The Sins of the Father. Jr. Thomas Dixon
men feeling for her throat. At last she drew a deep breath.
The men began to move step by step toward the doomed sentinel. They were standing beside the front corner of the jail now waiting panther-like for their prey. They allowed him to pass twice. He stopped at the end of his beat, blew his nose and spoke to himself:
"God, what a lonely night!"
The girl heard him turn, his feet measure three steps on his return and stop with a dull thud. She couldn't see, but she could feel through the darkness the grip of those terrible fingers on his throat. The only sound made was the dull thud of his body on the wet ground.
In two minutes they had carried him into the shadows of a big china tree in the rear and tied him to the trunk. She could hear their sharp order:
"Break those cords now or dare to open your mouth and, no matter what happens, we'll kill you first—just for luck."
In ten minutes they had reported the success of their work to their comrades who were waiting and the men who had been picked for their dangerous task surrounded the jail and slowly took up their appointed places in the shadows.
The attacking group stopped for their final instructions not five feet from the girl's position. A flash of moonlight and she saw them—six grim white and scarlet figures wearing spiked helmets from which fell a cloth mask to their shoulders. Their big revolvers were buckled on the outside of their disguises and each man's hand rested on the handle.
One of them quietly slipped his robe from his shoulders, removed his helmet, put on the sentinel's coat and cap, seized his musket and walked to the door of the jail.
She heard him drop the butt of the gun on the flagstone at the steps and call:
"Hello, jailer!"
Some one stirred inside. It was not yet one o'clock and the jailer who had been to a drinking bout with the soldiers had not gone to bed. In his shirt sleeves he thrust his head out the door:
"Who is it?"
"The guard, sir."
"Well, what the devil do you want?"
"Can't ye gimme a drink of somethin'? I'm soaked through and I've caught cold——"
"All right, in a minute," was the gruff reply.
The girl could hear the soft tread of the shrouded figures closing in on the front door. A moment more and it opened. The voice inside said:
"Here you are!"
The words had scarcely passed his lips, and there was another dull crash. A dozen masked Clansmen hurled themselves into the doorway and rushed over the prostrate form of the half-drunken jailer. He was too frightened to call for help. He lay with his face downward, begging for his life.
It was the work of a minute to take the keys from his trembling fingers, bind and gag him, and release Norton. The whole thing had been done so quietly not even a dog had barked at the disturbance.
Again they stopped within a few feet of the trembling figure against the wall. The editor had now put on his disguise and stood in the centre of the group giving his orders as quietly as though he were talking to his printers about the form of his paper.
"Quick now, Mac," she heard him say, "we've not a moment to lose. I want two pieces of scantling strong enough for a hangman's beam. Push one of them out of the center window of the north end of the Capitol building, the other from the south end. We'll hang the little Scalawag on the south side and the Carpetbagger on the north. We'll give them this grim touch of poetry at the end. Your ropes have ready swinging from these beams. Keep your men on guard there until I come."
"All right, sir!" came the quick response.
"My hundred picked men are waiting?"
"On the turnpike at the first branch——"
"Good! The Governor is spending the night at Schlitz's place, three miles out. He has been afraid to sleep at home of late, I hear. We'll give the little man and his pal a royal escort for once as they approach the Capitol—expect us within an hour."
A moment and they were gone. The girl staggered from her cramped position and flew to the house. She couldn't understand it all, but she realized that if the Governor were killed it meant possible ruin for the man she had marked her own.
A light was still burning in the mother's room. She had been nervous and restless and couldn't sleep. She heard the girl's swift, excited step on the stairway and rushed to the door:
"What is it? What has happened?"
Cleo paused for breath and gasped:
"They've broken the jail open and he's gone with the Ku Klux to kill the Governor!"
"To kill the Governor?"
"Yessum. He's got a hundred men waiting out on the turnpike and they're going to hang the Governor from one of the Capitol windows!"
The wife caught the girl by the shoulders and cried:
"Who told you this?"
"Nobody. I saw them. I was passing the jail, heard a noise and went close in the dark. I heard the major give the orders to the men."
"Oh, my God!" the little mother groaned. "And they are going straight to the Governor's mansion?"
"No—no—he said the Governor's out at Schlitz's place, spending the night. They're going to kill him, too——"
"Then there's time to stop them—quick—can you hitch a horse?"
"Yessum!"
"Run to the stable, hitch my horse to the buggy and take a note I'll write to my grandfather, old Governor Carteret—you know where his place is—the big red brick house at the edge of town?"
"Yessum——"
"His street leads into the turnpike—quick now—the horse and buggy!"
The strong young body sprang down the steps three and four rounds at a leap and in five minutes the crunch of swift wheels on the gravel walk was heard.
She sprang up the stairs, took the note from the frail, trembling little hand and bounded out of the house again.
The clouds had passed and the moon was shining now in silent splendor on the sparkling refreshed trees and shrubbery. The girl was an expert in handling a horse. Old Peeler had at least taught her that. In five more minutes from the time she had left the house she was knocking furiously at the old Governor's door. He was eighty-four, but a man of extraordinary vigor for his age.
He came to the door alone in his night-dress, candle in hand, scowling at the unseemly interruption of his rest.
"What is it?" he cried with impatience.
"A note from Mrs. Norton."
At the mention of her name the fine old face softened and then his eyes flashed:
"She is ill?"
"No, sir—but she wants you to help her."
He took the note, placed the candle on the old-fashioned mahogany table in his hall, returned to his room for his glasses, adjusted them with deliberation and read its startling message.
He spoke without looking up:
"You know the road to Schlitz's house?"
"Yes, sir, every foot of it."
"I'll be ready in ten minutes."
"We've no time to lose—you'd better hurry," the girl said nervously.
The old man lifted his eyebrows:
"I will. But an ex-Governor of the state can't rush to meet the present Governor in his shirt-tail—now, can he?"
Cleo laughed:
"No, sir."