The thrashing and plunging of horses roused me. I looked around to see Colonel Willett ride up, followed by two or three mounted officers in blue and buff, pulling in their plunging horses. He looked down at the dead, studying the crushed face, the uniform, the blood-drenched snow.
"Is that Butler?" he asked gravely.
"Yes," I said; and drew a corner of his cloak across the marred face.
Nobody uncovered, which was the most dreadful judgment those silent men could pass.
"Scalped?" motioned Colonel Lewis significantly.
"He belongs to your party," observed Willett quietly. Then, looking around as the rifle-fire to the left broke out again: "The pursuit has ended, gentlemen. What punishment more awful could we leave them to than these trackless solitudes? For I tell you that those few among them who shall attain the Canadas need fear no threat of hell in the life to come, for they shall have served their turn. Sound the recall!"
I laid my hand upon his saddle, looking up into his face: "Pardon," I said, in a low voice; "I must go on!"
"Carus! Carus!" he said softly, "have they not told you?"
"Told me?" I stared. "What? What--in the name of God?"
"She was taken when we struck their rear-guard at one o'clock this afternoon! Was there no one to tell you, lad!"
"Unharmed?" I asked, steadying myself against his stirrup.
"Faint with fatigue, brier-torn, in rags--his vengeance, but--nothing worse. That quarter-breed Montour attended her, supported her, struggled on with her through all the horrors of this retreat. He had herded the Valley prisoners together, guarded by Cayugas. The executioner lies dead a mile below, his black face in the water. And here he lies!"
He swung his horse, head sternly averted. I flung myself into my saddle.
"This way, lad. She lies in a camp-wagon at headquarters, asleep, I think. Mount and your Oneida guard her. And the girl, Montour, lies stretched beside her, watching her as a dog watches a cradled child."
The hunting-horns of the light infantry were sounding the recall as we rode through the low brush of Jerseyfield, where the sunset sky was aflame, painting the tall pines, staining the melting snow to palest crimson.
From black, wet branches overhead the clotted flakes fell, showering us as we came to the hemlock shelter where the camp-wagon stood. A fire burned there; before it crowded a shadowy group of riflemen; and one among them moved forward to meet me, touching his fur cap and pointing.