Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1954 (2 page)

 
          
“Honored,”
said Absalom Grimes. “I heard you say they’re after me.”

 
          
“They
call you a spy, Captain,” stuttered Barry. “Surely they can’t say that—”

 
          
A smile in the soft, short beard.
“Well, I’m a Confederate
soldier in citizen’s clothes. That qualifies me for a rope, I reckon.”

 
          
“Absalom!”
That was a dark-haired young woman in a crinoline
dress, as tall as Grimes and gracefully slender, and just now frightened. She
swept into the room behind Grimes and laid an appealing hand on his arm.

 
          
“You
must leave at once, Absalom,” said the girl, swiftly. “Don’t wait, dear, not
even to—”

 
          
“Lucy,”
said Captain Grimes, courteously serene, “may I present Mr.—”

 
          
“Barry
Mills,” Barry supplied.

 
          
“Mr. Barry Mills, who most kindly brought me warning.
Miss
Glascock, Mr. Mills. And now, young sir, your full story, as fast and clear as
you can tell it.” Barry swiftly repeated what his cousin had said in Batz’s
wood yard. They heard him silently.

 
          
“Thank
you,” said Grimes as Barry finished. “Lucy, you’re right. I must leave at once.
I’ve a buggy in the stable of Mr. George Talliver. Judge Westfall, if one of
your servants could go and ask—”

 
          
“Excuse
me, sir,” spoke up Simon, from the door. “Somebody just rode past—slow. Now
he’s cornin’ back down the street.”

 
          
Barry
fairly sprang to join the butler, and peered through the glass pane in the
door. He saw Buckalew Mills, ambling by on the claybank mare and staring into
the yard.

 
          
“It’s
my cousin,” reported Barry. “He’s watching this house.”

 
          
“That
no-account Buckalew Mills, keeping guard while his friends gather,” growled
Judge Westfall, white brows bristling. “He’s dog when it suits
him,
and hog when it suits him. Captain Grimes, they shan’t
take you while I can defend my own threshold. Simon, fetch my shotgun.”

 
          
“Wait,
Judge.” Grimes seized Barry’s shoulders. “Barry—is that your name? Are you
acquainted with this town?”

 
          
“Yes, sir.
I’ve lived near here all my life.”

 
          
“Do
you know where George Talliver lives? And can you guide me there through back
yards and alleys?”

 
          
Barry
nodded eagerly, and Grimes looked past him at the judge.

 
          
“They’ll
come here in a minute, surround the house, and knock.”

 
          
“I’ll
order them away—” began Judge Westfall fiercely.

 
          
“No,
but let Simon be slow and suspicious of them before he calls you to the door.
Then show enough nervousness, if you’ll be so good—you and the ladies, too—to
make them insist on a search.”

 
          
“But
they’ll find you,” protested Miss Lucy.

 
          
“No,
Barry and I will be gone. Just keep them squandering and irritating around from
room to room for a while. When they can’t find me—then, Judge, make them
apologize to you and your lady, and to your guest, Miss Lucy Glascock. That’ll
use up a full quarter hour. And I’ll be away, every trace of me, like a ’possum
from a tree dog.”

 
          
“I
understand,” said Judge Westfall. “Luck
go
with you,
sir.”

 
          
“Come
on, Barry.”

 
          
Absalom
Grimes had not let go of the boy’s shoulder, and now he fairly marched him down
the hall to where a rear door opened into a spacious, tree- shaded back yard.

 
          
“See
yonder, between the carriage house and the shed,” said Grimes. “There’s an
alley beyond. Go and look both ways. If nobody’s waiting, turn and wipe your
face to signal for me to come running.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barry stepped gingerly into the open. He forced himself to stroll, with seeming
carelessness, through the yard and between the buildings. He peered along the
alley, left and right. Nobody moved there. Facing around, he lifted his hand to
his face.

 
          
At
once Grimes
came
racing across the yard, a dark hat
pulled low above his bearded face and his right hand hoisting a heavy
carpetbag. He joined Barry, and they headed along the alley. At the street
beyond, Grimes’ free hand caught Barry’s arm and pulled him to a stop.

 
          
“You
know these folks who want to scoop me up,” he said. “Slide on across, but be
dead sure none of them are in sight. Then signal again from the other side.”

 
          
From
across the street, Barry again mopped his face to tell Grimes that all was
safe. Again Grimes hurried after him with the bag. Thus they went the length of
two alleys,
then
emerged to walk together along a side
street with thick-boughed shade trees.

 
          
“There’s
Mr. Talliver’s house up ahead,” volunteered Barry, pointing to where, on the
opposite corner, stood a pleasant, two-story frame house.

 
          
“Good.”
Grimes drew himself and his bag between two close-growing trees. From his
pocket he fished a pencil and a scrap of paper, and scribbled hurriedly.

 
 
         
“One more favor,” he said. “Give this
to Mr. Talliver. He’ll hitch up my buggy. Then drive it back here, to this
point. Will you do that?”

 
          
“I’ll
be proud to, Captain.”

 
          
Barry
went on alone, and knocked at the door. Grim, gaunt Mr. Talliver answered his
knock, read the note, and let him in.

 
          
“I
reckon the cap’n hasn’t any time to waste,” he grunted. “Come out to the stable
and help me hitch up for him.”

 
          
It
was quickly done. Captain Grimes’ buggy looked shabby—perhaps on purpose, to
attract less attention—but it was built along trim, easy-running lines, and the
bay horse looked swift and steady. As Barry climbed in and took the reins, he
saw that there were numerous bags and packages on the buggy floor. He spoke
softly to the bay and rolled out into the street.

 
          
At
that moment Barry felt as though every Union soldier and Union sympathizer in
Missouri
must be drawing close around him, but the
street was quiet. Only two rigs and a few pedestrians moved. He walked the bay
horse along to the point where he had left Grimes.

 
          
“Don’t
stop,” cautioned a low voice, and from between the two trees sprang the mail
runner, hurling the carpetbag into the buggy, then springing in after it and
taking the reins from Barry. Grimes turned them right at the next corner and
quickened the bay’s speed toward the edge of town.

 
          
“I’ll
drop you at the next corner—” he began.

 
          
“Halt!”
rang a clear voice behind them.

 
          
Grimes
whistled sharply, and the buggy leaped forward as the bay broke into a swift
trot. Looking back, Barry saw a horseman following. He recognized the sturdy
figure in blue.

 
          
“It’s
Corporal Karl Batz,” he said.

 
          
“Drive,
fast,” commanded Grimes, and thrust the reins back into Barry’s hands. He
himself turned halfway around on the seat, his two hands sliding inside his
coat. Barry headed them past a row of new houses that marked the edge of town.

 
          
“Halt!”
cried Karl again, but Barry snatched the buggy whip and lashed the bay to
greater speed. Beyond showed fields, and a wagon road leading westward.

 
          
“Pull
up a trifle,”
came
Grimes’ soft voice.

 
          
As
Barry did so, Karl Batz galloped alongside. His right hand poised a big dragoon
revolver, muzzle in air.

 
 
         
“Who are you?” Karl was yelling. “Why
didn’t you stop when—
”

 
          
A
shot cracked suddenly, and Karl gave a gasping cry. Barry almost jumped out of
the seat and glanced around, his heart sick.

 
          
Karl
still sat in the saddle, unhurt, but the revolver was gone from his hand and he
goggled blankly. Grimes, facing Karl, held a vicious-looking pistol in each
hand. The muzzle of one of them smoked.

 
          
“I
could have drilled you through the head just as easily as I shot that young
cannon out of your fist, soldier,” said Grimes, calm as ever. “Now be quiet,
and ride along beside us. Push ahead, Barry.”

 
          
In
utter silence they traveled a full mile along the road into the country—Barry
driving, Karl riding alongside under the threat of Grimes’ pistol. Then: “Halt,
everyone,” said Grimes. “Get off that horse, soldier.”

 
          
Karl
dismounted. “What happens to me now?” he asked, steadily enough.

 
          
“Nothing,
if you don’t act the fool. Pass me the bridle reins.
Now,
good day to you.
Barry, let’s go.”

 
          
Barry
drove on. Beside the buggy trotted Karl’s horse, Grimes holding it by the
reins. Barry glanced back once.

           
“Karl’s just standing and watching
us,” he reported.

 
          
“Good.
The longer he waits before he walks back to
Bowling Green
, the longer they’ll take before they get
after us. Hand me the buggy whip.”

 
          
Barry
passed it over, and Grimes guided the led horse along,
then
gave it a brisk cut on the flank. It whickered nervously and went bounding away
ahead, galloped up the road, and then into a ploughed field. Grimes laughed.

 
          
“Its
master will find it heading home some time tonight,” he said. “Meanwhile,
youngster, I’m afraid I’ve brought you into trouble with me.” His gray eyes
studied Barry. “I’m leaving; they won’t catch me. But these
Bowling Green
folks who were after me will call you a
rebel spy. That soldier knows you, and I’d hate to have him get you into jail
because of me.” “Take me with you,” begged Barry.

 
          
“You’d
leave your home—”

 
          
“It’s
not home,” interrupted Barry. “Not now. Anyway, I’ve
been
wanting
to run off and join my father in the Confederate army.”

 
          
Grimes
took the reins. “Your father’s a Confederate soldier? But what would your
mother say?”

 
          
“She
died when I was a little boy. The only other kin I have is my father’s cousin,
Buckalew Mills. He’s the one who was trying to trap you and collect the
reward.”

 
          
“I
heard you and the judge name him,” nodded Grimes. “So he’s
Union
and you’re Confederate.”

 
          
“That’s
the way it is now,” said Barry, feeling his anger rising. “My father, Jefferson
Mills, enlisted with the South in 1861. I was fifteen then, and he left me with
Cousin Buck. I can still hear what Cousin Buck said.” He imitated his fat
kinsman’s unctuous tones.
“ ‘Count
on me, Cousin Jeff.
You can trust me to care for the poor motherless young ’un like he was my own.
You go ahead, fight and win for Southern rights, and we’ll be welcoming you
back home like a hero before you know it.’ ”