clarity 
 her preciousness to him. It was only because 
 for the time being his energies had been con- 
 sumed in the struggle with the Croatan that 
 he did not take her in his arms, and pour 
 out to her all his heart in words and kisses. 
 As his bodily strength was restored, his will, 
 too, recruited its forces, and he was able to 
 hold himself in mastery. His loyalty to 
 Ruth still persisted, and the power of it was 
 such as to curb any expression of the present 
 passion for another. The simplicity of the 
 mountaineer was incapable of solving the 
 puzzle offered by his own nature. He was 
 
190 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 utterly baffled by the problem of his moods. 
 He still thought as tenderly as ever of Ruth. 
 It seemed to him that he loved her as dearly 
 as before. Yet here he found himself all 
 tremulous with longing for this other woman. 
 His primitive mind knew nothing whatsoever 
 of subtleties concerning magnetisms and 
 propinquities and the mounting instincts of 
 his own manhood. He went in silence, since 
 silence seemed the only decent thing for him, 
 but the effort to maintain it racked his soul 
 with anguish. 
 
 The two had come almost to the encamp- 
 ment when the princess spoke decisively. 
 
 " Don't say anything about this to pappy/ ' 
 
 "But — " David would have expostulated. 
 
 Elizabeth, however, interrupted him. 
 
 "Charlie has had his lesson," she declared, 
 confidently. "I told him I'd never marry 
 him. So he knows now. There's no telling 
 what pappy might do if he knew about it. ' ' 
 
 David was doubtful as to the wisdom of 
 the girl's decision, but he accepted it. His 
 own opinion by no means coincided with that 
 of Elizabeth. He regarded Goins as quite 
 capable of making further mischief, and that 
 of the gravest sort. He said nothing of this 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 191 
 
 to the princess, however. She was already 
 on her guard, and to excite additional alarm 
 could serve no good purpose. He had half 
 a mind to tell the facts privately to Lowrie 
 in spite of the daughter's prohibition, but 
 finally decided that to do so would be in the 
 nature of treachery to her. 
 
 So, the chief remained in entire ignorance 
 of his lieutenant 's evil conduct. He was only 
 a little disgusted with the fellow's clumsi- 
 ness, when, next day, Goins turned up in the 
 encampment with a bandaged head, which he 
 explained by a bad fall on the rocks — the 
 exact truth, without details. He had re- 
 turned in much trepidation, fearful as to 
 what might befall him at the hands of an 
 outraged father, and his relief was corre- 
 spondingly great when he discovered that 
 the chief was in ignorance of what had 
 occurred at the cavern. But he wondered 
 mightily as to the cause of this reticence on 
 the girl's part — for he rightly attributed the 
 result to her decision. And soon his specula- 
 tions found food for vanity. It occurred to 
 him that his violence had, after all, affected 
 the princess in his favor. His abnormal 
 egotism found nothing absurd in this fancy. 
 
192 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 On the contrary, it seemed quite reasonable 
 to his warped mind. He cherished it until 
 it became a fixed delusion. He recognized 
 that the stranger was still a rival to be 
 reckoned with. But he convinced himself 
 that, with this obstacle removed, he would 
 be able to establish himself easily enough in 
 the girl's good graces. He took much com- 
 fort from the fact that in the contest with 
 David he had proved himself the better man 
 before the eyes of the princess. She had 
 seen him with his adversary practically at 
 his mercy, and she could have had no doubt 
 as to the issue of the battle between them 
 but for her interference. For Goins had been 
 aware of Elizabeth's action against him, 
 which had been the cause of his overthrow. 
 He cherished no grudge against her on that 
 account, but rather an increased admiration 
 for her strength and daring. The result of 
 his slow and difficult cogitations was to leave 
 him certain that he could win the girl to his 
 will, once David was removed. How that 
 removal was to be effected thenceforth en- 
 gaged his whole attention, and he plotted 
 with the unscrupulousness that was char- 
 acteristic of him. 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 193 
 
 For that matter, David himself was simi- 
 larly occupied in planning his own removal 
 from the scene. He feared for his strength 
 in the constant struggle of self-repression 
 which he was waging. It seemed to him that 
 hourly his powers of resistance were lessen- 
 ing. It became momently more difficult for 
 him to refrain from full confession to Eliza- 
 beth. He distrusted the stability of his will. 
 He did not hesitate in his loyalty of purpose 
 toward Ruth, but he became suspicious of 
 his weakness. It occurred to him that his 
 only safety lay in flight. Once this idea took 
 possession of him, he dwelt on it as offering 
 the one possible solution of his perplexities. 
 He considered the matter for a day, and be- 
 came assured that only by such a retreat 
 could he safeguard himself from despicable 
 treachery. He chose to make his purpose 
 known first to the father, rather than to the 
 daughter, in order to avoid complications. 
 
 He took an opportunity to speak when he 
 and the chief were alone together. The old 
 man heard him through patiently, but his 
 comment disconcerted the mountaineer. 
 
 " Jist stuff an' nonsense l" he rumbled, and 
 his voice was edged with disdain. "Thar 
 
194 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 hain't no call fer ye t' think about movin' on 
 fr'm hyar fer quite a spell yit." 
 
 "But there's reasons why I got t' go," 
 David protested. He decided that a part 
 of the truth might serve to convince his 
 hearer. * ' There 's a debt what I 've got t ' pay 
 right soon. I set out t' earn that-there 
 money, an' it's time I was busy a-doin' of 
 it." 
 
 "If thet's all thet's a-bitin' on ye," Lowrie 
 responded with a guffaw that set the crock- 
 ery on the shelves to dancing, "why, by 
 cripes, I'll fix ye out right hyar. I was jist 
 a-thinkin' o' ofTerin' t' hire ye, an' hyar 
 ye come a-tellin' as how ye want a job. I 
 kin use a young feller like you-all. How'd 
 thutty dollars a month an' yer victuals strike 
 ye?" 
 
 The words fairly stunned David. He 
 stared aghast at the chief, unable for the 
 moment to formulate any response. Nor did 
 reflection suggest any method of extricating 
 himself from the dilemma presented by 
 Lowrie 's offer. Apart from the complica- 
 tions caused by his feeling toward Elizabeth, 
 this opportunity to earn the money he needed 
 would have been altogether satisfactory, for 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 195 
 
 the wages were much beyond what he could 
 have expected elsewhere. He could hit on no 
 adequate excuse for a refusal. There was 
 indeed no reason for objection to the proposi- 
 tion, save the secret one, that it would hold 
 him in an intolerable situation. But he 
 could not explain the full truth to the girl's 
 father, and, because he could not, he was left 
 defenseless against the elder man's satisfac- 
 tion in the project as one already settled on. 
 He could only mumble a few false phrases 
 of grateful acknowledgment, which Lowrie 
 took for acceptance. The chief attributed 
 the young man's obvious confusion to a 
 natural embarrassment over the boon so un- 
 expectedly conferred. For a fleeting instant, 
 David did think seriously of making known 
 the predicament in which he was placed. But 
 he dismissed the idea promptly because, 
 somehow, it seemed to savor of injustice to- 
 ward both the girls concerned. His decision 
 might have been different, had he known that 
 Lowrie was already aware of his love for 
 Elizabeth. With the fatuousness customary 
 among lovers, he nourished the delusion that 
 he had kept the secret of his heart to him- 
 self. He could not guess that the piercing 
 
196 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 eyes beneath the old man's shaggy brows had 
 read the scroll of his emotions like a printed 
 page. 
 
 David, thus thwarted in his first purpose 
 of an open departure from the encampment, 
 was driven to determine on a surreptitious 
 flight. Such a method was repellent to his 
 native honesty. It seemed an ignominious 
 thing to do. But he could discover no other 
 way. He resolved to leave the encampment 
 the coming night. Every hour near the 
 princess now increased the strain upon his 
 will, and it was very near the breaking point. 
 He was confirmed in his plan by a sudden 
 suspicion as to the chief's attitude toward 
 him. That suspicion was provoked by Low- 
 rie's final utterance concerning their future 
 relations. 
 
 "Thutty dollars is a lot o' money, but I've 
 got plenty salted away, an' so be I mought 
 spend some on hit a-boostin' along a young 
 feller what I took a shine ter. You-all 'pears 
 t' me a pretty-likely sort o' chap, David." 
 He chuckled contentedly. "No tellin' how 
 fur ye might git, boy, with Henry Lowrie t' 
 back ye." 
 
 David found an opportunity, later that day, 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 197 
 
 when he was alone in the living-room, to se- 
 cure a sheet of notepaper and a pencil. Then 
 he went away by himself into the forest, and 
 there, with a smooth stone for a desk, he 
 wrote a note to leave for the father and 
 daughter, whom he meant to desert by 
 stealth. The composition of the missive 
 taxed his ingenuity to the utmost, and, when 
 he had finally finished the writing, he was 
 disgusted with the result, yet quite unable 
 to devise anything better. He put the mes- 
 sage in his pocket, and went back to the en- 
 campment, feeling like a criminal. He found 
 the cabin empty, and improved the occasion 
 by a raid on the larder, where he gathered 
 together scant supplies of bacon, flour and 
 coffee. He took the least possible allowance, 
 feeling like a thief the while. He knew that 
 he had no choice, however, for nothing of 
 his own was left from the river, not even 
 his rifle. He made a small parcel of the food, 
 and concealed it where it would be unlikely 
 to be discovered against the time of his de- 
 parture. 
 
 Lowrie, on his return to the cabin, was 
 boisterously merry, in high feather over hav- 
 ing come to an arrangement with the young 
 
198 THE HOMEWAKD TEAIL 
 
 man. When Elizabeth appeared, he made 
 the fact known to her in manifest expecta- 
 tion of enthusiastic approbation on her part. 
 Nor was he disappointed — at the ontset. The 
 girl regarded David 's acceptance of her 
 father's offer as a proof that the barrier 
 between them would be somehow removed, 
 and she was filled with delight as new hope 
 flooded her. She turned to David with shin- 
 ing eyes and her lips bending into a happy 
 smile. 
 
 "Oh, that will be splendid, David!" she 
 said simply. The cadences in her voice were 
 very tender. "I am so glad!" 
 
 David could do no more than stammer an 
 unintelligible acknowledgment. He felt more 
 than ever like a criminal — the thief of this 
 girl's heart. 
 
 Elizabeth wondered over the lack of re- 
 sponsiveness in David, at first without par- 
 ticular concern, but soon with a suspicion 
 that, after all, things were not quite as they 
 should be. The suspicion grew into a cer- 
 tainty as the time passed, and the young 
 man appeared taciturn and distrait. He 
 plainly avoided her attempts to draw him 
 into conversation; refused even to meet her 
 
' THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 199 
 
 glances. The father's good spirits blinded 
 him to his guest's somber mood, but the lov- 
 ing eyes of the daughter took note of every 
 detail, and again her sorrow weighed heavily 
 upon her, for she perceived that the barrier 
 still stood between her and David ; a barrier 
 of which she knew nothing except that it was 
 sinister and impregnable. It was with a new 
 and stronger despair pressing upon her 
 spirit that she early said good-night, and 
 went to her room ; there to wrestle with her 
 trouble in that infinite and terrible loneliness 
 which comes to one who loves in vain. 
 
 And the despair in David's soul, as he 
 watched her go, was neither greater than 
 hers, nor less, but like unto it; for he ex- 
 pected never to look on her face again. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THAT same night, Charlie Goins sat late 
 alone, holding commnnion with him- 
 self and seeking inspiration for nefarious 
 schemes from frequent drafts of colorless 
 moonshine out of his brown jug. But the 
 inspiration failed of an effect satisfactory to 
 him, though he drank deep, as was his habit 
 often. His iron body showed no ill effect 
 from his excesses. The fiery liquor seemed 
 to do little more than quicken his movements 
 and stimulate his brain, so that wild ideas 
 came thronging. Each in turn, however, was 
 speedily rejected for one reason or another. 
 It was his purpose to remove the stranger 
 from his path, but he meant to do this in 
 such a manner as to avoid the chief's suspi- 
 cion of his having any part in the affair. 
 Hate counseled murder, but prudence for- 
 bade. It was near midnight when, at last, 
 he hit on a plan that promised to be ade- 
 quate. He decided that, with the help of his 
 
 200 
 
THE HOMEWAED TEAIL 201 
 
 most intimate crony, Jeames Viccars, lie 
 would ambush his enemy, take him prisoner, 
 and deliver him up to the authorities at 
 Salisbury as one who had been actively en- 
 gaged in assisting a Union soldier to escape 
 from the prison. Goins reflected that in this 
 way he would dispose of his rival for an in- 
 definite time, and perhaps be paid a sum of 
 money in addition. He gulped down a huge 
 swig of the spirits in celebration of his hav- 
 ing finally reached a decision, and started to 
 awaken Yiccars, who shared the cabin with 
 him, in order to make definite plans for the 
 morrow. 
 
 The sudden barking of a dog caused Goins 
 to stop, and listen, for the sound came from 
 close at hand, and he recognized the note of 
 Lowrie's favorite hound. He blew out the 
 candle, and, going to the door, pushed it open 
 softly, and peered out. The moon had just 
 risen. By its light, he made out a shadow 
 moving a little within the doorway of the 
 chief's cabin, which was next to his own. 
 The dog had ceased barking. Goins could 
 hear the hiss of a whisper, and, a moment 
 later, he saw the form in the doorway ad- 
 vance, the dog beside it capering in friendly 
 
202 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 fashion. He could make out that the night 
 prowler was a man. He knew, too, that the 
 figure was not Lowrie's. While it was im- 
 possible to distinguish clearly in the gloom, 
 he guessed that this could be no other than 
 the stranger. He was surprised and puzzled 
 by the occurrence. He could not surmise the 
 visitor's object in this mysterious night 
 sortie. Then he held his breath, for David 
 was passing within a yard of him. It was now 
 that he saw the parcel which the mountaineer 
 carried. At sight of it, partial understand- 
 ing came to the Croatan. It was plain that 
 the visitor was making a stealthy departure 
 from the encampment. The fact would have 
 been incredible, but for the evidence before 
 his eyes. It seemed that, without any effort 
 whatsoever on his part, he was to be rid of 
 his enemy. 
 
 Groins was, notwithstanding, by no means 
 content. On the contrary, he was made furi- 
 ous by the thought that his foe should escape 
 punishment at his hands. He watched 
 eagerly, fairly shaking with the rage that was 
 on him. He could distinguish David's course 
 down the cabin-lined street of the encamp- 
 ment, which would lead on into the river 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 203 
 
 trail. Abruptly, the Croatan came to a de- 
 termination. He pushed the door shut, and 
 sprang to the bed on which Viccars lay 
 snoring. 
 
 "Wake up, mon!" he exclaimed harshly, 
 under his breath. 
 
 A few rough shakes added to the exhorta- 
 tion brought the sleeper to a sitting position, 
 blinking and gaping. Under the insistence 
 of Goins, Viccars was soon thoroughly awak- 
 ened. He hurried into his clothes, while the 
 other made rapid explanations. 
 
 "Thet-thar cussed galoot is a-sMnnin' out, 
 an' I hain't aimin' t' 'low 'im t' sneak off 
 without gittin' what's comin' t' 'im. We'll 
 chase arter 'im, an' ketch 'im. Hurry!" 
 
 It was hardly a minute after David's pass- 
 ing the door, when the two men sallied out 
 into the night in pursuit. They ran swiftly 
 down the encampment street, but, when they 
 reached the river trail, moved with noiseless 
 tread, though still rapidly. From time to 
 time they paused to listen. In one of these 
 intervals, after they had gone half a mile or 
 more through the forest, they heard the 
 sounds of David's advance, as he went care- 
 lessly without any suspicion of being fol- 
 
204 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 lowed. The pursuers now moderated their 
 pace, so as to keep within hearing distance, 
 but sufficiently in the rear to escape detection. 
 
 "We'll f oiler till 'e halts," Goins decided. 
 "Then we'll steal up on 'im, an' jump 'im 
 together. I got rawhides in my pocket, an' 
 while I hold 'im, ye '11 tie 'im up." 
 
 "An' then what ye goin' t' do with 'im?" 
 Viccars demanded, in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 "None o' yer business," Goins growled, 
 in surly rebuke. "An' besides, I hain't made 
 up my mind yit." 
 
 At the fork in the trail as it came near the 
 river, David swung into the branch that led 
 southward, and behind him the pursuers 
 kept their place. The three traveled steadily 
 throughout the remaining hours of the night, 
 and Goins had ample time in which to formu- 
 late his further plans. He confirmed his 
 earlier decision to take his enemy to Salis- 
 bury as a prisoner, and made known his pur- 
 pose to his assistant. Yet the virulence of 
 his hatred made this project unsatisfactory 
 to him, since he lusted to wreak vengeance 
 with his own hands on the man who had 
 humiliated him in the presence of his fel- 
 lows. As he shambled forward, his heavily 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 205 
 
 muscled fingers twitched from time to time 
 in reflex from his fierce desire to be at the 
 stranger's throat. 
 
 Dawn was breaking when, at last, David 
 made his camp within a sheltered glade at 
 some distance from the trail itself. Goins 
 and Viccars, moving with increased precau- 
 tion, concealed themselves behind a shelter 
 of thick-growing shrubs on the side of the 
 glade furthest from the spot where David 
 had established himself, and thence they 
 watched his operations, in readiness to seize 
 the most favorable moment for attack. 
 
 "We'll jump 'im when 'e's busy cookin', 
 an' bent over, an' with 'is back t' us," Goins 
 whispered. "When I nudge ye, come on." 
 
 There was no hitch in the execution of the 
 plan. David was on his knees before the 
 fire which he had kindled, holding the sauce- 
 pan over the flames, when the two men stole 
 forth from their hiding place, and crept 
 across the glade, their moccasined feet mov- 
 ing soundlessly on the turf. It was not until 
 they were almost upon him that David, un- 
 warned by any noise, sensed their presence, 
 and turned, startled. But it was too late. 
 Even as his eyes took in the twin shapes 
 
206 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 bulking darkly behind him in the gray light, 
 the assailants leaped upon him. It was only 
 a matter of seconds before his capture was 
 fully effected. At the first onslaught, Goins 
 clutched him in arms that were like bands of 
 steel. David remembered that embrace, and 
 realized, with a quick sensation of despair, 
 that, for some inexplicable reason, he had 
 fallen into the possession of Goins. The 
 utter unexpectedness of the attack, too, dis- 
 heartened him, so that, though he fought 
 desperately, he had no hope of victory. He 
 struggled the harder when he felt his hands 
 drawn together by Goins' assistant, but he 
 was powerless to prevent the binding of the 
 rawhide around his wrists. His one moment 
 of satisfaction was when the fellow attempted 
 to tie his ankles together, and David caught 
 him with a kick in the pit of the stomach, 
 which doubled him up, gasping and groan- 
 ing for five minutes before he could recover 
 his breath, while Goins cursed him for his 
 clumsiness. In his second attempt, however, 
 Viccars was more cautious, and presently the 
 two men let go of their victim, who lay help- 
 less, bound hand and foot. 
 
 1 ' Thar, damn ye ! ' ' Goins shouted, his voice 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 207 
 
 rasping with vindictive triumph. "Take 
 thet!" he added, and struck a coward's blow 
 full in David's face. "I'll l'arn ye a thing 
 er two, afore I'm done with ye, ye whelp!" 
 He swaggered around the prostrate man, 
 belching threats interlarded with oaths and 
 obscenities. 
 
 David listened in silence until, finally, 
 Goins wearied. Then, he spoke for the first 
 time, with a contemptuous drawl. 
 
 " 'Pears like ye must be a heap fonder of 
 me than what ye say, if ye'r' aimin' t' keep 
 me here jest as I was a-leavin'." 
 
 "I 'low they'll do the keepin' o' ye fer 
 me down t' Salisbury prison," Goins re- 
 torted. "They're honin' t' git a holt on sich 
 Yank '-runners as you-all." He added a list 
 of unprintable epithets, to which their object 
 appeared to give no heed whatsoever. 
 
 As a matter of fact, David was occupied 
 with an intense endeavor to evolve a method 
 of extrication from this new trouble into 
 which he had fallen. Goins ' words had made 
 him realize for the first time the danger to 
 which he was exposed at the hands of the 
 Confederate authorities for having aided the 
 escape of a Union prisoner. Hitherto, he 
 
208 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 had carelessly regarded the affair with Mor- 
 ris as a matter between him and his own 
 conscience. Now, however, he was forced to 
 recognition of the fact that his impetuous 
 act in assisting the fugitive was a disloyal 
 procedure, for which he might have to pay 
 a serious penalty. It was evident that, in 
 order to avoid danger from this source, he 
 must first of all contrive to escape from his 
 present captivity. How to accomplish this, 
 however, was a question beyond his powers 
 to answer. He stopped his ears to the taunts 
 and jeers of Goins, while he concentrated his 
 whole mind on the problem, but he could find 
 no way out. There were two against him; 
 he was bound and helpless in their power. 
 His final conclusion was that he must wait 
 with what patience he could command in the 
 hope of an opportunity being offered some- 
 where along the way. At least, he reflected, 
 his captors must untie his feet before setting 
 forth on the long march to Salisbury. 
 
 Presently, despite his intention of not 
 listening, David caught something that Goins 
 was saying. 
 
 "A puny darn' pup what has V git a 
 woman t' fight fer 'mi!" were the words that 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 209 
 
 arrested the mountaineer's attention. He 
 flared instantly, for he was sure that some 
 reference to Elizabeth was meant, although 
 he could not understand the implication. 
 
 "What's that?" he demanded sharply. 
 
 Goins grinned evilly, pleased over having 
 provoked his prisoner to a display of interest. 
 
 "I was tellin' ye what a wuthless kind o' 
 critter ye be," he declared truculently. "Ye 
 wa'n't able t' stan' up t' me like a mon, but 
 hed t' beller fer he'p fr'm a gal." 
 
 "That's a lie!" David answered; and he 
 believed that it was. 
 
 Goins sneered. 
 
 "Thar in the cliff I hed ye as I wanted ye. 
 I'd 'a' bust ye in a minute more, if so be 
 'Liz'beth hedn't kotched me by the leg, an' 
 trun me — the sassy cat ! ' ' 
 
 "It's a lie," David repeated. But now his 
 voice lacked conviction, and the Croatan was 
 quick to notice the change. He stared at his 
 captive malevolently, and then his loose lips 
 twisted in a derisive grin. 
 
 "Cussed if I don't believe ye never knew 
 she grabbed me." He roared with laughter, 
 the mockery in which brought a shamed 
 flush to David's cheeks. "An' she never toP 
 
210 THE HOMEWAED TEAIL 
 
 ye. She sure is a buster, thet-thar gal. She 
 let ye go on thinkin' ye was quite some 
 punkins fer a fighter. Why, ye blasted 
 sucker, I kin lambast the tar out o' ye any 
 day in the week with one han'. An' ye 
 thought ye licked me ail by yer li'l' own self. 
 Ho! ho! ho !" 
 
 The burst of scornful laughter was echoed 
 by the faithful Viccars. 
 
 There was a sincerity in the Croatan's 
 voice that compelled belief on David's part, 
 reluctant as he was to admit the truth, that 
 he had been saved in the conflict by the in- 
 tervention of the princess. But out of the 
 whirling confusion of his thoughts an idea 
 stood forth for use in this emergency. He 
 acted upon it without an instant of delay. 
 His voice when he spoke again had a different 
 tone, resonant with insolent challenge. 
 
 "YeV jest a natural-born liar, Goins. I 
 showed ye up afore yer whole tribe. An' 
 yeV lyin' 'bout what happened in the cave, 
 where I whipped ye good an' fair, so ye come 
 crawlin' home next day with yer head in a 
 rag. An' when ye come arter me now, ye 
 had to bring somebody t' he'p ye. Ye hain't 
 got sand t' tackle yer dirty work alone arter 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 211 
 
 the lesson I give yer there in the cave. Ye'r' 
 a liar an' a blowhard, an' ye can't fight fer 
 shucks. I know, 'cause IV fit ye, an' licked 
 ye, an' tain't no man's job, nuther." 
 
 Goins became apoplectic under the gibes. 
 He was wounded in his most sensitive part, 
 vanity over his physical prowess. The re- 
 sentment that flamed hot in him destroyed 
 all discretion. He gave way to a frenzy of 
 murderous hate. 
 
 "I'll show ye!" he screamed. "I'll l'arn 
 ye what Charlie Goins kin do. I'll kill ye 
 with my two han's, an' chuck yer body back 
 inter the river ye come out on. I say, I'll 
 kill ye, damn ye t' hell." 
 
 "When I'm tied up, an' with yer man t' 
 he'p ye," David sneered. 
 
 The taunt drove the Croatan distracted. 
 He threw off his coat, and leaped upon it. 
 His face was black with rage, the features 
 working horribly. 
 
 "Cut 'im loose!" he shouted to Viccars. 
 
 "Oh, hell!" David drawled, with an in- 
 flection of contempt calculated to madden the 
 Croatan still further. "Quit yer bluffin'. 
 Ye don't dast. Ye'r' plumb scairt o' 
 me." 
 
212 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 1 ' Cut 'im loose— cut 'im loose ! ' ' Goins re- 
 peated furiously. 
 
 Viccars went forward obediently, though 
 with evident reluctance. He would have ven- 
 tured a protest, but Goins silenced him. A 
 moment later, the blade of his clasp-knife 
 sheared through the thongs at David's wrists 
 and ankles. Viccars sprang aside, as the re- 
 leased prisoner came to his feet with a bound, 
 and in the same instant Goins bore down with 
 a shriek of triumph. 
 
 The mountaineer had not been in duress 
 long enough to stiffen the muscles, and he 
 easily stepped aside from the Croatan's rush. 
 The momentum of his plunge carried Goins 
 for a rod or more across the glade before 
 he could check himself. As he turned to at- 
 tack again, he heard a wild cry from Viccars. 
 
 Facing about, he halted in his tracks, and 
 stared, astounded. His henchman was danc- 
 ing about in wild excitement, yelling unin- 
 telligibly. There was no one else within the 
 glade. The prisoner had vanished. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE man is a fool who lets vanity stand 
 in his way at a crisis. David was no 
 fool. He had never been a coward; he had 
 never fled from a foe. Bnt, when the great 
 idea sprang np in his brain, he welcomed it, 
 and acted npon it without a thought of ig- 
 nominy. He played npon Goins' foible. He 
 deliberately taunted the fellow into a frenzy, 
 in the hope that this frenzy would lead to 
 folly, as it did. David knew that his strategy 
 exposed him to the peril of death at the 
 hands of the Croatan. The risk did not daunt 
 him. He accepted it gladly because it offered 
 the sole possibility of escape. He matched 
 his wits against his enemy's brute force. He 
 had no feeling of shame over his device, 
 which was based on running away from the 
 danger. Shame did not touch him then or 
 thereafter for his preference of flight to de- 
 struction. So, when Goins hurled himself 
 forward, David, having dodged the rush, 
 
 - 213 ; 
 
214 THE HOMEWAED TEAIL 
 
 took to his heels in the opposite direction. 
 Before Yiccars had divined his purpose, he 
 had crossed the glade, and was swallowed 
 up in the wood. By the time Goins had 
 learned the truth, his intended victim was a 
 full two hundred yards off. The Croatans 
 gave chase as best they could, but their pace 
 was slow compared with that of the fugitive, 
 and Goins wasted his breath in squealing 
 anathemas on him who fled. 
 
 David was a swift runner. Accustomed to 
 the woods as he was, he had no difficulty in 
 traveling fast and far. His best speed was 
 maintained steadily for a half -hour. At the 
 expiration of that time, he was convinced 
 that he had eluded his pursuers, and that 
 with due precaution against surprise he 
 would be safe. His exertions had strained 
 him to the utmost, and he sought a retreat 
 within the shelter of a clump of bushes, 
 where he might be undiscovered even by any 
 one passing within a few yards of him. 
 There he stretched himself on the turf to 
 rest his heaving lungs and aching muscles. 
 When he had rested sufficiently, he went for- 
 ward again, treading quietly and with eyes 
 watchful for any emergency. 
 
THE HOMEWAKD TKAIL 215 
 
 David's course was chosen with reluctance, 
 but, once the decision was made, he advanced 
 resolutely, despite the qualms that assailed 
 him. He had determined to return to the 
 Croatan encampment. There were a number 
 of reasons for this. In the first place, sordid 
 necessity compelled him. His small quantity 
 of supplies remained behind him in the glade 
 where he had been set upon by Goins and 
 Viccars. To return in search of the food 
 would be to invite another encounter with 
 the Croatan. Moreover, he doubted his 
 ability to retrace his steps to the glade. 
 
 As a matter of fact, however, the lost ra- 
 tions hardly figured in his calculations. His 
 attention was given, rather, to the necessity 
 of making known all the facts to Chief Low- 
 rie. His adventure had given him a new 
 knowledge of Goins' dangerous qualities. 
 He regretted his promise to Elizabeth of 
 silence concerning the lieutenant's attack on 
 her in the cavern. He meant to break that 
 promise at the earliest opportunity. For the 
 girl's sake, the father must be warned. 
 
 David realized that it would be necessary 
 also to explain his own secret departure. He 
 hated the confession this would involve, but 
 
 
216 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 he was in no mood for half-measures, and 
 vowed to make a clean breast of it. The 
 truth might be — indeed, would be — trying to 
 all concerned, but it offered the only 
 means of relief. There must be no further 
 deceit. 
 
 David's first rapid flight had led him north- 
 ward toward the encampment. Afterward, 
 he walked swiftly, and it was not yet noon 
 when he approached his destination. He was 
 just rounding a bend in the river-trail less 
 than half a mile from the settlement, when 
 he was startled by a sudden clatter of hoofs, 
 and a horseman came galloping toward him. 
 It was Chief Lowrie himself, who, at sight of 
 David, pulled his horse to its haunches, and 
 let out a great roar of joyous greeting. 
 
 "Why, David boy, consarn ye!" he rum- 
 bled. "Whar in Tunket ye been?" The 
 heavy features were radiant with welcome. 
 "We jist nacherly cal'lated ye was 
 plumb losted. Whar in all 'nation hev ye 
 been?" 
 
 David answered promptly, though his em- 
 barrassment was painfully evident in his 
 flushed face and in the hesitant tone with 
 which he spoke. 
 
THE HOMEWABD TKAIL 217 
 
 "I set out t' leave the camp last night,' ' 
 he explained. "There's reasons why I 
 couldn't take up with yer offer. I left a 
 note fer ye an' 'Liz'beth. But I didn't 
 rightly tell ye all my reason in that-there 
 writin'." 
 
 "Fust I've hearn tell o' any note," Lowrie 
 asserted. His features had become forbid- 
 ding. "Mebbe 'Liz'beth come on hit, an' 
 was aimin' not t' tell me anythin' till she 
 got good an' ready.'' 
 
 "I 'low I'll have t' tell ye all about it," 
 David returned miserably. "But first I want 
 V warn ye 'g'inst that-there pesky Charlie 
 Goins." 
 
 "What the devil is Charlie Goins t' you- 
 all?" The chief's manner was now suddenly 
 menacing. 
 
 "It's a devil of a lot t' you-all," David 
 retorted, with spirit. "I come on him over 
 there in 'Liz'beth's cave, where he'd fol- 
 lowed her, unbeknownst to her. She'd kind 
 o* fainted like, an' he was carryin' her in 
 his arms when I got there. He drapped her, 
 an' we fit, an' went down together, an' he 
 got his head broke agin the rock, an' so 
 'Liz'beth an' me come away." 
 

 218 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 The chief's face was contorted with rage, 
 and the black eyes blazed. 
 
 "Why didn't ye tell me this afore?" he 
 demanded. 
 
 " 'Cause 'Liz'beth made me promise not 
 t' say anything about it," David re- 
 plied. 
 
 "I'll l'arn 'im t' lay ban's on my darter — 
 an' 'er nnwillin'," Lowrie said, less loudly 
 than he usually spoke; but his voice was 
 ominous. ' t Hain 't seen nothin ' o ' 'im t '-day. 
 So be, ye didn't 'appen t' run inter 'im any- 
 whar, did ye ! " 
 
 David smiled wryly. 
 
 "Not edzakly," he stated. "But he run 
 inter me. Fact is, he kotched me, an' planned 
 t' take me t' Salisbury, an' give me up there. 
 But I got away." 
 
 "I don't understan' hit a tall," Lowrie re- 
 sponded, frowning heavily. "But I under- 
 stan' enough t' make me want t' git my 
 hooks on thet-thar snake, an' scotch 'im. 
 Got an idear whar's 'e's at?" 
 
 David shook his head. 
 
 1 ' Some 'res off there, I reckon. ' ' He waved 
 his hand toward the south. "I 'low he an* 
 the feller with him are some fur behind, 
 
THE HOMEWAED TEAIL 219 
 
 bein' as how I streaked it right smart arter 
 I got away." 
 
 ''I'll round 'im up mighty soon," the chief 
 grated. With the words, he wheeled his 
 horse, and went clattering back toward the 
 encampment. 
 
 David followed at a leisurely gait. He 
 had gone less than half a mile, when he drew 
 aside from the trail in order to let a caval- 
 cade of the Croatans sweep past him. Each 
 of the horsemen carried a rifle, and at the 
 head of the company rode Lowrie himself, 
 his massive features set in lines of vindictive 
 purpose. 
 
 The party passed without paying any ap- 
 parent heed to the wayfarer. David went 
 forward again, and soon reached the encamp- 
 ment, where he entered the chief 's cabin. As 
 he pushed the door shut behind him, he saw 
 Elizabeth sitting at the little table, with her 
 head bowed on her arms. She looked up at 
 the sound of the door closing. Then she 
 sprang to her feet, and stood staring, her 
 eyes darkly luminous through a film of tears, 
 her cheeks pallid beneath their golden tint. 
 She neither moved nor spoke during long 
 moments, while David, too, stood motionless, 
 
220 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 regarding her with all his heart in the stead- 
 fast gaze. At last, the girl's breath exhaled 
 in a long-drawn sigh where many and poign- 
 ant emotions mingled. 
 
 "David!" she whispered doubtfully. It 
 was as if she conld not believe yet in the 
 real ty of his presence there with her. 
 
 Diivid went toward her. He went slowly, 
 almost as if reluctantly, as if compelled 
 against his will by some invisible force that 
 was stronger than he. Yet, for all this seem- 
 ing of reluctance, a supreme delight thrilled 
 in his blood. He had thought never to look 
 on her face again. And now she was there 
 before him. His glances could feast their fill 
 on her loveliness. The joy of the moment 
 shone in his expression. The sight of it 
 warmed her like a rich wine of life. She 
 knew that this was no phantom conjured up 
 by her longing, but the man himself in the 
 flesh, the man whom she loved ; and she knew 
 as well that he loved her. She took a step 
 to meet him, and then, without any intention 
 on the part of either, they were in each 
 other 's arms. Elizabeth 's hands were clasped 
 about David's neck. He held her close, and 
 their hearts beat together in the rapture of 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 221 
 
 that embrace. Elizabeth's face was bidden 
 in his bosom. David bent his head, and his 
 lips touched the dusky tendrils of hair, whose 
 fragrance steeped his senses in ecstasy. 
 There was no word between them for a long 
 time, nor any further caress. 
 
 Presently, Elizabeth stirred, and sighed 
 again — a sigh of exquisite happiness. Then, 
 very slowly, she withdrew herself from 
 David's arms. She looked up at him, her 
 eyes aglow with adoration, her lips curving 
 in a smile of infinite content. 
 
 "I read your letter. It said you must go. 
 I thought I'd never see you again, David. 
 I couldn't understand anything — only I suf- 
 fered — oh, so horribly! And now you're 
 here, David! And I am — oh, so happy!" 
 
 Somehow, her frank expression of pleasure 
 in his presence awoke the mountaineer from 
 his dream of bliss. He recalled, with a sick- 
 ening dismay, the obligation that must hold 
 him apart from her who had so gladly come 
 into his arms. The radiance went out of his 
 face ; it became drawn and haggard. 
 
 The girl, watching him so intently, saw 
 the change, and was terrified by it. She saw 
 the despair looking out at her from his eyes. 
 
222 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 A like despair fell on her heart, and blotted 
 out all its joy. She knew that the barrier, 
 which for a few blessed moments she had 
 wholly forgotten, still stood, immutable, be- 
 tween her and him. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 DAVID fairly ached for the relief of full 
 explanation to this girl, whom, he felt, 
 he had wronged by his silence hitherto. But 
 he found himself tongue-tied, stricken dumb 
 by the suffering written on her face. There 
 followed a period of painful indecision on 
 the part of both, in which no word was 
 spoken. It was Elizabeth who, at last, shook 
 herself free from the spell of constraint that 
 held them mute. She turned toward David 
 with a look of reproach, and spoke in a voice 
 of cold accusation. 
 
 "You told pappy about Charlie — there in 
 the cave. You promised you wouldn't." 
 
 David welcomed the diversion to any topic 
 rather than the one that so troubled his spirit. 
 He felt no reproach in this matter of having 
 advised the chief of the truth concerning 
 Goins, and so answered confidently. 
 
 "I jest had t' tell yer pappy, 'cause that- 
 there Goins ain't noways a safe critter t' 
 
 223 
 
224 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 have around loose. When I found he was 
 willin' t' kill me, I woke up enough t 5 know 
 as how he might be dangerous fer you-all, 
 too." 
 
 At the mountaineer's words, Elizabeth's 
 hands went to her bosom in a gesture of 
 alarm. Her eyes dilated as she regarded the 
 speaker with new apprehension in her gaze. 
 
 "Charlie tried to kill you?" she asked 
 hurriedly. Her voice was trembling. 
 
 1 i Why, yes, ' ' David replied. ' ' I 'low there 
 ain't no manner o' doubt about that. Didn't 
 yer pappy tell ye?" 
 
 Elizabeth shook her head. 
 
 "No," she declared; and her tone carried 
 an inflection of dismay. "He was just boil- 
 ing over about Charlie, but it was all about 
 what happened over there at the river. I 
 didn't know anything about this other matter 
 between you and Charlie. Tell me," she in- 
 sisted, "what was it?" 
 
 David related the story of his adventure 
 with Goins and Yiccars. He was curious to 
 know how Elizabeth would regard the ruse 
 by which he had succeeded in making his 
 escape. He was gratified by her comment 
 when he came to the end. 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 225 
 
 " Thank God," she exclaimed tensely, "you 
 were able to outwit him!" She was silent 
 for a few moments, thinking deeply, and from 
 the expression on her face it was clear that 
 her thoughts were not pleasant ones. When 
 she spoke again, her voice was bitter. Her 
 eyes flashed with a light that was stern, al- 
 most cruel in its suggestion. "Charlie has 
 gone far enough, now," she said evenly. 
 "You can leave him out of your calculations 
 for the future. Pappy will attend to him." 
 She smiled, and her face softened. "You 
 see, David, it was because I know pappy so 
 well that I made you promise not to say any- 
 thing about what Charlie did. I thought 
 Charlie had had his lesson, and would behave 
 himself. I didn't want him punished by 
 pappy in one of his rages. But now, since 
 he's tried to kill you" — her face grew for- 
 bidding again — "why, I don't care what 
 pappy does to him. He can't be punished 
 worse than he deserves." 
 
 "Shucks!" David expostulated. "What 
 he done t' me wa'n't nothin' so much V git 
 scairt about. I 'low I wouldn't have been so 
 terrible af eared o' him — even if I did run 
 away from him this mornin'." 
 
226 THE HOMEWAED TKAIL 
 
 But once more Elizabeth shook her head 
 emphatically. 
 
 "Charlie's not yonr sort," she responded. 
 Her lips were bent in a smile that was very 
 tender, in spite of its sorrowful droop. "You 
 couldn't fight him, because he wouldn't fight 
 fair. Likely as not, he'd shoot you in the 
 back next time." 
 
 Brave as he was, David shuddered. It was 
 not pleasant to think of himself as treacher- 
 ously done to death by this villainous enemy. 
 Yet he knew that the girl spoke truly, and 
 that he was exposed to a very real peril. He 
 welcomed the distraction afforded by the re- 
 turn of the chief, who at this moment thrust 
 open the cabin door, and burst into the room 
 noisily. 
 
 "Got 'im right smack off," were his first 
 words, roared out in savage triumph. " 'Im 
 an' Viccars, both!" He shot a glance at 
 David. "They wa'n't fur behind ye, young 
 feller." 
 
 "Then they've been brought in?" Eliza- 
 beth questioned. She was plainly heartened 
 by the news that the offender against herself 
 — and David — had been captured. 
 
 The chief nodded. 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 227 
 
 "Both hyar in the camp, under guard, an' 
 waitin' fer me t' pronounce jedgmint agin 
 'em. Which same shall be jist as soon's I 
 git over my mad — which I hain't done yit by 
 a dum' sight. But I'll be ca'm putty quick, 
 an' then I'll administer jestice on them-thar 
 two skunks. An' may God A 'mighty 'ave 
 mercy on their souls!" 
 
 The Croatan girl, who was busy preparing 
 the noonday meal, called to Elizabeth. The 
 two men were left alone together at one end 
 of the long room. David improved the op- 
 portunity to address the chief in tones care- 
 fully lowered, so that the princess should not 
 overhear. 
 
 "I've got t' do some explainin' t' you-all, 
 chief," he said, with very evident embarrass- 
 ment. "I said in that-there letter I wrote 
 as how I had t' go away. I didn't say right 
 out why. Now, I 'low as how I ought t' tell 
 ye the whole business, an' I want a chance 
 t 9 speak my mind when Elizabeth ain't about, 
 seein' it has somethin' to do with her." 
 
 Lowrie fastened a piercing stare on the 
 mountaineer, who avoided it, and was mani- 
 festly ill at ease under the scrutiny. 
 
 "I aim t' hear all what ye got t' say," he 
 
228 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 mumbled. "But this-hyar other thing has 
 got V be 'tended ter fust. I reckon I'm 
 putty-nigh cooled off enough now V act as 
 jedge. Leastways, I caHate I kin keep my 
 han's off thet-thar snake when *e stan's up 
 afore me — which is a heap niore'n 'e's got 
 any right V expect arter layin' 'is dirty 
 fingers on my gal. ' ' At the words, the black 
 eyes flamed with such wrath that David real- 
 ized in a measure the mighty passion which 
 was held in restraint. 
 
 The chief said nothing more, but turned 
 and strode out of the cabin. The mountaineer 
 followed him, partly to avoid being left with 
 Elizabeth, since he did not yet feel able to 
 make his revelation to her; and partly in 
 order to be a spectator at this scene of primi- 
 tive justice which was about to be enacted. 
 
 Lowrie came to a halt on the level stretch 
 of sward before the cabin, and gave an order 
 to one of his men, who was waiting near at 
 hand. 
 
 "Bring out the prisoners." 
 
 The fellow addressed passed the word 
 along. There was a stir among the group of 
 men gathered before one of the cabins a little 
 way down the line. The door was opened, 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 229 
 
 and the two captives appeared, shambling 
 along, their hands tied behind their backs, 
 surrounded by armed guards. When the 
 party reached the chief, it came to a stand- 
 still, with the two guilty men facing the auto- 
 crat. They stood with hang-dog mien, slouch- 
 ing forlornly, their eyes on the ground. It 
 was plain that they had no hope of mercy. 
 David, from an inconspicuous position be- 
 hind the circle of Croatans, could see Low- 
 rie's face, and he winced at sight of the 
 ferocity that showed there. It was on Goins 
 that the chief's fierce eyes were fixed. Not 
 once did he glance toward the cringing Vic- 
 cars. The other members of the tribe awaited 
 the outcome in a mixture of emotions — be- 
 wilderment and pleasure being the most con- 
 spicuous. All of them were deeply impressed 
 by the disgrace of Goins, who, after their 
 leader, had been the principal man. in the 
 tribe. A few particular friends of the lieu- 
 tenant were genuinely distressed over his 
 downfall, but for the most part his fellow 
 tribesmen were gratified by the calamity 
 fallen on one who had harshly lorded over 
 them. Lowrie explained as much of the mat- 
 ter as he chose with blunt directness. 
 
230 THE HOMEWAKD TRAIL 
 
 a 
 
 I made this-hyar skunk, Cliarlie Goins, 
 my lieutenant, 'cause I trusted 'im. Now, 
 I've l'arned 'e hain't fitten V be trusted. 
 'E's sneakin' an' treacherous an' plumb 
 ornery. Las' night 'e an' 'is man, Jeames 
 hyar, jumped on the young feller what's been 
 visitin' me. Jist what 'e meant t' do with 
 'im, I dunno, an' I don't keer. Hit's enough 
 thet 'e meant mischief t' my guest. 'E'll be 
 punished fer thet. They's other thin's, but 
 I hain't aimin' t' say nothin' 'bout them." 
 He was silent for a few seconds, his features 
 working convulsively. But he controlled 
 himself, and, as he spoke again, the booming 
 notes came without a tremor. "I hereby 
 sentence Charlie Goins and Jeames Viccars 
 to be flogged — fifty lashes each." He turned 
 to a man standing near. " Bring three mule- 
 whips," he ordered. 
 
 Not a sound broke the quiet during the 
 short interval until the whips were brought. 
 Then, Lowrie took the whips, which were of 
 the usual sort, with short stocks, tipped with 
 two yards of braided rawhide. He stepped 
 forward, and held out one of the whips to 
 Goins, who took it mechanically, as if doubt- 
 ful of the chief's purpose. A second whip 
 
THE HOMEWAED TEAIL 231 
 
 was taken reluctantly by Viccars. The chief 
 himself retained the third whip. He re- 
 turned to his former position, facing the men 
 from a little distance. 
 
 "Now, stan' two paces apart/' he con- 
 tinned. 
 
 The cowed men placed themselves obec 
 ently. Their faces displayed a growing appre- 
 hension. The encircling crowd of Croatans 
 grinned appreciatively as they guessed their 
 leader's design. Lowrie spoke contempt- 
 uously. 
 
 "I don't want none o' the tribe t' dirty 
 their han's on sich scum as you-all. So, I 
 cal'late t' 'ave ye whip each other. An' ye '11 
 make a good job of hit, er I'll know the rea- 
 son why." 
 
 Goins ' spirit flared in a momentary revolt. 
 He looked up for the first time, and his 
 beady eyes were like those of a cornered 
 rat. 
 
 "I won't do hit!" he gritted between 
 clenched teeth; and, with a curse, he hurled 
 the whip to the ground. 
 
 Lowrie 's gaze met his lieutenant's squarely. 
 Something in their depths warned the muti- 
 neer, and turned him coward again. 
 
232 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 " Ye '11 whip each other, and lay hit on good, 
 er I'll flog the two on ye myself. An* if I 
 do," he added, and his voice roughened 
 savagely, as he swung the whip aloft, "by 
 God, I'll lay on with all my strength.' ' 
 
 There was a short period of hesitation, 
 during which the two condemned men eyed 
 each other askance. It was Goins who made 
 the first decisive movement, for he stooped 
 and picked up his whip. He had been thor- 
 oughly intimidated by what he had read in 
 the chief's eyes. He knew that his outrage 
 against the daughter had come to the ears 
 of the father, and that only by strength of 
 will was Lowrie holding his wrath in check. 
 Goins felt those vengeful eyes still flaming 
 on him, though he held his face averted. 
 Under their influence, he was compelled to 
 obey the decree uttered by the chief. He 
 raised his arm, and struck. There was no 
 wilful energy in the action, but Goins was a 
 man of exceptional strength, and, without de- 
 liberate intention on his part, the lash hissed 
 sharply through the air, and fell heavily 
 across Viccars' back. A stain of red showed 
 through the thin cotton shirt. The fellow 
 leaped high with a shrill cry of pain. The 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 233 
 
 whip fell from his hand; he volleyed curses 
 against his assailant. 
 
 "Pick hit up. Hit's yer turn t' strike," 
 Lowrie growled. 
 
 Of a sudden, Viccars' wrath perceived its 
 opportunity. He snatched up the whip, and 
 swung it viciously, with all his might. The 
 rawhide twined about Goins ' body, and 
 brought the blood. The stinging hurt of it 
 made the lieutenant forget for the time be- 
 ing everything except the immediate cause. 
 His eyes glared murderously at his crony. 
 He struck his second blow with a will. The 
 lash bit deep into Viccars' flesh, and evoked 
 a howl of anguish. 
 
 Angry before, the wretched victim was now 
 half -crazed. He screamed curses, plying his 
 whip the while with all the speed and force 
 of which he was capable. Nor was Goins less 
 violent and enraged. He, too, rained blows 
 with frantic cruelty. By reason of Goins' 
 superior muscles, Viccars suffered the more 
 punishment. He was a gory spectacle for 
 pity when, at last, the whip dropped from 
 his nerveless hand, and he crumpled down 
 on the ground, writhing and moaning in the 
 torture of his wounds. Goins, indeed, was 
 
234 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 not in much better case. The tattered rags 
 of his shirt were soaked crimson with blood, 
 and he must have been suffering torment 
 from the laceration of his flesh. But he re- 
 tained strength enough of will and of body 
 to stand rigidly erect, still holding his whip, 
 and scowling blackly. 
 
 The circle of watchers, which had been held 
 silent and motionless in the grip of excite- 
 ment, now stirred, and a babel of voices burst 
 forth. But there was an instant hush when 
 the heavy voice of the chief again sounded. 
 
 "Take 'em away," he commanded. "Hev 
 the old women dress their wounds. Then 
 put 'em on the worst two hosses we got, an' 
 ride 'em ten mile down the river, an' turn 
 'em loose." He stared balefully at Goins, 
 who refused to meet his eyes. ' ' The both o ' 
 ye are done with the tribe, fer always," he 
 said, with the measured slowness of an 
 authority that must be obeyed. "Ye'r' t' go, 
 an' ye'r' never t' come back — never!" 
 
 He turned, and strode into the cabin, and 
 shut the door behind him, while the guards 
 closed in on the two thus formally banished 
 from their place and tribe. 
 
 David went quickly away from the spot. 
 
THE HOMEWAKD TRAIL 235 
 
 He experienced a slight nausea from the 
 hideous scene he had just witnessed. He 
 realized, with a sudden rush of homesickness, 
 that these people were not his people, nor 
 their ways his ways. He thought of Ruth 
 and the peaceful beauty of the orchard where 
 he had kissed her. A great wave of longing 
 swept over him. A vast loneliness settled 
 upon him like a pall. He felt himself an 
 alien, a stranger in a strange land, and very 
 wretched. 
 
CHAPTEE XXI 
 
 WHILE David was strolling about the 
 encampment in mid-afternoon, ab- 
 sorbed in moody meditation on the wretched- 
 ness of his situation, a messenger came sum- 
 moning him to an interview with the chief. 
 The mountaineer found Lowrie alone in the 
 living-room of the cabin. He was greeted 
 with a curt nod and a sweeping gesture of 
 one huge hand toward a chair. No time was 
 wasted in unnecessary preliminaries. The 
 Croatan introduced the subject matter of the 
 meeting with his first words. 
 
 "Ye said ye hed somethin' t' tell me, young 
 feller, 'bout 'cause why ye wanted V light 
 out o' hyar so dura' sudden like. "Wall, suh, 
 now's yer chance. Spit hit out." The keen 
 eyes were fastened on the younger man in a 
 look that was neither kindly nor hostile, 
 rather it w T as coldly judicial. 
 
 The inquisitorial stare disturbed David. 
 There was no faintest trace of sympathy in 
 
 236 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 237 
 
 it; only an imperious demand for the truth, 
 without reservation or extenuation. And the 
 truth was not an easy thing to tell — to the 
 father of the girl concerned. The guest felt 
 a strong presentiment that he would fail in 
 making a favorable statement of his case. 
 Nevertheless, he called on the remnants 
 of his courage, and began a rapid, some- 
 what incoherent narration of the essential 
 facts. 
 
 "It's about yer daughter, 'Liz'beth, her as 
 hauled me out o' the river," he began awk- 
 wardly. ' i She 's a mighty fine gal, an ' I think 
 a heap o' her. 'Tain't jest that I'm grate- 
 ful t' her fer savin' my life. There's all that 
 — an' more. It was 'cause o' that — 'cause 
 I was afraid I might be gittin' t' care fer 
 her too much that I made up my mind t' 
 light out. Yes, that's the reason I sneaked 
 off in the night." He halted, miserable and 
 ashamed. 
 
 Lowrie seized unerringly on the single 
 word that contained a clue. 
 
 " 'Fraid?" he repeated, with a frown. 
 "Fer why was ye afeared?" 
 
 David met the issue squarely. 
 
 "I was af eared 'cause I was bound al- 
 
238 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 ready.' ' His voice lowered, and there was a 
 reverent softness in it as he continued. 
 "There's another gal back home. We're 
 promised t' each other." 
 
 A period of silence followed, in which each 
 of the two men was busy with his own 
 thoughts. David supposed that, of course, 
 his explanation cleared up the affair. Not- 
 withstanding his embarrassment, he was con- 
 scious of a distinct sense of relief. His mus- 
 ings for the moment were wholly of Ruth, 
 and they were very tender. Then, he again 
 remembered Elizabeth, and once more his 
 mind was in turmoil. He regarded his pas- 
 sionate dream of her as dead and done ; but 
 there remained the difficult, the painful task 
 of making plain the fact to her. That would 
 be a trial far different from this talk with 
 the father. He knew, without vanity, that 
 he had all unwittingly engaged her affection. 
 The telling of the truth to her would be a 
 heart-wrenching thing. He felt guilty as 
 never before, blaming himself bitterly as the 
 cause of what this innocent girl must suffer. 
 The fault, he acknowledged, was altogether 
 his. He alone had been the active agent 
 whose unforgivable folly brought about an 
 
THE HOMEWAED TEAIL 239 
 
 intolerable situation. His careless yielding 
 to a sensuous mood had encouraged the girl 
 to bestow on him the priceless treasure of 
 her love. True, he had not made direct 
 declarations in words. There had been no 
 need. He was well aware that every glance 
 of his eyes there in the cavern had told her 
 the thing she longed for. Afterward, he had 
 tried to play his part with more discretion. 
 His suffering in the effort — and the suffering 
 he had inflicted on her — had been sufficient 
 to deserve some good result, as it seemed to 
 him. Yet, in the end, the effect of his strug- 
 gle had been only that, at sight of her to- 
 day, he took her into his arms, and laid his 
 lips to her hair. At memory of those deli- 
 cious moments, David's mood changed once 
 again. His pulses quickened, and his heart 
 warmed with desire for this woman, so beau- 
 tiful, so admirable in every way, so strong, 
 so sweet, so gentle, so winsome, who loved 
 him. Again, he felt the rapture of that em- 
 brace; again, the soft fragrance of her hair 
 was like incense in his nostrils. He quite for- 
 got Euth — until the voice of Lowrie rudely 
 jarred him back to consciousness of the 
 present. 
 
240 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 The chief spoke gruffly, but still with his 
 judicial manner. He spoke, too, with de- 
 cisive emphasis, as one laying down the law, 
 as one whose authority was not to be denied 
 by any other person; least of all by the cal- 
 low youth there before him, who listened at 
 first in startled astonishment, then dum- 
 founded, as the argument penetrated his 
 brain, and filled his heart with a medley of 
 emotions. 
 
 "Thet-thar gal back in yer mountings is 
 out o' hit now," Lowrie announced suc- 
 cinctly. "She don't count no more — no more 
 a tall." He paused for a few seconds to let 
 his words have their full effect on the hearer, 
 who stared uncomprehendingly. 
 
 "But — " David would have protested. 
 
 Lowrie interrupted with a strident ejacula- 
 tion of impatience. 
 
 "Listen hyar !" he ordered; and the moun- 
 taineer perforce obeyed. "Don't ye see?" 
 he demanded, with evident contempt for the 
 other's obtuseness. "Don't ye understan' 
 the plain facts? When you-all sot out fr'm 
 hum, ye belonged t' thet-thar gal o' your'n. 
 I don't aim t' deny thet none whatsoever." 
 The chief paused anew, as if to let his 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 241 
 
 phrases sink in. Then, presently, he re- 
 sumed speaking with ponderous gravity. 
 
 " Since, they's been things happenin'. 
 You-all got kotched in the river, an' yer head 
 busted agin a stun. Ye come right-smart 
 cluss t' dyin' right then an* thar. Ye know 
 thet?" 
 
 David nodded a wondering assent to the 
 question. 
 
 "Wall, keep thet in yer mind," Lowrie 
 charged. * ' Furthermore, they 's another p 'int 
 t' be considered. Hit was my darter what 
 pulled ye out o' thet-thar river. So be, she 
 hedn't seen ye an' grabbed ye, ye'd 'a* been 
 a goner, sure pop! So, hain't hit?" 
 
 David nodded for the second time, while 
 Lowrie's expression softened to complacency. 
 He appeared gratified by the shrewdness of 
 his own reasoning, which he was now about 
 to display to his less astute auditor. 
 
 "My darter saved ye fr'm bein' drownded 
 over thar in the river. Thet-thar other gal 
 o' your'n didn't save ye none ; she didn't even 
 he'p none. So, ye see, thet-thar gal o' your'n 
 losted ye thar in the river. Fur's she's con- 
 sarned, ye V drownded. Understand Ye'r' 
 dead t' thet-thar gal, an' thar kain't be no 
 
242 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 resurrection fer ye — not so fur's gittin' 
 spliced goes nohow." The chief wagged his 
 massive head impressively, and ran his 
 fingers through the thick thatch of waving 
 gray hair, while David regarded him in mute 
 amazement. "Ye belong t' somebody else 
 now. Hit's fer 'er t' 'ave the say-so 'bout 
 yer life, I cal'late. She saved ye out o' the 
 river, an' so ye'r' 'er'n. If so be she wants 
 ye fer 'er husban', why, thet's hit. Then 
 ye '11 marry 'er. Ye see how 'tis, don't ye?" 
 The fierce challenging stare with which he 
 regarded his guest was disconcerting. 
 
 David strove to clear his muddled wits. 
 He was aghast over the extraordinary theory 
 so strenuously advanced by Lowrie. The 
 idea was essentially preposterous, but he 
 realized with dismay that it was enunciated 
 in all seriousness by his host. Already that 
 very day, he had seen the man display his 
 autocratic temper, and he had no reason to 
 suppose that this chief of a tribe would be 
 less stern in dealing with a stranger than 
 with any other who ran counter to his wishes. 
 He cast about in his mind for some means 
 of overthrowing the elder man's argument, 
 but in the very simplicity of that argument 
 
THE HOMEWAED TKAIL 243 
 
 lay its strength. David guessed that the 
 finer points of personal honor involved in 
 this matter of abandoning one girl for an- 
 other would be deemed of no importance by 
 Lowrie. The Croatan had made plain the 
 fact that he would not refuse this stranger as 
 a suitor for his daughter's hand. On the 
 contrary, he showed a disposition to welcome 
 the young man as his son-in-law. His lack 
 of scruples made it extremely doubtful if 
 he could be convinced that the man he 
 favored owed a duty to any girl other than 
 his own daughter. David gave up the at- 
 tempt to find a worth-while argument against 
 that advanced by the chief. His honesty 
 compelled him to make a blunt avowal of his 
 sentiments in the affair. He knew that he 
 could not make them appeal to his hearer, 
 nor did he try. Very reluctantly, for he di- 
 vined the hostility he would provoke by his 
 declaration, he stated his attitude. 
 
 "Why, chief, I couldn't go back on my 
 word. I'm pledged t' Euth. Whatever ye 
 say 'bout my gittin' drownded in the river, 
 an' bein' saved from it by yer daughter, I 
 can't he'p knowin' I'm still bound t' Euth. 
 She's the gal I'm goin' t' marry." He al- 
 
244 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 most added that she was the only girl in the 
 world whom he wished to marry, for just now 
 his exasperation against Lowrie extended in 
 some degree to the daughter. But discretion 
 checked the phrase on his lips. He felt that 
 it would be unwise to aggravate the man un- 
 necessarily. 
 
 It seemed as if the sense of the words did 
 not penetrate Lowrie 's understanding for a 
 few seconds. At least, there was no change 
 in his expression at first. When the change 
 did come, it was swift and menacing. The 
 brow and the bits of cheek above the high- 
 growing beard showed purple, and the veins 
 stood out in blue-black ridges, swollen with 
 blood. His big body grew visibly bigger, 
 expanding with the rage that welled up in 
 him. David could hear the grinding of the 
 teeth as the jaws clamped shut, and then 
 moved under the impulse of his wrath. But 
 the black eyes most proclaimed the fury that 
 possessed the man. They were flaming, dart- 
 ing the lightnings of hate as if to slay this 
 presumptuous youth, who thus dared to flaunt 
 his daughter. The great hands, resting on 
 the arms of his chair, clenched with such 
 force that the red and roughened skin over 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 245 
 
 the knuckles showed smooth and bloodless 
 white from the tension. 
 
 David experienced a moment of physical 
 fear. He expected that in the next second 
 the chief would leap upon him to crush out 
 his life in blood-lust aroused by the insult to 
 the beloved daughter. He maintained his 
 position without outward flinching, but the 
 blasting look in those eyes seemed to shrivel 
 the soul within him. For a few horrible in- 
 stants, he was fairly sick with fear. He had 
 felt the grip of those arms once, when they 
 had held him in a clutch that was kindly, 
 yet of remorseless strength. Now, the might 
 of them would destroy him, for he had no 
 force with which to oppose their vast power. 
 He had heard talk of things the chief had 
 done when in a red rage. He had paid little 
 heed to the tales at the time, but now they 
 came surging into memory, and served to 
 weaken his spirit still further. David sat 
 without a change of feature, motionless and 
 stolid to all appearance. But his heart failed 
 him. He expected no less than death. 
 
 For that matter, David was as close to 
 death that day in the cabin as a man may be 
 and live. For a little, Lowrie was indeed 
 
246 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 mad with passionate resentment, by reason 
 of the dishonor, as he deemed it, put on his 
 daughter by the young man who owed his 
 life to her. He had been wholly sincere in 
 his warped view of the case. He believed 
 that this youth's future was at the absolute 
 disposal of Elizabeth. Since the girl had 
 chosen him as her mate, her mate he must 
 be. This resistance on his part was a 
 monstrous thing, unbelievable, unendurable. 
 Lowrie regarded David's refusal to acquiesce 
 as nothing short of a crime. That crime 
 merited death. The young man had spurned 
 Elizabeth, had declared that he would not 
 marry her, that he would marry another girl. 
 The offense was supreme; it deserved the 
 supreme punishment. 
 
 Yet, the cause of David's great peril was 
 also the cause of his escape from it — Eliza- 
 beth. In his wrath over the outrage against 
 his daughter, Lowrie was ready to do murder. 
 But, before he could yield to the impulse to 
 slay for her sake, there came a check on 
 that impulse — the thought that perhaps he 
 ought rather to spare, still for her sake. 
 There flashed on him a memory of the time 
 when he and she had talked together, and 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 247 
 
 she had told him so tremulously, yet so 
 bravely, that she loved this man who had 
 come to her from up beyond. And if she 
 loved him, the killing of him would hurt her. 
 Lowrie, with all his savagery, was not minded 
 to harm his daughter. She was the one 
 creature in the world whom he loved, whom 
 he would save from all pain, to whom he 
 would bring all happiness within his power. 
 "While he thought of these things, the first 
 wildness of his anger passed. The crimson 
 haze that had risen from his heart to fog his 
 brain, lifted, and he was able to think clearly 
 again. It occurred to him that, after all, it 
 could not prove to be a very difficult thing 
 to bend this stranger to his will. The young- 
 ster 's foolish ideas of duty could be per- 
 verted easily enough. Surely, it could only 
 be a question of time. And there was Eliza- 
 beth herself, whom, assuredly, no man could 
 resist. The purple hue died out of his 
 face, leaving the usual ruddy brown. His 
 mind considered the problem briefly, and 
 reached a decision. The hands on the chair- 
 arms unclenched. The fires still glowed 
 in his eyes; but the flames were no longer 
 deadly. 
 
248 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 David, watching furtively, saw that the 
 crisis was past, and he rejoiced with all the 
 lusty strength of his young manhood that the 
 life was still in him. He stirred for the first 
 time since he had spoken. He gave no other 
 outward sign of the emotion that had shaken 
 his soul. 
 
 But the first feeling of inexpressible relief 
 for his escape was speedily modified, and 
 David was beset with new cause for tribula- 
 tion. The chief's voice sounded again, and 
 the listener realized that the issue between 
 them was by no means determined, only post- 
 poned. 
 
 "I'll give ye time t' change yer mind," 
 was the harshly uttered decree. "P'r'aps, 
 sometime, I kin forgive ye fer what ye've 
 said, so bein' as how ye'r' young an' fool- 
 ish. I'll give ye a chance t' see the light. 
 I'm sparin' ye 'cause I love my darter, an' 
 hit might make 'er sorry if I was t' kill ye 
 hyar an' now. I cal'late a week orter be 
 enough time fer ye t' git rid o' yer fool no- 
 tions 'bout thet-thar other gal. So, I'll give 
 ye a week t' decide." 
 
 "I can't change," David declared. He 
 spoke almost humbly, but with a certain in- 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 249 
 
 flection of dogged resolution. "I've got t' 
 do what I think is right. ' ' 
 
 Lowrie did not flare in a new rage as David 
 had dreaded. The chief had himself well in 
 hand now, and he answered in almost his 
 usual manner. 
 
 "Ye'r' t' 'ave a week. When thet's up, 
 if ye hain't seen the light, hit '11 be the wuss 
 f er ye. ' ' He chuckled roughly. ' ' But I 'low 
 thet ye '11 git yer eyes open afore the time's 
 up. An' now, ye kin hev yer ch'ice. I'll 
 hev ye trun inter the guard-house, an' kept 
 thar safe an' sound while ye'r' doing yer 
 thinkin', er ye kin stay right on hyar in the 
 cabin just as ye've been a-doin', if ye '11 give 
 me yer word not t' run away. I'll take yer 
 word fer hit, boy, 'cause I think ye'r' honest, 
 even if ye 'ave got some damn '-fool notions. 
 What say?" 
 
 David had no hesitation in passing his word 
 that he would not attempt to escape within 
 the time limit of seven days. On the con- 
 trary, he welcomed this reprieve as offering 
 a hope of ultimate escape from his predica- 
 ment. He was sure that he could depend on 
 one strong agency in his favor — Elizabeth. 
 His knowledge of the girl was such that he 
 
250 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 had a fine respect for her high ideals of con- 
 duct. He was convinced that her estimate 
 of his duty would agree with his own, no 
 matter what the cost to her personal desires. 
 He felt that he could depend on the exertion 
 of her influence in his behalf as against the 
 despotic will of her father. He was only 
 anxious now to hasten that revelation to her 
 which hitherto he had so weakly postponed. 
 He was glad when Lowrie, without another 
 word, abruptly got up from his chair, and 
 left the cabin. David resolved to seek Eliza- 
 beth at once, to tell her all, to throw himself 
 on her mercy. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 WILLIAM SWAIM'S conscience was ill 
 at ease after the departure of David. 
 Neither his wife nor his daughter accused 
 him openly for his part in the affair, but 
 the expression of their faces was a constant 
 reproach, as was their manifest avoidance of 
 any reference to the absent young man. He 
 was especially distressed by the manner of 
 Ruth toward him. There was a certain aloof- 
 ness in her air that was new in her treat- 
 ment of him. It was as if she meant de- 
 liberately to shut him out of her confidence. 
 And Swaim loved his daughter deeply. She 
 was the most precious thing in his life. Now, 
 he knew that he had wounded her sorely. 
 He feared lest his violence and injustice to- 
 ward David had alienated the girl's affection. 
 The thought was very bitter. It was made 
 the more painful from the fact that his con- 
 science put all the blame on himself. To 
 add to his trouble, he experienced a sense 
 
 251 
 
252 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 of personal loss from the departure of David. 
 In his own peculiar fashion, he had liked the 
 lad. He had come to regard him as his future 
 son-in-law, his successor in the cultivation of 
 the farm in which he took great pride. His 
 own hasty yielding to an angry impulse 
 threatened to destroy the whole fabric of his 
 plans for the future. Finally, Swaim was 
 distressed over the probable consequences of 
 his act in connection with Simmons, David's 
 father. The man was his one close friend. 
 Swaim grieved to think that this friend might 
 be changed into an enemy when he returned 
 to learn how his son fared at his neighbor's 
 hands. 
 
 It is not the custom of the dwellers in this 
 region to make apology even for known 
 faults, or to express regret, no matter how 
 sincere their penitence over some wrong deed. 
 Swaim, for the life of him, could not have 
 voiced his remorse over the treatment of 
 David. He longed to restore himself to the 
 good graces of wife and child, more espe- 
 cially to reestablish himself in the favor of 
 his daughter. But he was unable to speak 
 of the thing that lay so heavy on his heart. 
 He could not put his feeling in words. He 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 253 
 
 could only go about in a mute misery of ap- 
 pearance that was half-pitiful, half-absurd. 
 By every means in his power, except open 
 confession in speech, he made plain the fact 
 that he had done wrong and that he was ex- 
 ceedingly sorry for it. He went out of his 
 way to make innumerable suggestions for 
 the comfort and pleasure of his women folk. 
 He even carried this so far as to open his 
 purse-strings of his own accord, for the first 
 time in the history of the family. He dis^ 
 played indeed what was to him — and to them, 
 for that matter — a truly lavish generosity. 
 The women, for their part, understood 
 very well the workings of Swaim's mind and 
 heart. Both were aware of his project as 
 to a marriage between Ruth and David, 
 though the subject had never been discussed 
 except in strictest confidence by himself and 
 the elder Simmons. The wife and daughter 
 knew also how Swaim was now suffering from 
 the pangs of conscience. Whatever sym- 
 pathy they may have had for the transgres- 
 sor was promptly stifled, or at least they did 
 not let it show to him in any way. It seemed 
 to them that this discipline was good for the 
 man who had hitherto been so niggardly. 
 
254 THE HOMEWABD TRAIL 
 
 While they mourned the disappearance of 
 David, they secretly rejoiced in its effect on 
 the head of the household, and had no wish 
 to shorten his time of tribulation. So, Swaim 
 went about his daily tasks full of contrition, 
 constantly made greater by the demeanor of 
 his family toward him. He felt very sorrow- 
 ful and very lonely. In this mood of abject- 
 ness, when seeking by all means to make 
 amends, he even tried to render himself more 
 agreeable in his daughter's sight by a com- 
 plete change in his treatment of the fawn. 
 Where before he had declaimed against the 
 wastefulness of feeding the useless " critter,' ' 
 he now went to extravagant lengths in the 
 other direction. He carried tit-bits in his 
 pocket, which he offered whenever Mollie 
 came near. The effect was immediate. 
 Where formerly the fawn had been shy of 
 him, had usually fled at his approach unless 
 supported by Ruth's presence, it now wel- 
 comed his advances greedily, and soon ran 
 to meet him whenever he appeared. It was 
 not long before the daughter, to her aston- 
 ishment, and much to her indignation, dis- 
 covered that Mollie would only come to her 
 after repeated calls — sometimes not then. 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 255 
 
 The fawn preferred mincing daintily in the 
 wake of the grim old man, in whose pockets 
 were wonderful stores of corn and sugar and 
 even — oh, irony of fate! — those limber-twig 
 apples, the cause of David's downfall. 
 
 It seemed good to Ruth and her mother, 
 now while their wishes prevailed, that the 
 girl should go on a visit long planned, to her 
 maternal grandparents at Bethania. This 
 would include also a visit to a school friend 
 at Salem, where she might shop to advantage 
 while the father's generosity was still un- 
 checked. 
 
 Ruth was especially glad to go at this time, 
 since she had a deep and reverent affection 
 for her grandparents, and in the atmosphere 
 of the home there was a serenity that always 
 laid a spell on her spirit. Ambrose King and 
 his wife were Quakers, and the peace in their 
 souls radiated out in soothing effect on whom- 
 soever came within the sphere of its influence. 
 Just now, Ruth craved that tranquilizing 
 solace for herself. David's departure, fol- 
 lowing immediately on their mutual confes- 
 sion of love, left her a prey to a loneliness 
 unlike any she had ever known before, which 
 fairly bewildered her. She was by no means 
 
256 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 all unhappy, but she was troubled and dis- 
 turbed by her present lack of that new thing 
 which had come into her life and for a few 
 hours so filled it with joy. It was with the 
 hope of spiritual comforting that, on a day 
 about a fortnight after David's going, she 
 mounted her horse at early morning, and 
 rode east over the score of miles that lay be- 
 tween the farm and the tiny Moravian village 
 of Bethania. And by a curious twist of fate, 
 she rode to find not the peace she longed for, 
 but pain and grief beyond any she had ever 
 known, beyond any she would ever know 
 again. 
 
 The aged pair greeted her warmly, and at 
 the very outset the calm of the home settled 
 upon Ruth's spirit, and she was at peace, as 
 she had hoped to be. This endured for a 
 few hours. Then came the change — blasting 
 as a lightning bolt. 
 
 .Ambrose King and his wife carried the 
 principles of their religion into every action 
 of their lives. Because they believed in peace 
 absolutely, they could not believe in war at 
 all. They admitted no justification for it, 
 they had no sympathy for it in any of its 
 aspects. In the vital struggle between North 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 257 
 
 and South, they held to an impartiality that 
 was complete because it was based on the 
 denial of any righteousness at all in warfare. 
 It was a natural outcome of their principles 
 that the pair should give succor to the war's 
 victims, irrespective of local prejudice. It 
 became known to Union sympathizers that 
 they could be depended upon to give food 
 and shelter to any escaping from a Confed- 
 erate prison. So, it chanced that on the night 
 following Ruth's arrival at her grandparents' 
 home, there came stealthily, as soon as dark- 
 ness had fallen, one of those fugitives thus 
 making his laborious way northward toward 
 safety by the underground railway. 
 
 Ruth was sitting in the living-room of the 
 little house with her grandparents, gossip- 
 ing over local matters, when a soft knock 
 sounded at the door. The old Quaker opened 
 it at once, and a man slipped furtively into 
 the room. Ruth regarded him with much 
 curiosity, for she immediately suspected 
 what manner of visitor this might be. She 
 saw that he was rather short, but broad-shoul- 
 dered, evidently one of considerable strength, 
 though now gaunt and weakened. His form 
 seemed even more attenuated than it really 
 
258 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 was because the clothes he wore were much 
 too large for him. The emaciated face was 
 almost wholly concealed by a short, bristling 
 red beard, above which showed watery, blink- 
 ing eyes, with inflamed lids. The fellow whis- 
 pered a few words to King, and at a nod 
 from her husband, the wife busied herself 
 with setting out a substantial meal on the 
 table. Forthwith, the newcomer seated him- 
 self and ate wolfishly. But, when the meal 
 was ended, and he had accepted a pipeful of 
 tobacco from the old Quaker, Morris — for 
 such, he informed them, was his name — re- 
 laxed, and without any -pressing proceeded to 
 relate his experiences. Euth listened with 
 the eager interest of a girl whose life con- 
 tained few excitements. She was thrilled by 
 the fellow's story of his leap into the river 
 when pursued by the bloodhounds, and his 
 subsequent adventures. She had no inkling 
 as to the identity of the " young feller" in 
 the boat, until Morris spoke David's name. 
 At the sound of it Euth's heart leaped, and 
 she sat quivering, greedy for news of the 
 man she loved. She did not speak. There 
 was no need to question. Morris was by na- 
 ture garrulous. He loved to talk of himself 
 
THE HOMEWAKD TEAIL 259 
 
 always, and in this instance, talk necessitated 
 constant mention of his companion, David. 
 Luckily for Euth's powers of self-control, he 
 spoke throughout in friendly fashion of David. 
 It was only when he passed on to the second 
 period, the one spent in the hunting shack 
 on the cliff overlooking the river, that the 
 soldier allowed rancor to show. It was pro- 
 voked by the enmity which he still felt to- 
 ward the princess for the disdain with which 
 she had uniformly treated him. His feeling 
 toward her extended also in some degree to 
 David, when he thought of the two as they 
 were together. So, he sneered in his mention 
 of them, while Euth listened, at first alto- 
 gether incredulous, then affrighted, half-con- 
 vinced. She would have cried out now to 
 accuse this vile Yankee of lying about her 
 David, but the rush of emotion held her dumb, 
 powerless to question or deny. 
 
 "That Injun girl was a fine-looker, if there 
 wa'n't anything else good about her," Mor- 
 ris declared. "This David chap got stuck on 
 her right smack off, an' she got stuck on him 
 first off she set eyes on him. They had a 
 Jim-dandy time there in that cussed cave to- 
 gether. I kept out most of the time. That 
 
260 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 suited me, an' it suited them, too — you bet!" 
 He tittered suggestively. "They made me 
 sick with their lallygaggin'. Her pa peeked 
 in an' saw 'em there spoonin'. I thought he 'd 
 have shot the cuss, but I guess he thought 
 it would be better all round to have a white 
 man for a son-in-law. Anyhow, he didn't 
 make a row, an' the next day the girl took 
 David home with her, bold as brass, an' the 
 old Injun chief took him right into his own 
 cabin. He started me off the same day, an' 
 I don't know nothin' about what's happened 
 since. But I miss my guess if David ain't 
 married to that squaw by this time. Least- 
 ways, if he ain't, he ought to be." Morris 
 snickered over his vicious innuendo. "One 
 thing certain, if that old sockdolager of a 
 chief wants that young feller for a son-in- 
 law, David ain't got a chance in the world 
 of gettin' away without marryin' the girl." 
 There came a slight swishing, rustling 
 noise, a soft thudding sound. Startled, the 
 soldier and the two old persons looked 
 around. They saw Ruth lying huddled on 
 the floor, where she had slipped so quietly 
 from her chair in a dead faint. 
 

 THE HOMEWAKD TRAIL 261 
 
 Ruth, when she returned to consciousness 
 a half-hour later, found herself undressed 
 and in bed, with her grandmother hovering 
 about her in tender solicitude. She made 
 light of her attack, and was soon left to sleep. 
 But there was no sleep for her that night. 
 Throughout the hours of darkness, she was 
 tortured by the visions of imagination con- 
 jured by the evil words of the Northerner. 
 For the first time, she knew the anguish of 
 jealousy. She tried to hold fast to her faith 
 in David, but loyalty was sorely taxed, and 
 the effort left her weak with despair. She 
 pictured this savage princess as a vampire, 
 beautiful perhaps, with wanton lures, cruel, 
 conscienceless, hungry to devour the one she 
 held so dear, the one who was more than life 
 to her. Tales she had heard of the Croatans 
 came thronging into her memory now — tales 
 of rapine and plunder, and worse. She was 
 terrified by the thought that David was ex- 
 posed not only to the allurements of an un- 
 scrupulous woman who wanted him, but also to 
 actual perils from his new environment. She 
 thought of him as weak and helpless from his 
 hurt in the river, unable to free himself, even 
 should he so desire, from the wiles of the 
 
262 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 woman and the physical restraints imposed 
 by the Indian chief. She felt her love threat- 
 ened with complete disaster. The prospect 
 almost maddened her. 
 
 Out of the confusion of Ruth's thoughts, 
 a desperate plan was at last evolved. She 
 craved action in this crisis. She could not 
 endure the idea of remaining passive while 
 her lover was being taken from her, either 
 willingly or by force. She determined to 
 learn the truth for herself. It would be better 
 to know the facts, even at their worst, with- 
 out a moment of unnecessary delay. The 
 suspense was not to be borne. She con- 
 fronted the possibility of finding David un- 
 faithful to his love for her. In that case, it 
 would be the end. Her heart would break. 
 But there was another possibility. It might 
 be that David was in duress. It might be, 
 too, that somehow, with the resources of love 
 equal to any task, she might find a way to 
 aid him, to release him, to bring him back to 
 home and her and love. 
 
 Ruth had no difficulty in carrying out her 
 rash project without attracting any suspicion 
 from those about her. She merely rode 
 forth next day on the road to the south, 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 263 
 
 ostensibly to visit a school friend and to do 
 her shopping in Salem, twelve miles away. 
 As a matter-of-fact, however, she halted in 
 Salem just long enough to purchase ample 
 supplies for a few days' trip through the 
 wilder country to the southward. There- 
 after, she set forward resolutely over the 
 rough trail that led toward the Croatan en- 
 campment. It was a distance of full seventy- 
 five miles, as she had learned by inquiries, 
 but she faced it without a tremor of fear. 
 Her fear was all for the danger that waited 
 at the end of the trail, and this was a fear 
 not of physical ills, but of peril to her heart's 
 happiness, of peril to the man with whom 
 that heart's happiness was concerned. From 
 the few dwellers along the trail, she secured 
 such directions as she needed, evading as best 
 she could the frank curiosity of those whom 
 she encountered. She camped by night 
 bravely enough within the shelter of some 
 forest thicket, where she kindled a fire, and 
 cooked her meal over the blaze, and after- 
 ward rolled in her blanket, to lie restlessly, 
 wide-eyed through the long hours, or to 
 dream of dreadful things. 
 It was on the third day that she came into 
 
264 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 the cross-trail — the river-trail, which ran 
 west from the main road to the Croatan en- 
 campment. She had gained information con- 
 cerning the distances here. When she had 
 come, as she judged, within a mile of the 
 settlement, she tethered her horse in the con- 
 cealment of a clump of old-field pines, and 
 went forward very cautiously on foot. When, 
 finally, she came in sight of the cabins, she 
 left the trail, and made a detour through the 
 woods to avoid observation. She advanced 
 cautiously, without being detected, close to 
 the clearing, where she halted within a cluster 
 of high-growing gallberry bushes. Here she 
 peered out to reconnoiter. Just in front of 
 her hiding place, not a rod away, a walled-in 
 spring bubbled from the ground, and the 
 stream from it ran purling daintily past her 
 where she stood tense and watchful. 
 
 Ruth saw two figures coming slowly across 
 the open space toward the spring. It seemed 
 to her that in this instant the heart within 
 her died. For one of the two was David, 
 and the other was a woman — a woman 
 slender and tall, who walked with graceful 
 ease, whose head was poised haughtily, whose 
 face was beautiful. 
 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 DAVID, returning from a short walk in 
 the woods, saw Elizabeth enter the 
 cabin, and immediately reappear, carrying 
 the water pail. He knew that she was on her 
 way to the spring, which was a hundred 
 yards down the slope, on the edge of the 
 clearing. He realized that the opportunity 
 he desired was at hand. None of the cabins 
 was near the spring, so that there, though 
 plainly visible, they would be out of earshot, 
 and at this hour of late afternoon, they were 
 likely to be free from interruption. So, he 
 hastened to join the girl, who smiled wanly 
 in greeting as he approached, but spoke no 
 word. David, too, was silent. He walked 
 by her side in a mood of deep dejection, 
 pondering heavily on the things that he must 
 say to her, and wondering what effect his con- 
 fession would have on her. By tacit consent 
 of both, they waited before speaking until 
 they should come to the spring. 
 
 Elizabeth, too, was a prey to depression. 
 
 265 
 
266 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 A single glance into the young man's face 
 had sufficed to show how ill at ease he was, 
 how utterly wretched. She knew intuitively 
 that his trouble concerned her, that it had 
 to do with the mysterious barrier which 
 reared itself between them. Moreover, she 
 had read between the lines in the note he 
 had written, and understood from it that he 
 was compelled to leave her. She did not 
 quite know whether his departure was volun- 
 tary or not. She dared hope that his flight 
 had been caused by something against his 
 own will, which he was powerless to resist. 
 Then, at the moment of his return so unex- 
 pectedly, she had been too weak to withstand 
 the longing of her heart, had gone to his 
 arms. She had rested within that shelter in 
 a joy that was perfect, though so pitifully 
 brief. For a few glorious seconds her heart 
 had beaten in unison with his, with no thought 
 of things past or to come, but only the rap- 
 ture of the present. 
 
 She had felt the light touch of his lips as 
 he kissed her hair, and the exquisite thrill 
 of it stirred again in her memory now as she 
 stole a glance into his face. But she remem- 
 bered, too, her horrible awakening from the 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 267 
 
 dream of bliss, when the man she loved had 
 stood apart from her, and had let her go 
 from him without a word. She had realized 
 then that her happiness was seriously threat- 
 ened, if not already destroyed. Yet, she con- 
 tinued to hope, because, as it seemed to her, 
 if she could not still hope, she must die. Now, 
 as she walked at his side, watching with 
 secret glances the face she so loved, the 
 somber expression of his features chilled her 
 with a fear of irreparable disaster. His 
 silence, the gravity of his air, the downcast 
 eyes and sternly compressed lips filled her 
 with dire forebodings. The oppression on 
 her spirits grew heavier. It required all the 
 strength of her will, which was not small, to 
 maintain the semblance of self-control. Her 
 soul was aching with desire for this man's 
 love. For a few splendid days, she had be- 
 lieved that he belonged to her, that his need 
 of her was as hers of him. But afterward 
 the shadow had fallen between them. It lay 
 there still. Now as they walked onward to- 
 gether the gloom of it lay dark upon them, 
 and blotted out all the light of the world. 
 And still she dared to hope that he loved her. 
 It seemed to her that she could endure all 
 
268 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 tilings — parting, even life without him, or 
 death, which would be easier — if only he 
 loved her. She feared somehow, with a subtle 
 woman's instinct, that his heart was not after 
 all in her keeping. And still she dared to 
 hope that he loved her — else her heart must 
 break. 
 
 Euth, from her place of concealment among 
 the gallberry bushes, saw the two come down 
 to the spring, but her ears caught no word 
 spoken by either as they approached. She 
 noted with a wonder that was half pleasure 
 their sorrowful faces. She wondered still 
 more when she saw this other girl seat her- 
 self on a fallen tree trunk by the spring still 
 in silence, while David, equally mute, stood 
 before her in an attitude of constraint. It 
 was a long minute before the young man's 
 voice sounded. For a part of the interval, 
 Euth's eager glances studied his face fondly. 
 She rejoiced to see the hue of health in his 
 cheeks ; she grieved over his careworn expres- 
 sion. She attributed it, and rightly, to the 
 woman beside him, and hatred quickened in 
 her for the one, corresponding to her love 
 for the other. Then her gaze went intently to 
 that woman, and rested there. 
 
THE HOMEWARD TBAIL 269 
 
 The sight of the other's face worked a 
 curious spell on Euth. The contempt and 
 loathing that had filled her were subdued 
 little by little as she surveyed the pure and 
 lovely face of Elizabeth. Despite herself, the 
 girl recognized the essential nobility of her 
 rival. She struggled in vain against her 
 changing impressions. She was forced to 
 acknowledge against her will that here was 
 no wanton creature such as had been sug- 
 gested by the soldier's slurring tale. She 
 could not deny the dignity and wholesome- 
 ness of this princess before whom David 
 stood in such humility. Clashing emotions 
 made tumult in Buth's bosom. She felt ut- 
 terly at a loss to understand this situation 
 on which she had intruded. Bewilderment 
 overcame her. She was sure only that she 
 had utterly misjudged this girl whom a 
 venomous tongue had slandered. She must 
 revise her judgment through and through. 
 But even as she admitted how great had been 
 her error in estimating the princess, Euth 
 was terrified before the reality. She had 
 been prepared to war against a wanton, to 
 go to any length in order to rescue David 
 from his bondage. But now she found her- 
 
270 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 self confronted with a task altogether differ- 
 ent and infinitely more difficult. She must 
 face and triumph over a rival who was both 
 beautiful and worthy. Ruth had little vanity 
 and less knowledge of her own loveliness. 
 In this moment of meeting, she had no doubt 
 that the other was her superior in every 
 feminine charm. She could not wonder that 
 David should prefer this gracious stranger 
 to herself. But the admission of her own in- 
 feriority left Ruth stricken. Black despair 
 fell on her. As she crouched in her ambush 
 and stared out on the two the look in her 
 eyes was that of a creature wounded to the 
 death. And then, at last, there came to her 
 ears the voice of David, speaking very 
 softly, brokenly. 
 
 "I've been with yer pappy. I told him 
 what the reason was why I ran away last 
 night." He raised his eyes for the first time 
 in a fleeting glance toward Elizabeth, but the 
 expression on her face was inscrutable, and 
 gave him no assistance. He looked down at 
 the ground again, and resumed his attempt 
 at explanation. "Ye see, 'Liz'beth, yeVe 
 been so kind V me that I know it ain't right 
 fer me t' go away without tellin' ye why. 
 
THE HOMEWARD TKAIL 271 
 
 I've jest told yer pappy, an' he" — David 
 broke off in confusion. To quote the father 
 was to accuse the daughter of loving him un- 
 asked. An instinctive chivalry held his 
 tongue. 
 
 But now at last the girl herself helped him 
 a little by speaking for the first time. Her 
 voice, though faint, was firm and even, and 
 the eyes with which she contemplated him 
 were brave, despite the tortured shadows in 
 them. 
 
 "You told pappy? You must tell me, 
 David. Why must you go?" 
 
 "I can't stay here," was the answer, 
 spoken in a tone that was resolute for the 
 first time during the interview, "because I 
 belong some'eres else. There's somebody 
 a-waitin' fer me back up there, an' I must 
 go back home t' her." The final pronoun 
 was uttered after a slight pause and with an 
 inflection that was significant. 
 
 As she heard the word, Elizabeth under- 
 stood everything in a lightning flash of il- 
 lumination, and the pang of that knowledge 
 pierced her to the soul. Somehow, notwith- 
 standing her feminine intuition, she had 
 never suspected the presence of another 
 
272 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 woman in the life of the man that she loved. 
 Even when she realized the existence of a 
 barrier between them, she did not guess its 
 nature. So, the truth came to her now with 
 a shock that racked her to the foundation of 
 her being. The simple statement from David 
 meant the end of everything for her. All the 
 light went out of her life, and left only a 
 darkness complete and impenetrable. Under 
 the golden tint of her complexion, a deathly 
 pallor showed. The lids sank heavily over 
 the eyes. It was as if her soul were exhaled 
 in the sigh that passed so softly from her 
 lips. 
 
 David heard the sound of that gentle 
 breath, and looked toward her again. He 
 saw her with shut eyes, swaying a little where 
 she sat. He took a step forward to clasp 
 her, fearful lest she fall. But he checked 
 himself, as he saw the form grow tense again 
 by the girl's own effort of will. Yet, though 
 he held back from her, he was longing as 
 never before to take her into his arms, to 
 comfort her, to assuage the mortal hurt he 
 himself had given her, with words and kisses. 
 He did not yield to his desire because he knew 
 that to do so would mean in the end an in- 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 273 
 
 crease of the agony she must sutler. More- 
 over, he knew that he must restrain his im- 
 pulse for his own sake as well as for hers. 
 There was no thought in his mind now that 
 this girl belonged to a people strange to him, 
 whose ways were not his ways. There was 
 no feeling of revolt in his heart now because 
 of her father's savagery. Once again, the 
 glamour was on him. Even in her misery, 
 the magnetism of her presence stole upon 
 him, and held him in thrall. He tore away 
 his eyes from her face lest the pathetic ap- 
 peal of it should destroy his resolve. So, 
 he did not see her eyes unclose, did not know 
 the searching sadness in the girl's long 
 scrutiny of him. Her voice startled him with 
 a question, spoken very feebly, yet with a 
 demand not to be denied. And it was a ques- 
 tion that caught him in the moment when he 
 was least prepared. It came, though hardly 
 louder than a whisper, like a fierce cry from 
 his own conscience. 
 
 "Do you — love her?" 
 
 It was his own cowardice that drove 
 David to answer promptly, decisively — fear 
 of his own weakness, which might still 
 further increase her misery. He spoke with 
 
274 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 a coldness that covered the effort of self- 
 restraint. 
 
 "Yes." And then he added, as if to con- 
 firm a faltering purpose for his own sake: 
 "Yes, I love her — I love Euth — my Euth." 
 
 It was as if the word held a spell to evoke 
 a vision of serenest joy. He saw again the 
 orchard back there on the farm, saw the fawn 
 issue from the thicket and stand regarding 
 him with placid eyes, saw the face of Euth 
 as she parted the branches, and looked out 
 from the frame of foliage at him. Then his 
 manhood had not known the rich gifts her 
 lips had to offer. Afterward he had learned. 
 The memory of their kisses came to him now. 
 The memory was a delight, and in it he for- 
 got all other longing in a poignant desire to 
 be with Euth again. 
 
 Something in David's expression must 
 have told the truth to Elizabeth. A spasm 
 of physical pain distorted her features for 
 an instant, which had its source in her heart. 
 Then she asserted her strength, and her ex- 
 pression became one of sorrowful resigna- 
 tion, yet with something in it that hinted of 
 a soul undaunted, even though the heart were 
 broken. She stood up, as if to show that 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 275 
 
 there was no need of further discussion. And 
 her words were of like effect. 
 
 "You must go to her." 
 
 The brief utterance, spoken so quietly and 
 so unfalteringly, contained all of a woman's 
 mightiest sacrifice. It was her renunciation 
 of her own happiness, her gift at a cost be- 
 yond words to that other, unknown woman, 
 who had first claim on the man she loved. 
 Perhaps Elizabeth believed her own powers 
 of attraction strong enough to draw this man 
 to her and to hold him against the world. 
 She knew nothing of the effect on him of her 
 father's violence, which had included in- 
 directly a certain distaste for her, too, as 
 one of the same blood, as one of a people 
 strange to him, whose ways were not his 
 ways. But, though the princess might have 
 faith in her ability to rule David's heart at 
 her will, and though every atom of her being 
 was vibrant to win his love, she rose above 
 all selfish desire from pure purpose toward 
 the right, and bade him go whither he was in 
 duty bound. 
 
 She had no need to pour out all her heart 
 in a torrent of words, to tell how deeply she 
 loved him, how tremendous was the suffering 
 
276 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 inflicted by her sacrifice. It was all written 
 on her face, in the tremulous, drooping curves 
 of her scarlet lips, in the clouded deeps of 
 the eyes. David, shaken by clashing emo- 
 tions, did not see, for he could not bear to 
 look at her in this supreme moment. But 
 there was another who did see. 
 
 Ruth, from her hiding place, not only heard 
 every word spoken by the two, but her aston- 
 ished gaze noted every revelation of Eliza- 
 beth's love and self-abnegation. The sight 
 filled her with penitence for the injustice she 
 had done this other girl in her thoughts. She 
 was filled with pity and sympathy for the tor- 
 ment of which she was so innocently the 
 cause. But chiefly it was shame that moved 
 her — shame that she should so have mis- 
 judged a fellow-woman, who suffered so 
 sorely, yet endured her suffering with such 
 nobility of character. All her personal 
 dread, grown greater at first sight of her 
 rival 's loveliness, had vanished on hearing 
 David's declaration that he still loved her. 
 Her later emotion had little to do with self, 
 little to do with David. It was all concerned 
 with this other, whose misery Ruth could 
 understand out of her own agony in the last 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 277 
 
 few days. Of a sudden, she felt that she must 
 go to the girl, must try to help her in the 
 hour of need by tenderest sympathy. 
 
 Ruth acted on the impulse at once. She 
 issued from the concealment of the bushes, 
 and went swiftly toward the two by the 
 spring. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 CRIMSON burned in Elizabeth's cheeks at 
 the first appearance of the figure from 
 out the screen of flaunting-hued foliage, and 
 her dark eyes flashed angrily. She thought 
 it was one of the Croatan girls, who had been 
 eavesdropping. But, in the same moment, 
 she perceived her mistake; for this was no 
 member of the tribe, but an utter stranger, 
 who came toward her so swiftly, with such a 
 resolute air. She was startled out of her 
 usual poise by the apparition of a white girl 
 there in the wilderness, who, as she noted 
 in quick, comprehensive survey, was well- 
 dressed and ladylike, beautiful of face and 
 of form. In her surprise, the princess uttered 
 a stifled ejaculation, which caused David to 
 look toward her. He observed the expres- 
 sion of amazement on her face, and turned 
 his head to follow the direction of her eyes. 
 He saw Ruth, hardly two yards distant from 
 him, coming forward with hurried steps, her 
 
 278 
 
THE HOMEWABD TRAIL 279 
 
 cheeks glowing, her violet eyes suffused with 
 tenderness as they met his. A mighty emo- 
 tion shook him, in which were blended aston- 
 ishment and delight. His face whitened for 
 a moment, and he trembled. He strode to- 
 ward her. Her name burst from his lips in 
 a shout of joy. 
 
 "Ruth!" 
 
 The speaking of the name revealed much, 
 if not all, to Elizabeth. She understood that 
 somehow it had come to pass that the girl 
 to whom David was pledged was here before 
 her. How or why Ruth had come was a 
 mystery beyond her solving. But it seemed 
 to the princess just then that the reason mat- 
 tered not at all. The fact of her successful 
 rival's being there was the only thing of im- 
 portance. In her present mood of despair 
 and renunciation, it seemed to Elizabeth 
 that the coming of this other girl was indeed 
 a fitting climax to her talk with David. She 
 recognized with a pang of final hopelessness, 
 from David's voice and manner as he went 
 forward, that he did in truth love this girl 
 to whom he was bound, that she herself had 
 neither part nor lot in his heart's desire. 
 She had known it before, but she felt its 
 
280 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 verity anew with an intolerable ache when it 
 was presented thus visibly before her eyes. 
 She saw Ruth swept into David's arms, saw 
 their lips meet and linger. She turned her 
 gaze away, unable to bear the spectacle of 
 that fond meeting. She stood with brooding 
 eyes turned unseeing toward the western 
 horizon, where great banks of storm clouds 
 shut out the last rays of the setting sun. A 
 little breeze touched her with the chill autumn 
 air of nightfall. It seemed to pierce through 
 her heart with an icy coldness. She stood 
 bereft, solitary, in desolation. And in her 
 ears reverberated discordantly the hushed 
 murmurs of the lovers' voices. 
 
 It was an eternity to Elizabeth while she 
 stood there apart, isolated in her anguish. 
 Yet, it was for no more than a few seconds 
 that Ruth forgot all else in the bliss of re- 
 union with David. Then she recalled the 
 purpose that had driven her out of hiding. 
 She felt again the impulse of atonement to- 
 ward this woman whom she had so bitterly 
 feared and condemned in her thoughts — and 
 so unjustly. Her own instinct taught her 
 how dreadful must be the suffering inflicted 
 on Elizabeth by witnessing this meeting be- 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 281 
 
 tween her and David. Ruth knew the secret 
 of the princess' heart, though she knew, too, 
 that she must never betray her knowledge. 
 But by as much as her own happiness was 
 great, by so much her heart went out in pity 
 toward the one whom that happiness left for- 
 lorn. So, she withdrew herself from David's 
 embrace, though he sought to restrain her. 
 She went straight to the princess, and threw 
 her arms about the wondering girl, and 
 kissed her warmly. 
 
 "I know," she explained hastily, before 
 the other could summon a word of question, 
 "you are the princess. I have heard. You 
 saved David from the river. I owe him to 
 you. I owe — everything to you." The last 
 words came impetuously. 
 
 Perhaps Elizabeth divined in some degree 
 the significance contained in them. Perhaps 
 she gained from them a clue to Ruth's ap- 
 preciation of the fact of her own renuncia- 
 tion. Anyhow, the warm gratitude of Ruth 
 brought to Elizabeth the first touch of com- 
 fort in her misery, and her words told her 
 appreciation frankly. An instantaneous lik- 
 ing developed between the two, in spite of the 
 reasons that existed for mutual distrust and 
 
282 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 jealousy. The nobility of the princess' char- 
 acter raised her superior to blaming this 
 other girl for the grievous wound inflicted 
 on her by fate. And Ruth appreciated that 
 nobility, which she had learned through her 
 eyes and ears while in hiding, and trusted 
 to it, knowing that her happiness was safe 
 in the generosity of this other. 
 
 They were interrupted by David, who, un- 
 mindful of Elizabeth for the time, plied Ruth 
 with questions concerning her presence. It 
 was with judicious reserve that Ruth ex- 
 plained the reasons of her coming. She told 
 of the visit of Morris to her grandfather's 
 home, and of hearing from him the story as 
 to David's river adventure and Elizabeth's 
 part in it. She carefully avoided any refer- 
 ence to the vicious insinuations of the soldier 
 concerning her lover and the princess, or to 
 her own jealousy and alarm lest that lover 
 be stolen away from her. David was satis- 
 fied with the narrative, and did not guess 
 that aught was concealed. He exulted in this 
 proof of his sweetheart's devotion. It grati- 
 fied his pride that she should have thus taken 
 the hazards of a journey alone through the 
 wilderness. If Elizabeth suspected aught 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 283 
 
 that lay beneath the surface of Ruth's ac- 
 count, she showed no sign, either then or 
 afterward. 
 
 After a little, Elizabeth fell silent, ab- 
 sorbed in troubled thought, while the other 
 two continued talking. She spoke presently 
 in a tone that arrested instant attention and 
 apprehension. 
 
 "I don't like to say it," she began ab- 
 ruptly; "it seems so awfully inhospitable. 
 But there are reasons,' ' she went on hur- 
 riedly, rather shamefacedly. She did not 
 particularize beyond a vague statement. 
 "It's pappy, you know." 
 
 David uttered an exclamation under his 
 breath. For the first time since the appear- 
 ance of Ruth on the scene, he remembered 
 the plans to which the chief of the Croatans 
 was devoted, and he guessed immediately 
 the cause of the daughter's evident concern 
 over the situation that had developed. But 
 he was at a loss as to what course should 
 be pursued, and waited for Elizabeth to con- 
 tinue. 
 
 " Pappy 's strange in some ways," the girl 
 resumed, speaking with evident constraint, 
 as if her lack of candor made her explana- 
 
284 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 tion difficult and distasteful. "I think — " 
 she turned to David appealingly, as if hop- 
 ing that he might understand without more 
 explicit words from her — "I think it would 
 be better for you two to go — to start away — 
 at once." 
 
 She noted the look of pained surprise on 
 Ruth's face, and stretched out her hands ap- 
 pealingly. 
 
 "You can't understand, of course,' ' she 
 said sorrowfully. "You must take my word 
 for it. I hate more than I can tell you to 
 send you away so. But it is best — safest. 
 It's on pappy 's account. He has dreadful 
 rages sometimes. His red rages, the tribe 
 calls them. ' ' The beautiful face flushed with 
 embarrassment. "He hates strangers — 
 sometimes ! So, I think you ought to go away 
 together — at once. It will be safer so. ' ' 
 
 Ruth's face still wore an expression of 
 hurt surprise, but she ventured no comment ; 
 only glanced toward David inquiringly. 
 David, however, nodded assent. He appre- 
 ciated to the full the solicitude of the princess 
 in their behalf. He meant that her advice 
 should be followed in so far as it concerned 
 Ruth. In regard to himself, the matter was 
 
THE HOMEWARD TEAIL 285 
 
 altogether different. Such a simple solution 
 of the difficulty could not be applied in his 
 own case. Of this Elizabeth knew nothing, 
 for she had not yet learned of what had oc- 
 curred between him and her father. He 
 would have preferred to keep silence as to 
 this interview, but that was now rendered 
 impossible by the necessity of immediate ac- 
 tion for Ruth's sake. 
 
 This was clearly indicated in Elizabeth's 
 next utterance. 
 
 " Pappy mustn't even see Ruth. I can't 
 tell you just why. But I know — I know!" 
 
 David spoke rapidly, his voice authorita- 
 tive. 
 
 "Yes, Ruth must go at once. The princess 
 is right," he said to the astonished girl. "It 
 would be safer fer ye t' go. Yes, Ruth, ye 
 must start out at once." 
 
 "You mean, we must go," the girl cor- 
 rected. 
 
 "Yes, both of you, of course," Elizabeth 
 declared. 
 
 But David shook his head. His face was 
 set in lines of grim determination. 
 
 "No, Ruthie, I can't go with ye. I hate 
 V think o' ye ridin' all by yer lonesome 
 
286 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 through the woods, but it can't be he'ped. 
 I've got t' stay on here fer a week yit." 
 
 Ruth cried out in indignant reproach. The 
 crisp "Why?" of the princess cut through 
 the queries of the other girl, and David 
 turned toward her to answer. He spoke so 
 harshly that she winced; for the memory of 
 her father 's treatment of him filled him with 
 resentment. 
 
 "I give yer pappy my word t' stay on here 
 fer seven days. I had t' promise him," he 
 added, with a vindictive scowl at the memory. 
 
 Elizabeth had no need of further explana- 
 tion. She surmised readily enough the essen- 
 tials of that interview which had resulted in 
 David's forced giving of his parole. A hot 
 flush of shame mantled her cheeks as she 
 realized the indignity that her father, who 
 loved her, had all unwittingly put upon her. 
 She realized, too, to some extent at least, the 
 harm her father's violence must work in 
 David's estimate of her, the daughter. It 
 had seemed to her that she was experiencing 
 the acme of torment ; yet at this thought she 
 felt a new pang. The harshness in David's 
 voice as he spoke to her was like a lash on 
 her naked souL 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 287 
 
 Ruth felt her earlier indignation die. She 
 was influenced by the gravity of the other 
 two, distressed and terrified by the menace 
 of unknown perils. She was aghast that 
 David must remain exposed to those dangers 
 of which she had dreamed, from which she 
 had come to rescue him. But she was still 
 moved by the great relief from dread of the 
 worst danger — that of any evil from the 
 woman she had so misjudged. Nevertheless, 
 she was distraught at the idea of leaving 
 David, while she sought safety in flight. 
 She remonstrated vehemently, but to no avail. 
 She pleaded with her lover to accompany 
 her, notwithstanding his pledge to remain. 
 Elizabeth joined with her in entreaties. She 
 urged that his promise was not binding, since 
 it was given under duress. David, however, 
 was obdurate. He resisted both argument 
 and prayers. In the end, the two girls recog- 
 nized the fact that he was not to be turned 
 from his purpose of holding fast to his word. 
 
 It was Elizabeth who became convinced 
 first, and by her assurances Ruth was at last 
 prevailed upon to yield to the inevitable, and 
 to take her departure from the encampment 
 forthwith. For the princess pledged herself 
 
288 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 to save David from any harm. She asserted 
 that she would have power to mold her father 
 to her will. While neither she nor any could 
 curb him in the frenzy of a red rage, she 
 would be able to soothe him and finally to 
 sway him as his wrath diminished. She gave 
 Ruth her promise to guard the young man, 
 and to secure his speedy release from the 
 encampment, his speedy return to the sweet- 
 heart, who would be waiting so anxiously for 
 him. 
 
 There were kisses and tears between the 
 two girls at parting. Elizabeth had decided 
 it would be wiser for Ruth to go as she had 
 come, quite alone, without having David to 
 accompany her to where her horse waited; 
 since there were probably spies watching the 
 young man with instructions to prevent his 
 leaving the encampment. That she was cor- 
 rect in this supposition was soon to be proven 
 in disastrous fashion. 
 
 When Elizabeth and Ruth had finished 
 their farewells, the princess turned, and took 
 up the pail, and filled it at the spring, and 
 then walked with it swiftly through the 
 gathering dusk toward the cabin. She felt 
 that the limit of her strength had been 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 289 
 
 reached. It seemed to her that, if she were 
 to see them again in each other's arms, she 
 must go mad. She had the strength of soul 
 to sacrifice herself, to give the man she loved 
 to another; but she had not the strength to 
 look again on their rapture. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 WHEN lie returned to the cabin, after 
 his parting with Ruth, David found 
 no one in the living-room, which pleased him, 
 for he was anxious to be alone a little while 
 to meditate on the strange and vital happen- 
 ings of the day. His worst anxiety had been 
 relieved by Elizabeth's definite assurances 
 of securing his release. Freed from worry 
 on this score, he was able to enjoy to the full 
 the pleasure that had been caused him by 
 Ruth's appearance. His heart was at peace 
 for the first time in many days, because he 
 no longer doubted his entire love for the girl 
 to whom he had plighted his troth. He filled 
 his pipe, and sat smoking with great content- 
 ment. Just then, he had little thought to 
 spare for the girl on whom he had involun- 
 tarily inflicted suffering so severe. He had, 
 indeed, little thought for himself. He was 
 thinking intently, with warm tenderness in his 
 heart, of Ruth, of the lovelight in her violet 
 
 290 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 291 
 
 eyes when she had looked at him, of the soft 
 sweetness of her lips when they had lain on 
 his. 
 
 David aroused with a start when the cabin 
 door banged open, and the chief stamped 
 noisily into the room. A single glance at 
 Lowrie was enough to shatter all of his new- 
 found tranquillity. 
 
 The leader of the tribe was in one of his 
 red rages. The man's appearance left no 
 doubt of the fact. The great chest was heav- 
 ing convulsively like that of a man who has 
 just run a race. The huge hands were balled 
 into fists. But it was the face that awed the 
 mountaineer, and moved him to new fear for 
 his own safety. The skin was empurpled. 
 The muscles were twitching. The lips were 
 drawn back in a grin of ferocity. The eyes 
 were bloodshot, narrowed to slits, with the 
 pupils pin points of flame. He had left the 
 door open behind him, and David could see 
 gathered beyond the threshold a half-dozen 
 of the tribesmen, whose black eyes as they 
 watched gleamed with malevolence. 
 
 Lowrie halted a pace distant from David, 
 and stood for a moment glaring in fury. 
 Then his voice came in a bellow. 
 
292 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 1 ' I'll l'arn ye t' go a-kiSsin' gals round 
 hyar, ye damn ' whelp ! I '11 hev ye put whar 
 ye '11 be shet o' thet." He beckoned swiftly 
 toward the men at the door. "Grab 'im, an' 
 throw 'im inter the guard-house afore I take 
 my han's t' 'im!" 
 
 The men surged forward, laid hold on 
 David, and hustled him out of the room, 
 while the chief stood by, shaking with the 
 wrath that was on him, and cursing horribly, 
 but holding back by a mighty effort from an 
 actual assault. The mountaineer made no 
 resistance whatsoever. He was only anxious 
 to be quit of the frantic man tfefore worse 
 befell. He did not see Elizabeth, who in her 
 room had been disturbed by her father's 
 cries, and had come out just as David was 
 dragged from the cabin. 
 
 The girl faced her father intrepidly. 
 
 "For shame, pappy!" she exclaimed. 
 "You shouldn't treat David so." 
 
 But Lowrie was past caring for aught save 
 the hate that boiled within him. Even Eliza- 
 beth had no power now to turn his anger 
 aside. He stared at her without any soften- 
 ing in the fierceness of his expression. 
 
 "Git inter yer room, gal!" he commanded. 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 293 
 
 "Git, if ye don't want t' be carried thar, an' 
 tied up." 
 
 Elizabeth turned, and went out in silence, 
 without any attempt at further protest. She 
 knew the heaviness of his hand, and she knew 
 that his threat was not idly spoken. Her 
 effort to influence him must await a more 
 fitting season. 
 
 David passed a wretched night, bolted 
 within the tiny, windowless cabin, which 
 served as a jail for the settlement. The dis- 
 tress of his situation was the worse by con- 
 trast with the high anticipations that had 
 filled him at the moment when the crash came. 
 Apprehensions as to what his fate might be 
 thronged upon him. It seemed to him that 
 his only hope lay in Elizabeth's interven- 
 tion, but he despaired of success in this direc- 
 tion, for he had heard the manner of Lowrie 's 
 speech to his daughter. A surly jailer gave 
 him food and drink in the morning, but 
 would not answer a word to his questions. 
 The weary hours wore on with fearful slow- 
 ness until the youth was almost crazed with 
 the desperateness of his plight. For now 
 he feared, not only for his own fate, but for 
 what might menace Ruth. Evidently, the 
 
294 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 chief had learned of her presence. He might 
 have ordered her to be pursued, to be cap- 
 tured, to be reserved for any fate that his 
 insane malice might devise. With morbid 
 imagination, David could only guess as to 
 what might be happening, while he was shut 
 helpless within the walls of his prison. 
 
 Night came again. Another meal was set 
 before him in silence. It was not until nearly 
 midnight, as he reckoned the time, that a 
 change came. Then he heard a murmur of 
 voices outside the cabin door. They ceased 
 presently. He heard the noise of the bolt 
 shot back, and the door opened. Elizabeth 
 entered, carrying a lantern, and shut the door 
 behind her. 
 
 "You are free to go, David,' ' she said 
 quietly, with an undernote of sadness in her 
 voice. 
 
 David sprang to her, and caught her free 
 hand in a warm clasp. 
 
 "YeVe talked yer pappy over!" he ex- 
 claimed. "I didn't think it could be done. 
 I 'lowed they wa'n't nothin' could stop him — 
 not even you-all, 'Liz'beth." But his joyous 
 smile over the unexpected news faded as he 
 perceived the gravity of her face. 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 295 
 
 The girl shook her head. 
 
 ' * No, ' ' she replied. ' ' Pappy rode off some- 
 where this morning, and hasn't come back 
 yet. I lied to the guards for your sake, David. 
 I told them that pappy had ordered your re- 
 lease. They believed me, because I have 
 never lied before. The way is open for you 
 now, David. But you must go at once. 
 There's not an instant to lose. Pappy may 
 come any minute." Her tone was urgent, 
 with a tremor of anxiety in it. 
 
 "But will it be safe fer you-all?" David 
 demanded. "Won't yer pappy take it out on 
 ye fer gittin' me off this-away?" 
 
 The girl shook her head once again. 
 
 "No," was her ready answer. "Pappy 
 will be calmed down, I reckon, by the time he 
 gets back, and I'll be able to smooth things 
 over. ' ' Then she spoke swiftly, with new in- 
 sistence. "But you must hurry, David. You 
 mustn't waste time in talking. You must go 
 now — now ! Do you hear f ' ' 
 
 He yielded, though somewhat reluctantly. 
 He was fearful for her, yet half-convinced by 
 her protestations. He failed to understand 
 that it was not so much alarm over the pros- 
 pect of her father's speedy return that incited 
 
296 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 her to hasten his going as it was the knowl- 
 edge that her self-control was near the break- 
 ing point. She had already endured so much 
 pain that it seemed more than she could bear 
 — this final parting from the man she loved. 
 She was all a-tremble with longing to throw 
 herself into his arms, to weep her heart out 
 on his breast. But she forced herself to 
 speak in passionless tones, to gaze at him 
 dry-eyed. Her manner showed nothing of 
 the torture within her. But that torture 
 sapped her strength, and so she ordered him 
 to be gone with all haste, before her strength 
 should come to an end. She guided him to 
 a horse, which she had in waiting a little 
 way out on the river-trail, with rations 
 fastened to the saddle. 
 
 "You must hurry," were her last words, 
 "and overtake Ruth.'' 
 
 They parted with a handclasp. As he rode 
 away into the night, David's heart was warm 
 with gratitude to Elizabeth, warmer with 
 love for another. But the heart in the breast 
 of the girl whom he left behind him was cold 
 as she turned and walked back alone through 
 the darkness — cold with the coldness of 
 death. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 RUTH was so tired by the excitement 
 through which she had passed that she 
 deemed it unwise to begin her long journey 
 that night. She was confirmed in this deci- 
 sion by the fact that it was almost dark when 
 she reached the spot where the horse was 
 tethered. She cooked her meal, and immedi- 
 ately afterward went to sleep in her blanket. 
 That she was indeed excessively fatigued 
 was proven by her sleeping soundly until 
 mid-forenoon of the next day. Then she 
 breakfasted hurriedly, and set forth. Yet, 
 though thus delayed, she did not force her 
 horse's pace. Somehow, she found herself 
 unable to hurry the animal that was bearing 
 her away from David. So, she rode slowly, 
 pondering many things, and chief among 
 them the strange girl whose suffering, she 
 knew, was the measure of her own happiness. 
 She halted and cooked another meal late in 
 the afternoon, and once more pressed for- 
 
 297 
 
298 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 ward. It was near night when she noticed 
 the quick flexing of her horse's ears, and in 
 the next second her own caught a moan that 
 sounded from somewhere beyond the under- 
 brush that lined one side of the trail. She 
 reined in the horse, and sat listening. The 
 moaning continued. It was plainly close at 
 hand. At first, a natural fear was begotten 
 in the girl by the mysterious noise. But the 
 indication of suffering was so evident that 
 soon sympathy triumphed over alarm. She 
 dismounted, and, after making fast the bridle- 
 rein to a branch, cautiously advanced in the 
 direction of the sound. As she stepped 
 through the barrier of bushes, she saw the 
 figure of a man lying on the ground amid 
 the long grass of a little open place in the 
 wood. He was of great size, and very power- 
 ful, she judged. There was something im- 
 pressive in the massive features and thick- 
 growing gray hair and beard. The lids be- 
 neath the shaggy brows were fast shut, and 
 he lay inert as if unconscious, but he moaned 
 continually. Ruth looked closer, and per- 
 ceived that one trouser leg was splotched with 
 a blackening crimson. The sight distressed 
 her, but it moved her to a more active display 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 299 
 
 of sympathy. She went forward, and knelt 
 on the turf by the injured man. Her ques- 
 tions, however, provoked no response. She 
 bethought herself of the flask at her saddle. 
 She hastily procured it, and managed with 
 much difficulty to get a considerable quantity 
 of the spirits down the man's throat. 
 
 The effect was immediate. The lids un- 
 closed, and two black eyes stared balefully 
 up into her face. A sonorous voice came 
 rumbling roughly. 
 
 "Who the devil be you-all?" 
 
 "Never mind about me," Ruth answered. 
 "You're hurt — wounded. You need help." 
 
 "Yep. Shot through the laig. Gimme an- 
 other swig." He nearly finished the con- 
 tents of the flask before he would let it go 
 from his lips. The liquor revived him in- 
 stantly. Lowrie — for the wounded man was 
 indeed the chief — struggled into a sitting 
 posture, in spite of the agony the exertion 
 caused him. 
 
 "So be ye'r' willin , t' he'p, ye kin tie a 
 piece o' yer skirt round my laig t' stop the 
 bleedin , . ,, He pulled out a clasp-knife. 
 "Take this-hyar, an' slit down my pants." 
 
 Ruth obeyed willingly and deftly, for she 
 
300 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 was both kindly and resourceful. Soon the 
 wound was decently bandaged, and, after 
 finally draining the flask, the Croatan gave 
 a brief account of how he came to be in such 
 evil case. 
 
 "Hit was thet-thar damn' skunk, Charlie 
 Goins. I knowed 'e was thicker 'n thieves 
 with some o' the tribe. Got a bug in 'is 
 head 'e could murder me, an' hev things all 
 'is own way. Laywayed me, 'e did — damn 
 'im t' hell! Flopped me out o' the saddle. 
 'E thought 'e 'd done killed me, 'cause I 
 lay still. 'E come a-runnin'. The long grass 
 hid my han's fr'm 'im. I pulled my revolver, 
 an' bored 'im through the heart as 'e come 
 up t' me. Leastways, I cal'late I got 'im 
 plunk in the vitals, 'cause 'e didn't even 
 squeak — jist tumbled down on 'is face like 
 'e was drunk, an' 'e's stayed thar ever 
 sence." He gestured over his shoulder. 
 " 'E's thar jist back o' thet log. No need 
 fer you-all t' pizen yer pretty eyes with 
 lookin' at the ornery varmint. 'E's jist 
 nacherly dead an' gone t' hell." 
 
 Then a sudden change came over him. He 
 regarded the shocked girl fixedly, his brows 
 bending in a frown. He repeated his first 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 301 
 
 question, with a harsh command in his tone. 
 
 "Who be ye, gal?" His expression hard- 
 ened. Before the girl could answer him, a 
 curse burst from his lips. His voice came 
 in a roar. "Ye'r' a stranger hyar. Ye'r' 
 thet-thar gal they tol' me 'bout what was 
 a-huggin' an' a-kissin' on David. I know 
 ye now. YeV thet-thar slut — cuss ye!" 
 
 Ruth, who was still kneeling beside the 
 man, sprang to her feet. For a moment, her 
 face blanched. Then the red of anger suf- 
 fused it. She threw back her head, and 
 stood posed contemptuously, looking down 
 with cold disdain on the man she had suc- 
 cored. Her voice as she spoke was metallic. 
 
 "And I know you. You're that horrible 
 old Indian chief, who wanted to harm my 
 David. I'm right sorry I found you. I've 
 done what I could for you so far. It's more 
 than you deserve." 
 
 The bluster was gone out of Lowrie's voice 
 when he next spoke, though he made no effort 
 to placate her. 
 
 "An' now ye've done yer duty, ye kin ride 
 away, an' leave me t' rot hyar. Wall, go 
 on — git out!" 
 
 "I'll ride to your village, and bring help 
 
302 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 back, ' ' Ruth said, without any hesitation. ' 1 1 
 hope you quite understand. I'm doing this 
 from a sense of duty, because I have to." 
 Abruptly, her eyes sparkled angrily. "I 
 hope," she concluded fiercely, "you'll be 
 dead before I get back." 
 
 The chief looked after her without resent- 
 ment as she rode away. Her spirit had 
 wiped out his wrath, had provoked him to 
 admiration. Moreover, in spite of his flare 
 of temper, he was profoundly grateful to the 
 girl to whom he owed any chance of life that 
 he might have. Ruth, unknowing Lowrie's 
 later feeling toward her, put her horse to 
 a gallop, not so much for the wounded man's 
 sake as to be the sooner done with a distaste- 
 ful task. The night fell as she rode back 
 over the way she had come, but the moon soon 
 rose, and she was able to proceed at a rapid 
 pace. She had covered perhaps half the 
 distance to the encampment when she heard 
 the sound of horse's hoofs approaching. She 
 pulled her mount to a standstill, and waited 
 with a sensation of great relief. It occurred 
 to her that she could guide this wayfarer to 
 the injured man, and so be quit of her duty 
 in the matter. She called out hello as the 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 303 
 
 horseman drew near. In the answering hail, 
 to her amazement and joy, she recognized 
 David's voice. 
 
 The mutual surprise of the lovers over 
 this unexpected encounter could not mitigate 
 their pleasure in it, nor lessen the ardor of 
 their greeting. Ruth explained hastily the 
 reason for her presence, whereupon David 
 found himself confronted with a serious diffi- 
 culty. He was by no means inclined to re- 
 turn to the Croatan settlement. To do so 
 would be to run the risk of imprisonment or 
 worse. Nevertheless, his conscience spoke in 
 no uncertain voice. Like Ruth, he realized 
 perfectly just where his duty lay. He could 
 not leave even a dog to die unattended by his 
 voluntary choice, much less the man whom 
 he considered with justice, since Goins was 
 dead, his worst enemy. He did not feel that 
 he could permit Ruth to go on to the encamp- 
 ment without him, to seek other assistance. 
 There was, in addition, the matter of time. 
 It might be that a few hours' delay would 
 cause the death of the wounded man. He 
 could not tell. But he had no right to sub- 
 ject another to such a risk unnecessarily. 
 Though he debated the question carefully 
 
304 THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 
 
 within himself, the issue was at no time in 
 doubt. He told Ruth his decision : That the 
 two of them should go to Lowrie, and bring 
 him on David's horse back to his home. 
 
 "An' I hate him like pizen!" David grum- 
 bled, as they rode off together. 
 
 "Me, too!" Ruth admitted, with a smile. 
 "He said horrid things to me." 
 
 On the tablets of memory David splashed 
 another black mark against the account of 
 the Croatan chief. 
 
 "But I guess I was as bad as he was," 
 Ruth continued penitently. "Of course, I 
 didn 't really mean it. I told him I hoped he 'd 
 die before I got back." 
 
 Despite the tragedy that hemmed them in, 
 David roared with laughter, in which, some- 
 what shamefacedly, Ruth presently joined. 
 
 The dawn was just breaking when the three 
 entered the Croatan encampment. Lowrie, 
 after the curse with which he had greeted 
 David's appearance, had not uttered a word 
 throughout the tedious hours, although he 
 had acted obediently according to every sug- 
 gestion from the young man. The task of 
 getting him into the saddle had taxed the 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 305 
 
 strength of the two to the utmost. Finally, 
 his weakness had become such that he could 
 not support himself unaided. Thereafter, 
 Ruth had walked, while David, mounted on 
 her horse, had sustained the chief in his 
 arms. As they rode up to the cabin door, 
 Ruth was tottering from fatigue ; David was 
 almost equally exhausted from the long-con- 
 tinued strain of holding up the huge, inert 
 bulk of the wounded man. Lowrie himself 
 was unconscious. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 ELIZABETH, who had not slept that 
 night, was speedily aroused, and at 
 once took efficient charge of the situation. A 
 tribesman, with some rude skill in surgery, 
 worked over the chief to extract the bullet, 
 and washed and dressed the wound. Ruth 
 was given a share of Elizabeth's bed. David 
 volunteered to watch with the sick man, in 
 spite of the weariness that weighed heavily 
 upon him. Lowrie throughout had main- 
 tained a sullen silence after regaining con- 
 sciousness, except for a string of mumbled 
 curses while the wound was being probed. 
 The stillness was too much for David's re- 
 solve to keep awake. He fell asleep, pres- 
 ently, sitting in the chief's big armchair, and 
 slept soundly until daybreak. He awoke to 
 find himself aching and cramped, but much 
 refreshed. He was relieved by the fact that 
 Lowrie also was asleep. He supposed that 
 the sufferer like himself had slumbered for 
 
 306 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 307 
 
 hours. In truth, however, the chief, irritated 
 by the fever of his wound, had not closed his 
 eyes until almost daybreak. His brain had 
 been whirling with a confusion of thoughts 
 strange to him, and his heart had been curi- 
 ously stirred with new emotions. But he be- 
 trayed nothing of this. "When he awoke, his 
 manner was still forbidding, surly and taci- 
 turn. David suspected no weakening in the 
 brutal animosity of the man toward himself 
 and toward Ruth. It may be, nevertheless, 
 that the more discerning eyes of the princess 
 were able to read the truth lying back of 
 that stern and gloomy exterior. It is cer- 
 tain, at least, that she had the courage to 
 confront him boldly, without pretense, or any 
 attempt at palliation of her audacity. 
 
 Ruth and David were talking softly to- 
 gether in one end of the room, while Eliza- 
 beth was at her father's bedside. There was 
 no one else present. Elizabeth beckoned 
 them to approach. They obeyed, much mysti- 
 fied, and stood hand in hand at the foot of 
 the bed. Lowrie glowered at them, but ut- 
 tered no word. It was his daughter who, 
 looking down on him with fearless eyes, only 
 a little dimmed by the great sorrow in her 
 
308 THE HOMEWABD TRAIL 
 
 soul, spoke very gently, the music of her 
 voice half-pleading, half -commanding. 
 
 " Pappy, David and Euth are going now. 
 I want you to tell them for yourself, they're 
 free to go." 
 
 The face of the prostrate chief purpled. 
 It was the first time in all his life that his 
 authority had been flaunted, had been usurped 
 by another. Eesentment burned hot within 
 him. But only for a few seconds. Then the 
 color faded slowly from his face, and the 
 fires in the eyes he had turned on his daughter 
 were quenched. Yet he spoke no word, only 
 continued staring at her with questioning 
 gaze as if demanding more. 
 
 Elizabeth answered the mute inquiry. Her 
 voice now was colorless. She spoke in a 
 level tone, mechanically. It was as if she 
 reasoned coldly, without any trace of emo- 
 tion. It was thus only that she could speak 
 at all. 
 
 "You claimed David owed me his life, be- 
 cause I saved him. But you didn't under- 
 stand, pappy. I don't want David's life — " 
 she hesitated for an instant, with a catch of 
 the breath — "I really don't want David. He 
 belongs to Euth, and he loves her. And it 
 
THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 309 
 
 would break Ruth's heart to lose him, because 
 she loves him so." She did not say that she 
 knew the truth of this from the anguish 
 within her own breast. "You see, pappy, if 
 it's true that David owes me his life, it's just 
 as true that you owe your life to Ruth. 
 But she doesn't want your life. She wants 
 David's. So, because you owe her a life, 
 you must give David back to her. ' ' 
 
 For a full minute, the chief rested motion- 
 less and silent, regarding his daughter with 
 somber eyes. Then his gaze shifted to the 
 two standing at the foot of the bed. The 
 grim face lightened a little as he studied 
 Ruth. 
 
 "Ye hoped I'd die afore ye got back. I 
 don't aim t' obleege ye none by dyinV' he 
 rumbled. A hoarse chuckle followed the 
 words. "But I'll obleege ye by givin' ye 
 thet-thar feller o' your'n. An' good rid- 
 dance ! ' ' Having so said, Lowrie turned his 
 face to the wall without another word or 
 glance. 
 
 There were hasty farewells between Eliza- 
 beth and the lovers. The parting of the girls 
 was tender with kisses, and there were tears 
 in the eyes of both. But the parting of David 
 
310 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 and Elizabeth was constrained, hastened and 
 made formal by the emotions which each felt. 
 As the lovers rode away down the street 
 and out of the encampment into the river- 
 trail, David's heart was heavy within him. 
 Once again in memory came the thrill of those 
 wonderful hours with the princess in the 
 cavern. Once again the glamour of that pas- 
 sion lay over him. By stern effort of will, 
 he turned his thoughts from such recollec- 
 tions, which were a treachery to the girl at 
 his side. But he knew that in the days to 
 come the memory would linger always — the 
 memory of a woman sweet and strong and 
 exquisite, who loved him. He sighed impa- 
 tiently. Then he remembered the chief, at 
 whose hand she had suffered so much. He 
 sighed again, with relief that he had seen the 
 last of the reckless and savage autocrat. 
 There was subtle comfort to him in the knowl- 
 edge that the princess, adorable as she was, 
 was one of a strange people, whose ways 
 were not his ways. He glanced at the radiant 
 face of the girl beside him; and his comfort 
 was complete. After all, he loved Euth, and 
 her only ; and her people were his people, and 
 her ways, his ways. 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 311 
 
 The girl was bubbling over with delight. 
 Even sympathy for Elizabeth could not 
 weigh down the lightness of her spirits. 
 But she was not unmindful of the one 
 to whom she owed so much, as her words 
 proved. 
 
 ' i Elizabeth has promised to pay me a long 
 visit sometime." She laughed a little, a 
 ripple of music. "You know, David, I owe 
 the princess a life — yours, David. I'm go- 
 ing to pay with another life — the way she 
 made her pappy pay." 
 
 David looked puzzled, and Ruth laughed 
 again at his bewilderment. Then she ex- 
 plained, with the utmost seriousness. 
 
 "I'm going to find a husband for Elizabeth, 
 and give him to her to pay my debt. Any- 
 how," she added indignantly, "she's much 
 too good for any of those Indians." 
 
 And David, though he said nothing, agreed 
 with her. 
 
 "I feel pretty small, goin' back t' yer 
 pappy, Ruth," David confessed, "without 
 the money t' pay fer them apples." His 
 face was lugubrious. 
 
 Ruth smiled on him reassuringly. 
 
 "I forgot to tell you, David. Pappy 's had 
 
312 THE HOMEWAED TRAIL 
 
 a letter from your pappy. He's been ex- 
 changed, and is coming home. And — and — " 
 she hesitated, and her face grew rosy — "well, 
 he's anxious to have you run things, and — " 
 She broke off in confusion. 
 
 David smiled on her understandingly in his 
 turn. 
 
 "Wants me t' marry an' settle down, 
 p'r'aps?" he suggested quizzically. 
 
 Euth nodded, her face even rosier than be- 
 fore. 
 
 "I'm sorry yer pappy 's got a grudge agin 
 me," David said, with a return to serious- 
 ness. 
 
 But Euth shook her head in vehement 
 denial. 
 
 "Pappy hasn't any grudge. He's shown 
 how sorry he was to mammy and me — and 
 Mollie. You don't need to worry about that, 
 David." 
 
 The sweet cadences of her laughter rang 
 again. 
 
 "And I know what pappy 's going to give 
 you for a wedding present, David." 
 
 "What?" he demanded. 
 
 "A whole load of limber-twig apples." 
 
 "The same having already been deliv- 
 
THE HOMEWARD TRAIL 313 
 
 ered," David added, and joined in her 
 laughter. 
 
 On a little rise of the road, by a common 
 instinct, the lovers drew rein, and looked 
 back toward the encampment, which nestled 
 snugly within the frame of woodland foliage, 
 now dimming from its autumnal splendors. 
 They could not make out the figure of the 
 girl who stood solitary and desolate by the 
 spring, looking with pain-blinded eyes toward 
 the vast spaces of the sky. 
 
 The lovers gazed back for a moment. Then, 
 without a word, their eyes turned to each 
 other in tenderness, and their lips smiled 
 from the happiness that was in their hearts 
 as they rode forward on the homeward trail. 
 
 THE END. 
 
AUTHOE'S NOTE 
 
 The author has adapted the facts in the life 
 of Henry Lowrie to suit the purposes of the 
 story. Otherwise, references to the Croatans 
 are historically correct. 
 
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