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Wallace D. Wattles Ultimate Collection — Chapter-63: Hellfire Harrison Chapter Seven
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- PDF pages: 246–249
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- Note: Work: Hellfire Harrison, section 7 of 8.
Chapter 7 Table of Contents HARRISON and his escort rode in a leisurely fashion along the road to Saltire Castle, beguiling the time with pleasant conversation. The night air was cool and fresh, and the moon was shining brilliantly. The two gentlemen rode abreast in front, with the troopers following a little way behind. It was past midnight, and they had come in sight of the lights of Shoresby, where they were to rest until morning, when they heard a horse galloping hard behind them, and drew rein to see what the occasion of such haste might be. And the rider proved to be Lady Alicia's footman, bare-headed and splashed with mud, who rode up and spoke to Harrison. “My Lady sent me, sir,” said he, “to tell you that Andrew Hogg has killed your son.” And he added: " I saw his body brought in.” Captain Keatley cried out in horrified astonishment, and turned sharply to Harrison. An instant comprehension of the whole plot came to the Virginian. He realized that Lady Alicia had been right, and that the King's invitation had been procured to get him out of the way while his son was murdered. But whatever passed in his mind, his countenance did not change in the least, and his voice was calm and natural as he answered: “Ah ! In that case, much as I regret to lose your pleasant company, Captain, I suppose I must turn back.” He waited an instant for a reply, and then slowly turned his horse about. Captain Keatley hesitated in some perplexity. He had been very favorably impressed by Harrison, and he felt a keen sympathy for the man who met such dreadful news with so gallant and unwavering a front; and also, there began to dawn upon his mind a suspicion that he, himself, had been made an instrument in carrying out some vile plot. On the other hand, he had his instructions from
Cunningham, and his almost superstitious reverence for the King's command, and, for a moment, he could not decide between his sympathy and what he conceived to be his duty. As the American started his horse on the backward way, Keatley found voice, and said: “But, sir, his Majesty ordered me to bring you to him, and if I return without you, what shall I tell him?” Harrison slowly turned his horse about again, coming face to face with the soldier; he rode up until his horse's head overlapped the captain's thigh, and their faces were scarcely twelve inches apart. The moonlight fell full on the Virginian's countenance; he was smiling pleasantly, but Keatley's blood ran cold as he caught his look, for his eyes were like coals of fire, yet when he spoke his voice was soft and low. “Tell him,” said Harrison,” to go to Hell!” Captain Keatley leaned backward as if he had received a blow, and uttered an exclamation of horror. “And tell him,” the other went on, “that if I had believed you to be a co- conspirator with Andrew Hogg in this, I would have run my sword through you the instant I had the news. Good morning, Captain.” He wheeled his horse about for the third time, and rode back past the troopers in a walk, and no one lifted a hand to hinder him. Captain Keatley rode on to Saltire Castle, and reported simply that Harrison had turned back on hearing of the death of his son, and that he had thought it right to let him go. So great was his admiration for the American's courage that he never mentioned the affront which had been offered to Royalty. Once out of earshot of his escort, Harrison gave his horse the spur, leaving Lady Alicia's man to follow at a slower pace, and rode with all speed toward Farnham. At the first tavern he secured a fresh mount, leaving his own steed for the serving-man to bring along. What passed with him during that lonely ride, whether he laughed or cried or kept his stoical composure through it all, no one will ever know. He dearly loved his son, and he believed him dead, and his heart must have burned with a fierce lust for vengeance upon the murderers, but when, in the early morning, he sprang from his saddle at the Blue Goose Inn, his face was as serene as ever. He went straight to his apartment, exchanging no word with any one, and there he removed all traces of his rapid ride by a bath and a change of garments. The sun was just rising when, immaculately dressed, and
with every frill and ruffle in its place, with his hair freshly powdered and his rosy cheek smooth shaved, he set off afoot and at a careless pace toward Hackthorn Hall. No one was astir at the inn save the lout of a stable-boy who had taken his horse. No one yet knew of the happenings overnight, and so he went on, still believing that his son was dead. As he entered the gate of Hackthorn Hall, Dicky Dirk rose up beside him. “Been waitin’ for ee,” said Dicky. “How came you so bloody?” asked Harrison. “Picked up thy boy.” “Hah! Yes. Well, Dicky, what do you want with me?” “To zee ee kill Hogg.” “No, Dicky,” said Harrison, “I will do this work quite alone. I want neither help nor spectators.” He was about to start on, but Dicky stopped him by throwing up one of his huge hands. “Look ee!” he said, and his hoarse voice trembled in a sudden outburst of rage, “Hogg broak ma back; killed ma fayther with swourd, an’ broak ma moader's heart. I've carried dirk for vifteen year to kill un, an’ by Goad, I'll zee un die.” Harrison stood quite still for a moment, gazing into cripple's passion-distorted face. “Ay, ay?” said he. “Well, Dicky, your claim seems to take precedence over mine; though I am sorry for it. Come on, then, you shall not only see him die, but you may finish him yourself.” He started on, and Dicky followed at his heels. They walked slowly up the gravelled drive which led to the house, a strangely paired couple indeed; the smiling, splendid gentleman, looking about him with an air of half indifferent interest as he sauntered along, and behind him the blood-stained cripple, beating the air with his huge hands, and making fearful grimaces in the sudden giving way to his long hidden hatred of black Andrew Hogg. Hogg and his men had held high carnival all night, celebrating the murder of Richard, and as day was breaking they had decided that Trainor should stand
guard in the grounds with his pistol, against the possible coming of Harrison, while the others went to sleep. They had been in their beds but an hour or so when the Virginian arrived, and Trainor, sitting at the foot of a great tree beside the driveway, was drowsing also, with an empty bottle beside him. So Harrison walked up to him, and stood for a moment looking down at the nodding head and bandaged face. “Kick him awake,” he said to Dicky, and the cripple brought one of his heavy hands down on the sleeper's head with a resounding slap. Trainor leaped to his feet on the instant, and seeing at the first glance who his visitors were, he proved his readiness by firing his pistol, which had been ready in his hand, point blank at Harrison. The Virginian sprang aside, and Dicky struck up the fellow's arm, so the bullet went wide of the mark, and Harrison, whipping out his sword, ran the man through. He fell upon the driveway, and Dicky, bending over him and seeing that the sword-thrust had gone rather low, drove his dirk with great precision through the ruffian's heart. Harrison drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his sword carefully before sheathing it; and Dicky wiped his knife upon his bloody sleeve. “You seem to have a good workman's taste in these matters, Dicky,” said the American as they started on. “You do not like to leave an imperfectly finished job behind you.” When they came to the front of the house, Harrison paused and inspected the silent building reflectively; he expected to be fired at from the windows, but nothing of the kind happened, and there was no sign of life. “They must be still asleep,” he said to Dicky. “I wish we had a way to break down the door.” “Wait,” said the cripple, shambling of! around the house, and presently he came back carrying a great axe. He went up the steps, and swinging the tool with all the strength of his powerful arms, began to batter at the lock of the heavy oaken door. The sound of the crashing blows reverberated through the house like thunder, and Harrison kept close watch upon the windows, but still he saw no sign of life. Presently, the thick wood about the lock having been beaten to fragments, the door swung open, and the Virginian stepped in with Dicky close behind him.