“I am certainly not nameless,” he replied. “I am Lieutenant Lanark, of the Federal Army of the Frontier, at your service.” He bowed slightly, which made it more formal. “Now, come along with me.”
He took her by the wrist, which shook in his big left hand. Together they went back eastward through the ravine, in the direction of the house.
Before they reached it, she told him her name, and that the big natural pillar was called Fearful Rock. She also assured him that she knew nothing of Quantrill and his guerrillas; and a fourth item of news shook Lanark to his spurred heels, the first nonmilitary matter that had impressed him in more than a year.
An hour later, Lanark and Jager finished an interview with her in the parlor. They called Suggs, who conducted the young woman up to one of the bedrooms. Then lieutenant and sergeant faced each other. The light was dim, but each saw bafflement and uneasiness in the face of the other.
“Well?” challenged Lanark.
Jager produced a clasp-knife, opened it, and pared thoughtfully at a thumbnail. “I’ll take my oath,” he ventured, “that this Miss Enid Mandifer is telling the gospel truth.”
“Truth!” exploded Lanark scornfully. “Mountain-folk ignorance, I call it. Nobody believes in those devil-things these days.”
“Oh, yes, somebody does,” said Jager, mildly but definitely. “I do.” He put away his knife and fumbled within his blue army shirt. “Look here, Lieutenant.”
It was a small book he held out, little more than a pamphlet in size and thickness. On its cover of gray paper appeared the smudged woodcut of an owl against a full moon, and the title:
John George Hohman’s
Pow-Wows
or
Long Lost Friend
“I got it when I was a young lad in Pennsylvania,” explained Jager, almost reverently. “Lots of Pennsylvania people carry this book, as I do.” He opened the little volume, and read from the back of the title page:
“ ‘Whosoever carries this book with him is safe from all his enemies, visible or invisible; and whoever has this book with him cannot die without the holy corpse of Jesus Christ, nor drown in any water nor burn up in any fire, nor can any unjust sentence be passed upon him.’ ”
Lanark put out his hand for the book, and Jager surrendered it, somewhat hesitantly. “I’ve heard of supposed witches in Pennsylvania,” said the officer. “Hexes, I believe they’re called. Is this a witch book?”
“No, sir. Nothing about black magic. See the cross on that page? It’s a protection against witches.”
“I thought that only Catholics used the cross,” said Lanark.
“No. Not only Catholics.”
“Hmm.” Lanark passed the thing back. “Superstition, I call it. Nevertheless, you speak this much truth: that girl is in earnest, she believes what she told us. Her father, or stepfather, or whoever he is, sent her up here on some ridiculous errand—perhaps a dangerous one.” He paused. “Or I may be misjudging her. It may be a clever scheme, Jager—a scheme to get a spy in among us.”
The sergeant’s big bearded head wagged negation. “No, sir. If she was telling a lie, it’d be a more believable one, wouldn’t it?” He opened his talisman book again. “If the lieutenant please, there’s a charm in here, against being shot or stabbed. It might be a good thing, seeing there’s a war going on—perhaps the lieutenant would like me to copy it out?”
“No, thanks.” Lanark drew forth his own charm against evil and nervousness, a leather case that contained cheroots. Jager, who had convictions against the use of tobacco, turned away disapprovingly as his superior bit off the end of a fragrant brown cylinder and kindled a match.
“Let me look at that what-do-you-call-it book again,” he requested, and for a second time Jager passed the little volume over, then saluted and retired.
Darkness was gathering early, what with the position of the house in the grassy hollow, and the pinnacle of Fearful Rock standing between it and the sinking sun to westward. Lanark called for Suggs to bring a candle, and, when the orderly obeyed, directed him to take some kind of supper upstairs to Enid Mandifer. Left alone, the young officer seated himself in a newly dusted armchair of massive dark wood, emitted a cloud of blue tobacco smoke, and opened the Long Lost Friend.
It had no publication date, but John George Hohman, the author, dated his preface from Berks County, Pennsylvania, on July 31, 1819. In the secondary preface filled with testimonials as to the success of Hohman’s miraculous cures, was included the pious ejaculation: “The Lord bless the beginning and the end of this little work, and be with us, that we may not misuse it, and thus commit a heavy sin!”
“Amen to that!” said Lanark to himself, quite soberly. Despite his assured remarks to Jager, he was somewhat repelled and nervous because of the things Enid Mandifer had told him.
Was there, then, potentiality for such supernatural evil in this enlightened Nineteenth Century, even in the pages of the book he held? He read further, and came upon a charm to be recited against violence and danger, perhaps the very one Jager had offered to copy for him. It began rather sonorously: “The peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with me. Oh shot, stand still! In the name of the mighty prophets Agtion and Elias, and do not kill me. …”
Lanark remembered the name of Elias from his boyhood Sunday schooling, but Agtion’s identity, as a prophet or otherwise, escaped him. He resolved to ask Jager; and, as though the thought had acted as a summons, Jager came almost running into the room.
“Lieutenant, sir! Lieutenant!” he said hoarsely.
“Yes, Sergeant Jager?” Lanark rose, stared questioningly, and held out the book. Jager took it automatically, and as automatically stowed it inside his shirt.
“I can prove, sir, that there’s a real devil
