'Laramie' by Charles King (best short novels txt) 📕

seize and confound him in the very act, and so, fastening the crime on some one guilty man, dispel at once and for all the cloud of suspicion that hovered over a woman's fair fame. Click, click, again. What was the matter? Would the stubborn lock not yield? or was this a 'prentice hand, and his tools unsuited to the job? In his wild impatience he could have rushed to the door and hurled it open, but that would have only spoiled the game. He could have caught his prowler, but proved nothing. No, patience! patience! A burst of jolly Ethiopian laughter from the distant kitchen drowned for a moment other sounds and possibly unnerved the operator at the door. Did he hear quick, light footsteps hurrying away? There was a broad "stoop" there, quite a wide veranda in fact, since the unsightly wooden storm-door had been removed. For an instant he certainly thought he heard scurrying footfalls. Not the steps themselves, but the creak of the dry woodwork underneath them. He listened intently another moment, but the attempt had apparently been abandoned.

Then—there it was again. Surely he heard a light footfall on the steps,—on the piazza itself. He could bear the suspense no longer, and, springing into the hall where the hanging lamp shed its broad glare over every object, hurled open the door,—and recoiled in mingling agony and horror. God of heaven! There stood Fanny Forrest!

"Major Miller!" she gasped, affrighted at his vehemence and the ghastly look with which he greeted her. "How—how you startled me! Why, what has happened? where were you going in such—why, major—what is the matter?" and now there was something imperious in the demand.

For all answer he could only pass his hand over his quivering face in a dazed, dumb sort of way a moment. Then, rallying suddenly, he stepped forward, giving his head a shake and striving to be cool and calm.

"You are more startled than I, Miss Forrest. I never thought to find you at that door."

"And why not me? I have not seen Nellie since her illness, and came over at taps to inquire if she would not receive me a moment."

"Why—why didn't you ring?" he hoarsely asked.

"Ring! What opportunity had I? My foot had hardly touched the piazza before the door opened in my face and revealed you looking—well, pardon me, Major Miller—as if you had suddenly encountered a ghost."

"Do you mean you have only just come?" he asked.

"Certainly."

"And you saw no one? There was no one here as you came in the gate?"

"Not a soul,—stop a minute though,—there was something——"

"Pray, what are you talking about, Major Miller, and to whom are you talking?" queried the voice of his better half at this very instant; and before he could respond there came through the gate-way and up the steps the debonair, portly doctor.

"What!" exclaimed Bayard. "Miss Forrest! Ah, you truant, we've been wondering where you were, your sister and I. Ah, major!—Mrs. Miller. Why, this is delightful! Now indeed am I welcome home! Come right into my parlor, said the—but I'm no spider. Come, Miss Forrest, I know you want to see my little girl,—I left Jeannie Bruce with her. Major, you and I want a glass of Madeira and Mrs. Miller to bless the occasion, and then we all want some music, don't we? Come in, and welcome."

And so, half urging, half pushing, half leading, the doctor swept his trio of visitors into the parlor. Despite her start at Miller's appearance at the door, despite his preoccupation and gloom, which several glasses of the doctor's good wine failed to dissipate, Miss Forrest remained after a brief visit to the invalid up-stairs and, saying that she had promised Nellie, sang to them witchingly again and again.

But that night, despatches flashed in from Fetterman that gave the major another turn. The telegraph operator himself came running up with the message just as the party at the doctor's (considerably augmented by this time by new-comers drawn thither by Miss Forrest's voice) was breaking up for the night. Indians had appeared in great numbers along the North Platte, threatening the road connecting the two posts, and a train had been attacked and burned midway between them. Terry and his hard-worked Grays were ready in an hour to take the trail, but there were no young gallants to ride forth this time. Hatton, indeed, offered his services, but was told he could not be spared. Morning brought tidings that the war-parties were seen only seven miles away at sunrise; and in the presence of the common foe the major, for the time being, put aside the matter weighing so heavily on his mind, but not for a moment could he forget her startled face as he threw open that door. It was time indeed to look the situation squarely through and through. It might be necessary to send for Forrest.

Another day brought with it a strong column of cavalry hastening up from the railway at Cheyenne, and these troops were to be fully provided with rations and ammunition before setting forth toward the Black Hills, whither they were ordered. It was bustle and business for everybody. The major said no more to Hatton on the subject of the interrupted interview; but on the second day, as McLean was lying languidly in his bed, listening to the sounds of hoofs and heels without, and bemoaning his fate that he was to be bedridden here when such stirring times were ahead, his soldier servant came noiselessly to ask the lieutenant's permission to step out a little while to see some friends in the cavalry. The attendant was seated in the front room, so the permission was readily granted.

"Is there anything the lieutenant wants, sir, before I go?"

"Nothing except a handkerchief. Give me one of those silk ones in this corner of the drawer. They are softer."

The man handed the topmost of the pile, and went noiselessly away. McLean shook it open, and a card dropped out upon the coverlet. Surprised, he picked it up and slowly read it, perplexity and then symptoms of annoyance showing plainly in his face. Twice—thrice he read it through. Then, stowing it under his pillow, he began to think.

Dr. Weeks came in before a great while to renew the dressing on his wound, and asked him if he had not been talking too much.

"I haven't been talking at all. Why do you ask?"

"Pulse a little quicker than it was. What have you been doing?"

"Nothing—to speak of. What is there to do but read and think?"

"You mustn't get to fretting because you can't go out with every expedition, Mac. We all know you'd like it, but you can't have your pie and eat it. You can't get shot in one fight and expect to get into the next. If you'll keep quiet here, I think I can put you in saddle again in a month,—much quicker than I can poor Blunt; but you must be patient, especially now that you'll miss Hatton. He goes out with the train-guard to-night."

"Hatton! To-night?" exclaimed the invalid.

"There you go again, Mac! What a bundle of tow you are, to be sure; I might just as soon touch a match to a magazine."

"Doctor, tell Hatton I want him,—must see him before he goes."

"Confound it, man, I told him to keep away. Why do you want him?"

"Because I must see him. You'll have a crazy man on your hands if you don't." And Weeks decided it best to let this headstrong Highlander have his way.

That night, in his field-dress and all ready to start, Hatton gently came to his comrade's bed-side.

"What is it, old man?" he asked. "Weeks told me first to slip away without saying good-by,—I'll only be gone a week,—and then hunted me up and said you wanted to see me."

McLean looked out in the front room.

"Send that man away for a while," he said.

"Now for it," groaned Hatton, between his teeth. "Something new, and he's got hold of it. How in heaven am I to keep my story to myself?"

Obediently at a word from Hatton, the hospital attendant took his cap and stepped outside. Then McLean put forth his hand and took that of the senior lieutenant.

"Hat, you and I have been good friends, haven't we?"

"Always, Mac."

"I've something to ask you. Something I must know. You remember the night we burned that handkerchief?"

"I should say so."

"Have you ever seen—have you ever known of her ever being in here—or around here since?"

Hatton hesitated.

"Tell me, Hat."

"I can't tell you, Mac. There's been the devil to pay. Some other things stolen. Miller's got hold of it, and, old man, I'm thankful I'm going, for I'd have to tell what we know."

"Great God! and Forrest two weeks' march away,—least count! See here, Hat! To-day I found something among my handkerchiefs—in a missing one that was returned. Do you know how it got there?"

"Yes," slowly. "She herself gave it to me and asked me to put it there."

"You don't mean it! How could she, without exciting more suspicion? She must have known it would only make you connect her with what had happened here."

"Mac,—old man; it's no use! I can't keep it back from you. Why! She was reckless of anything I might think. It has gone far beyond suspicion. It is certainty. She was on the watch the night Miller came here for me. It was her dress—her steps you heard in the hall. It may be kleptomania,—God knows; but whatever it is, she threw off all disguise. She listened to Miller's orders that I should come to him at tattoo; and then, the moment he was gone, down she flew to where I stood there at the door, and implored me, Mac, as I would save her from disgrace and ruin not to go—not to tell him."

"And she was not out of her mind?"

"She is as sane as you or I, Mac, except on that one thing."

XIII.

For several days after Hatton's sudden departure Lieutenant McLean was worse. High fever had set in, and Dr. Weeks hardly knew how to account for it. Mrs. Miller, kind soul, had begged to be allowed to come over and help nurse him, and was more than perplexed when, having easily obtained the approval of the post surgeon, she was met by a most embarrassed but earnest negative on the part of his assistant. As Weeks was in charge of the case, Dr. Bayard's sense of professional etiquette would not permit of his opposing his junior in the matter, but did not prevent his expressing himself as surprised and annoyed at what he termed a slight to the wife of the commanding officer. The lady herself could not refrain from telling her husband and making some trenchant criticisms at the expense of the younger physician; and, as a result of her remarks, Old Miller decided to do a thing to which, hitherto, he had always declared himself averse,—namely, to require of his surgical staff a defence of their policy in the matter. He would not do this formally or officially, but he meant to ask Dr. Bayard at once what possible objection there could be to Mrs. Miller's looking in on the young officer and doing what she could to promote his comfort. She was welcome to go to Blunt's bedside, she told him, and Mr. Blunt's wounds were of a more severe character than those of the young infantryman, whom she was virtually forbidden to see.

Miller's honest heart was filled full of perplexities and cares at this time, and the best of men are apt to be a trifle irritable under such conditions. His brow was moody and his step more energetic than usual, as he sallied forth in search of his senior surgeon, this bright sunshiny morning. No one was on the Bayards' piazza, but the front door was open, and, hearing subdued voices in the parlor, he ventured to step inside and tap at the inner door which