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diff --git a/23140.txt b/23140.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..303ed49 --- /dev/null +++ b/23140.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16301 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Death Shot, by Mayne Reid + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Death Shot + A Story Retold + +Author: Mayne Reid + +Release Date: October 21, 2007 [EBook #23140] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEATH SHOT *** + + + + +Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England + + + + +The Death Shot, A Story Retold, by Captain Mayne Reid. + +________________________________________________________________________ +This was quite a difficult book to transcribe. There were the usual +difficulties with this author--his frequent use of words in Spanish, or +the Mexican variety of Spanish, of words in French. In addition it must +have been something of an experimental writing, for it is generally in +the present tense, and there was frequent use made of new words that +have not survived in the language. Much, indeed almost all, of the +speech is uttered by uneducated persons, so that it needs perseverance, +sometimes, to make out what is being said. Probably most of the +speakers would not have been able to read, and would not have known how +to pronounce the words they uttered. Added to all that the +proof-reading, particularly towards the end of the book, left much to be +desired, quite common words having letters missing or all jumbled up. +Finally, the copy used was in a bad way, not from over-use, but from bad +binding. It fell apart completely, and we had to continue the work on a +scanner that can only read books that have been reduced to single pages. + +We do not need to mention the problem usual with cheaply made books of +that period, that punctuation marks, especially commas and full-stops, +and especially at the corners of the pages, tend to disappear, and +some degree of cunning has to be brought to bear to recover them. + +To illustrate the poor proof-reading, one of the chapters was completely +repeated, without any change in the flow of page numbers. This is +something I have never before seen, though I have seen chapters +completely omitted, without affecting the page-numbers! + +All that having been said, I would like to think that the author would +have been pleased with our version, for certain it is that it is better +than the published book, although it is certain there are still some +errors in our text. It does make a very nice audiobook, taking almost +fifteen hours to read. At the time of writing this I have heard it +twice, and enjoyed it thoroughly. + +After some thought I decided to replace his coy Victorian "G--d", +"H--l", "D--n" and "D--d" with their intended words. Doubtless there +are some who will not be happy with this, but this book was written 130 +years ago, and times have changed. + +It has been suggested that this book was entirely re-written by the +author, this being his final version. Although it is an unusual piece +of writing it flows very well, and the author could well have been +unhappy about the poor printing. Let us hope that he is looking down +upon us with a gleam of pleasure in his eye. + +As regards the subject matter, it is really very strange. There are +murders with no body, murderers on the run with no evidence against +them, murdered persons who are perfectly alive and well, Red Indians +who are no such thing, a body which is buried and comes to life again, +being dug up by a dog, and all the time against a truly beautiful +description of the terrain, and a considerable tenderness towards the +somewhat strange persons who form the cast of this unusual book. + +________________________________________________________________________ +THE DEATH SHOT, A STORY RETOLD, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID. + + + +PREFACE. + +Long time since this hand hath penned a preface. Now only to say, that +this romance, as originally published, was written when the author was +suffering severe affliction, both physically and mentally--the result of +a gun-wound that brought him as near to death as Darke's bullet did +Clancy. + +It may be asked, Why under such strain was the tale written at all? A +good reason could be given; but this, private and personal, need not, +and should not be intruded on the public. Suffice it to say, that, +dissatisfied with the execution of the work, the author has remodelled-- +almost rewritten it. + +It is the same story; but, as he hopes and believes, better told. + +Great Malvern, September, 1874. + + + +PROLOGUE. + +Plain, treeless, shrubless, smooth as a sleeping sea. Grass upon it; +this so short, that the smallest quadruped could not cross over without +being seen. Even the crawling reptile would not be concealed among its +tufts. + +Objects are upon it--sufficiently visible to be distinguished at some +distance. They are of a character scarce deserving a glance from the +passing traveller. He would deem it little worth while to turn his eyes +towards a pack of prairie wolves, much less go in chase of them. + +With vultures soaring above, he might be more disposed to hesitate, and +reflect. The foul birds and filthy beasts seen consorting together, +would be proof of prey--that some quarry had fallen upon the plain. +Perhaps, a stricken stag, a prong-horn antelope, or a wild horse +crippled by some mischance due to his headlong nature? + +Believing it any of these, the traveller would reloosen his rein, and +ride onward,--leaving the beasts and birds to their banquet. + +There is no traveller passing over the prairie in question--no human +being upon it. Nothing like life, save the coyotes grouped over the +ground, and the buzzards swooping above. + +They are not unseen by human eye. There is one sees--one who has reason +to fear them. + +Their eager excited movements tell them to be anticipating a repast; at +the same time, that they have not yet commenced it. + +Something appears in their midst. At intervals they approach it: the +birds swoopingly from heaven, the beasts crouchingly along the earth. +Both go close, almost to touching it; then suddenly withdraw, starting +back as in affright! + +Soon again to return; but only to be frayed as before. And so on, in a +series of approaches, and recessions. + +What can be the thing thus attracting, at the same time repelling them? +Surely no common quarry, as the carcase of elk, antelope, or mustang? +It seems not a thing that is dead. Nor yet looks it like anything +alive. Seen from a distance it resembles a human head. Nearer, the +resemblance is stronger. Close up, it becomes complete. Certainly, it +_is_ a human head--_the head of a man_! + +Not much in this to cause surprise--a man's head lying upon a Texan +prairie! Nothing, whatever, if scalpless. It would only prove that +some ill-starred individual--traveller, trapper, or hunter of wild +horses--has been struck down by Comanches; afterwards beheaded, and +scalped. + +But this head--if head it be--is _not_ scalped. It still carries its +hair--a fine chevelure, waving and profuse. Nor is it lying upon the +ground, as it naturally should, after being severed from the body, and +abandoned. On the contrary, it stands erect, and square, as if still on +the shoulders from which it has been separated; the neck underneath, the +chin just touching the surface. With cheeks pallid, or blood spotted, +and eyes closed or glassy, the attitude could not fail to cause +surprise. And yet more to note, that there is neither pallor, nor stain +on the cheeks; and the eyes are neither shut, nor glassed. On the +contrary, they are glancing--glaring--rolling. _By Heavens the head is +alive_! + +No wonder the wolves start back in affright; no wonder the vultures, +after stooping low, ply their wings in quick nervous stroke, and soar up +again! The odd thing seems to puzzle both beasts and birds; baffles +their instinct, and keeps them at bay. + +Still know they, or seem to believe, 'tis flesh and blood. Sight and +scent tell them so. By both they cannot be deceived. + +And living flesh it must be? A Death's head could neither flash its +eyes, nor cause them to revolve in their sockets. Besides, the +predatory creatures have other evidence of its being alive. At +intervals they see opened a mouth, disclosing two rows of white teeth; +from which come cries that, startling, send them afar. + +These are only put forth, when they approach too threateningly near-- +evidently intended to drive them to a distance. They have done so for +the greater part of a day. + +Strange spectacle! The head of a man, without any body; with eyes in it +that scintillate and see; a mouth that opens, and shows teeth; a throat +from which issue sounds of human intonation; around this object of weird +supernatural aspect, a group of wolves, and over it a flock of vultures! + +Twilight approaching, spreads a purple tint over the prairie. But it +brings no change in the attitude of assailed, or assailants. There is +still light enough for the latter to perceive the flash of those fiery +eyes, whose glances of menace master their voracious instincts, warning +them back. + +On a Texan prairie twilight is short. There are no mountains, or high +hills intervening, no obliquity in the sun's diurnal course, to lengthen +out the day. When the golden orb sinks below the horizon, a brief +crepusculous light succeeds; then darkness, sudden as though a curtain +of crape were dropped over the earth. + +Night descending causes some change in the tableau described. The +buzzards, obedient to their customary habit--not nocturnal--take +departure from the spot, and wing their way to their usual roosting +place. Different do the coyotes. These stay. Night is the time best +suited to their ravening instincts. The darkness may give them a better +opportunity to assail that thing of spherical shape, which by shouts, +and scowling glances, has so long kept them aloof. + +To their discomfiture, the twilight is succeeded by a magnificent moon, +whose silvery effulgence falling over the plain almost equals the light +of day. They see the head still erect, the eyes angrily glancing; while +in the nocturnal stillness that cry, proceeding from the parted lips, +affrights them as ever. + +And now, that night is on, more than ever does the tableau appear +strange--more than ever unlike reality, and more nearly allied to the +spectral. For, under the moonlight, shimmering through a film that has +spread over the plain, the head seems magnified to the dimensions of the +Sphinx; while the coyotes--mere jackals of terrier size--look large as +Canadian stags! + +In truth, a perplexing spectacle--full of wild, weird mystery. + +Who can explain it? + + + +CHAPTER ONE. + +TWO SORTS OF SLAVE-OWNERS. + +In the old slave-owning times of the United States--happily now no +more--there was much grievance to humanity; proud oppression upon the +one side, with sad suffering on the other. It may be true, that the +majority of the slave proprietors were humane men; that some of them +were even philanthropic in their way, and inclined towards giving to the +unholy institution a colour of _patriarchism_. This idea--delusive, as +intended to delude--is old as slavery itself; at the same time, modern +as Mormonism, where it has had its latest, and coarsest illustration. + +Though it cannot be denied, that slavery in the States was, +comparatively, of a mild type, neither can it be questioned, that among +American masters occurred cases of lamentable harshness--even to +inhumanity. There were slave-owners who were kind, and slave-owners who +were cruel. + +Not far from the town of Natchez, in the State of Mississippi, lived two +planters, whose lives illustrated the extremes of these distinct moral +types. Though their estates lay contiguous, their characters were as +opposite, as could well be conceived in the scale of manhood and +morality. Colonel Archibald Armstrong--a true Southerner of the old +Virginian aristocracy, who had entered the Mississippi Valley before the +Choctaw Indians evacuated it--was a model of the kind slave-master; +while Ephraim Darke--a Massachusetts man, who had moved thither at a +much later period--was as fair a specimen of the cruel. Coming from New +England, of the purest stock of the Puritans--a people whose descendants +have made much sacrifice in the cause of negro emancipation--this about +Darke may seem strange. It is, notwithstanding, a common tale; one +which no traveller through the Southern States can help hearing. For +the Southerner will not fail to tell him, that the hardest task-master +to the slave is either one, who has been himself a slave, or descended +from the Pilgrim Fathers, whose feet first touched American soil by the +side of Plymouth Rock! + +Having a respect for many traits in the character of these same Pilgrim +Fathers, I would fain think the accusation exaggerated--if not +altogether untrue--and that Ephraim Darke was an exceptional individual. + +To accuse _him_ of inhumanity was no exaggeration whatever. Throughout +the Mississippi valley there could be nothing more heartless than his +treatment of the sable helots, whose luckless lot it was to have him for +a master. Around his courts, and in his cotton-fields, the crack of the +whip was heard habitually--its thong sharply felt by the victims of his +caprice, or malice. The "cowhide" was constantly carried by himself, +and his overseer. He had a son, too, who could wield it wickedly as +either. None of the three ever went abroad without that pliant, +painted, switch--a very emblem of devilish cruelty--in their hands; +never returned home, without having used it in the castigation of some +unfortunate "darkey," whose evil star had caused him to stray across +their track, while riding the rounds of the plantation. + +A far different discipline was that of Colonel Armstrong; whose slaves +seldom went to bed without a prayer poured forth, concluding with: "God +bress de good massr;" while the poor whipped bondsmen of his neighbour, +their backs oft smarting from the lash, nightly lay down, not always to +sleep, but nearly always with curses on their lips--the name of the +Devil coupled with that of Ephraim Darke. + +The old story, of like cause followed by like result, must, alas! be +chronicled in this case. The man of the Devil prospered, while he of +God came to grief. Armstrong, open-hearted, free-handed, indulging in a +too profuse hospitality, lived widely outside the income accruing from +the culture of his cotton-fields, and in time became the debtor of +Darke, who lived as widely within his. + +Notwithstanding the proximity of their estates, there was but little +intimacy, and less friendship, between the two. The Virginian--scion of +an old Scotch family, who had been gentry in the colonial times--felt +something akin to contempt for his New England neighbour, whose +ancestors had been steerage passengers in the famed "Mayflower." False +pride, perhaps, but natural to a citizen of the Old Dominion--of late +years brought low enough. + +Still, not much of this influenced the conduct of Armstrong. For his +dislike to Darke he had a better, and more honourable, reason--the bad +behaviour of the latter. This, notorious throughout the community, made +for the Massachusetts man many enemies; while in the noble mind of the +Mississippian it produced positive aversion. + +Under these circumstances, it may seem strange there should be any +intercourse, or relationship, between the two men. But there was--that +of debtor and creditor--a lien not always conferring friendship. +Notwithstanding his dislike, the proud Southerner had not been above +accepting a loan from the despised Northern, which the latter was but +too eager to extend. The Massachusetts man had long coveted the +Mississippian's fine estate; not alone from its tempting contiguity, but +also because it looked like a ripe pear that must soon fall from the +tree. With secret satisfaction he had observed the wasteful +extravagance of its owner; a satisfaction increased on discovering the +latter's impecuniosity. It became joy, almost openly exhibited, on the +day when Colonel Armstrong came to him requesting a loan of twenty +thousand dollars; which he consented to give, with an alacrity that +would have appeared suspicious to any but a borrower. + +If he gave the money in great _glee_, still greater was that with which +he contemplated the mortgage deed taken in exchange. For he knew it to +be the first entering of a wedge, that in due time would ensure him +possession of the _fee-simple_. All the surer, from a condition in that +particular deed: _Foreclosure, without time_. Pressure from other +quarters had forced planter Armstrong to accept these terrible terms. + +As, Darke, before locking it up in his drawer, glanced the document +over, his eyes scintillating with the glare of greed triumphant, he said +to himself, "This day's work has doubled the area of my acres, and the +number of my niggers. Armstrong's land, his slaves, his houses,-- +everything he has, will soon be mine!" + + + +CHAPTER TWO. + +A FLAT REFUSAL. + +Two years have elapsed since Ephraim Darke became the creditor of +Archibald Armstrong. Apparently, no great change has taken place in the +relationship between the two men, though in reality much. + +The twenty thousand dollars' loan has been long ago dissipated, and the +borrower is once more in need. + +It would be useless, idle, for him to seek a second mortgage in the same +quarter; or in any other, since he can show no collateral. His property +has been nearly all hypothecated in the deed to Darke; who perceives his +long-cherished dream on the eve of becoming a reality. At any hour he +may cause foreclosure, turn Colonel Armstrong out of his estate, and +enter upon possession. + +Why does he not take advantage of the power, with which the legal code +of the United States, as that existing all over the world, provides him? + +There is a reason for his not doing so, wide apart from any motive of +mercy, or humanity. Or of friendship either, though something +erroneously considered akin to it. Love hinders him from pouncing on +the plantation of Archibald Armstrong, and appropriating it! + +Not love in his own breast, long ago steeled against such a trifling +affection. There only avarice has a home; cupidity keeping house, and +looking carefully after the expenses. + +But there is a spendthrift who has also a shelter in Ephraim Darke's +heart--one who does much to thwart his designs, oft-times defeating +them. As already said, he has a son, by name Richard; better known +throughout the settlement as "Dick"--abbreviations of nomenclature being +almost universal in the South-Western States. An only son--only child +as well--motherless too--she who bore him having been buried long before +the Massachusetts man planted his roof-tree in the soil of Mississippi. +A hopeful scion he, showing no improvement on the paternal stock. +Rather the reverse; for the grasping avarice, supposed to be +characteristic of the Yankee, is not improved by admixture with the +reckless looseness alleged to be habitual in the Southerner. + +Both these bad qualities have been developed in Dick Darke, each to its +extreme. Never was New Englander more secretive and crafty; never +Mississippian more loose, or licentious. + +Mean in the matter of personal expenditure, he is at the same time of +dissipated and disorderly habits; the associate of the poker-playing, +and cock-fighting, fraternity of the neighbourhood; one of its wildest +spirits, without any of those generous traits oft coupled with such a +character. + +As only son, he is heir-presumptive to all the father's property--slaves +and plantation lands; and, being thoroughly in his father's confidence, +he is aware of the probability of a proximate reversion to the slaves +and plantation lands belonging to Colonel Armstrong. + +But much as Dick Darke may like money, there is that he likes more, even +to covetousness--Colonel Armstrong's daughter. There are two of them-- +Helen and Jessie--both grown girls,--motherless too--for the colonel is +himself a widower. + +Jessie, the younger, is bright-haired, of blooming complexion, merry to +madness; in spirit, the personification of a romping elf; in physique, a +sort of Hebe. Helen, on the other hand, is dark as gipsy, or Jewess; +stately as a queen, with the proud grandeur of Juno. Her features of +regular classic type, form tall and magnificently moulded, amidst others +she appears as a palm rising above the commoner trees of the forest. +Ever since her coming out in society, she has been universally esteemed +the beauty of the neighbourhood--as belle in the balls of Natchez. It +is to her Richard Darke has extended his homage, and surrendered his +heart. + +He is in love with her, as much as his selfish nature will allow-- +perhaps the only unselfish passion ever felt by him. + +His father sanctions, or at all events does not oppose it. For the +wicked son holds a wonderful ascendancy over a parent, who has trained +him to wickedness equalling his own. + +With the power of creditor over debtor--a debt of which payment can be +demanded at any moment, and not the slightest hope of the latter being +able to pay it--the Darkes seem to have the vantage ground, and may +dictate their own terms. + +Helen Armstrong knows nought of the mortgage; no more, of herself being +the cause which keeps it from foreclosure. Little does she dream, that +her beauty is the sole shield imposed between her father and impending +ruin. Possibly if she did, Richard Darke's attentions to her would be +received with less slighting indifference. For months he has been +paying them, whenever, and wherever, an opportunity has offered--at +balls, _barbecues_, and the like. Of late also at her father's house; +where the power spoken of gives him not only admission, but polite +reception, and hospitable entertainment, at the hands of its owner; +while the consciousness of possessing it hinders him from observing, how +coldly his assiduities are met by her to whom they are so warmly +addressed. + +He wonders why, too. He knows that Helen Armstrong has many admirers. +It could not be otherwise with one so splendidly beautiful, so +gracefully gifted. But among them there is none for whom she has shown +partiality. + +He has, himself, conceived a suspicion, that a young man, by name +Charles Clancy--son of a decayed Irish gentleman, living near--has found +favour in her eyes. Still, it is only a suspicion; and Clancy has gone +to Texas the year before--sent, so said, by his father, to look out for +a new home. The latter has since died, leaving his widow sole occupant +of an humble tenement, with a small holding of land--a roadside tract, +on the edge of the Armstrong estate. + +Rumour runs, that young Clancy is about coming back--indeed, every day +expected. + +That can't matter. The proud planter, Armstrong, is not the man to +permit of his daughter marrying a "poor white"--as Richard Darke +scornfully styles his supposed rival--much less consent to the so +bestowing of her hand. Therefore no danger need be dreaded from that +quarter. + +Whether there need, or not, the suitor of Helen Armstrong at length +resolves on bringing the affair to an issue. His love for her has +become a strong passion, the stronger for being checked--restrained by +her cold, almost scornful behaviour. This may be but coquetry. He +hopes, and has a fancy it is. Not without reason. For he is far from +being ill-favoured; only in a sense moral, not physical. But this has +not prevented him from making many conquests among backwood's belles; +even some city celebrities living in Natchez. All know he is rich; or +will be, when his father fulfils the last conditions of his will--by +dying. + +So fortified, so flattered, Dick Darke cannot comprehend why Miss +Armstrong has not at once surrendered to him. Is it because her haughty +disposition hinders her from being too demonstrative? Does she really +love him, without giving sign? + +For months he has been cogitating in this uncertain way; and now +determines upon knowing the truth. + +One morning he mounts his horse; rides across the boundary line between +the two plantations, and on to Colonel Armstrong's house. Entering, he +requests an interview with the colonel's eldest daughter; obtains it; +makes declaration of his love; asks her if she will have him for a +husband; and in response receives a chilling negative. + +As he rides back through the woods, the birds are trilling among the +trees. It is their merry morning lay, but it gives him no gladness. +There is still ringing in his ears that harsh monosyllable, "_no_." The +wild-wood songsters appear to echo it, as if mockingly; the blue jay, +and red cardinal, seem scolding him for intrusion on their domain! + +Having recrossed the boundary between the two plantations, he reins up +and looks back. His brow is black with chagrin; his lips white with +rancorous rage. It is suppressed no longer. Curses come hissing +through his teeth, along with them the words,-- + +"In less than six weeks these woods will be mine, and hang me, if I +don't shoot every bird that has roost in them! Then, Miss Helen +Armstrong, you'll not feel in such conceit with yourself. It will be +different when you haven't a roof over your head". So good-bye, +sweetheart! Good-bye to you. + +"Now, dad!" he continues, in fancy apostrophising his father, "you can +take your own way, as you've been long wanting. Yes, my respected +parent; you shall be free to foreclose your mortgage; put in execution; +sheriff's officers--anything you like." + +Angrily grinding his teeth, he plunges the spur into his horse's ribs, +and rides on--the short, but bitter, speech still echoing in his ears. + + + +CHAPTER THREE. + +A FOREST POST-OFFICE. + +From the harsh treatment of slaves sprang a result, little thought of by +the inhuman master; though greatly detrimental to his interests. It +caused them occasionally to abscond; so making it necessary to insert an +advertisement in the county newspaper, offering a reward for the +runaway. Thus cruelty proved expensive. + +In planter Darke's case, however, the cost was partially recouped by the +cleverness of his son; who was a noted "nigger-catcher," and kept dogs +for the especial purpose. He had a natural _penchant_ for this kind of +chase; and, having little else to do, passed a good deal of his time +scouring the country in pursuit of his father's advertised runaways. +Having caught them, he would claim the "bounty," just as if they +belonged to a stranger. Darke, _pere_, paid it without grudge or +grumbling--perhaps the only disbursement he ever made in such mood. It +was like taking out of one pocket to put into the other. Besides, he +was rather proud of his son's acquitting himself so shrewdly. + +Skirting the two plantations, with others in the same line of +settlements, was a cypress swamp. It extended along the edge of the +great river, covering an area of many square miles. Besides being a +swamp, it was a network of creeksy bayous, and lagoons--often inundated, +and only passable by means of skiff or canoe. In most places it was a +slough of soft mud, where man might not tread, nor any kind of +water-craft make way. Over it, at all times, hung the obscurity of +twilight. The solar rays, however bright above, could not penetrate its +close canopy of cypress tops, loaded with that strangest of parasitical +plants--the _tillandsia usneoides_. + +This tract of forest offered a safe place of concealment for runaway +slaves; and, as such, was it noted throughout the neighbourhood. A +"darkey" absconding from any of the contiguous plantations, was as sure +to make for the marshy expanse, as would a chased rabbit to its warren. + +Sombre and gloomy though it was, around its edge lay the favourite +scouting-ground of Richard Darke. To him the cypress swamp was a +precious preserve--as a coppice to the pheasant shooter, or a scrub-wood +to the hunter of foxes. With the difference, that his game was human, +and therefore the pursuit more exciting. + +There were places in its interior to which he had never penetrated-- +large tracts unexplored, and where exploration could not be made without +great difficulty. But for him to reach them was not necessary. The +runaways who sought asylum in the swamp, could not always remain within +its gloomy recesses. Food must be obtained beyond its border, or +starvation be their fate. For this reason the fugitive required some +mode of communicating with the outside world. And usually obtained it, +by means of a confederate--some old friend, and fellow-slave, on one of +the adjacent plantations--privy to the secret of his hiding-place. On +this necessity the negro-catcher most depended; often finding the +stalk--or "still-hunt," in backwoods phraseology--more profitable than a +pursuit with trained hounds. + +About a month after his rejection by Miss Armstrong, Richard Darke is +out upon a chase; as usual along the edge of the cypress swamp, rather +should it be called a search: since he has found no traces of the human +game that has tempted him forth. This is a fugitive negro--one of the +best field-hands belonging to his father's plantation--who has absented +himself, and cannot be recalled. + +For several weeks "Jupiter"--as the runaway is named--has been missing; +and his description, with the reward attached, has appeared in the +county newspaper. The planter's son, having a suspicion that he is +secreted somewhere in the swamp, has made several excursions thither, in +the hope of lighting upon his tracks. But "Jupe" is an astute fellow, +and has hitherto contrived to leave no sign, which can in any way +contribute to his capture. + +Dick Darke is returning home, after an unsuccessful day's search, in +anything but a cheerful mood. Though not so much from having failed in +finding traces of the missing slave. That is only a matter of money; +and, as he has plenty, the disappointment can be borne. The thought +embittering his spirit relates to another matter. He thinks of his +scorned suit, and blighted love prospects. + +The chagrin caused him by Helen Armstrong's refusal has terribly +distressed, and driven him to more reckless courses. He drinks deeper +than ever; while in his cups he has been silly enough to let his boon +companions become acquainted with his reason for thus running riot, +making not much secret, either, of the mean revenge he designs for her +who has rejected him. She is to be punished through her father. + +Colonel Armstrong's indebtedness to Ephraim Darke has become known +throughout the settlement--all about the mortgage. Taking into +consideration the respective characters of the mortgagor and mortgagee, +men shake their heads, and say that Darke will soon own the Armstrong +plantation. All the sooner, since the chief obstacle to the fulfilment +of his long-cherished design has been his son, and this is now removed. + +Notwithstanding the near prospect of having his spite gratified, Richard +Darke keenly feels his humiliation. He has done so ever since the day +of his receiving it; and as determinedly has he been nursing his wrath. +He has been still further exasperated by a circumstance which has lately +occurred--the return of Charles Clancy from Texas. Someone has told him +of Clancy having been seen in company with Helen Armstrong--the two +walking the woods _alone_! + +Such an interview could not have been with her father's consent, but +_clandestine_. So much the more aggravating to him--Darke. The thought +of it is tearing his heart, as he returns from his fruitless search +after the fugitive. + +He has left the swamp behind, and is continuing on through a tract of +woodland, which separates his father's plantation from that of Colonel +Armstrong, when he sees something that promises relief to his perturbed +spirit. It is a woman, making her way through the woods, coming towards +him, from the direction of Armstrong's house. + +She is not the colonel's daughter--neither one. Nor does Dick Darke +suppose it either. Though seen indistinctly under the shadow of the +trees, he identifies the approaching form as that of Julia--a mulatto +maiden, whose special duty it is to attend upon the young ladies of the +Armstrong family, "Thank God for the devil's luck!" he mutters, on +making her out. "It's Jupiter's sweetheart; his Juno or Leda, +yellow-hided as himself. _No_ doubt she's on her way to keep an +appointment with him? No more, that I shall be present at the +interview. Two hundred dollars reward for old Jupe, and the fun of +giving the damned nigger a good `lamming,' once I lay hand on him. Keep +on, Jule, girl! You'll track him up for me, better than the sharpest +scented hound in my kennel." + +While making this soliloquy, the speaker withdraws himself behind a +bush; and, concealed by its dense foliage, keeps his eye on the mulatto +wench, still wending her way through the thick standing tree trunks. + +As there is no path, and the girl is evidently going by stealth, he has +reason to believe she is on the errand conjectured. + +Indeed he can have no doubt about her being on the way to an interview +with Jupiter; and he is now good as certain of soon discovering, and +securing, the runaway who has so long contrived to elude him. + +After the girl has passed the place of his concealment--which she very +soon does--he slips out from behind the bush, and follows her with +stealthy tread, still taking care to keep cover between them. + +Not long before she comes to a stop; under a grand magnolia, whose +spreading branches, with their large laurel like leaves, shadow a vast +circumference of ground. + +Darke, who has again taken stand behind a fallen tree, where he has a +full view of her movements, watches them with eager eyes. Two hundred +dollars at stake--two hundred on his own account--fifteen hundred for +his father--Jupe's market value--no wonder at his being all eyes, all +ears, on the alert! + +What is his astonishment, at seeing the girl take a letter from her +pocket, and, standing on tiptoe, drop it into a knot-hole in the +magnolia! + +This done, she turns shoulder towards the tree; and, without staying +longer under its shadow, glides back along the path by which she has +come--evidently going home again! + +The negro-catcher is not only surprised, but greatly chagrined. He has +experienced a double disappointment--the anticipation of earning two +hundred dollars, and giving his old slave the lash: both pleasant if +realised, but painful the thought in both to be foiled. + +Still keeping in concealment, he permits Julia to depart, not only +unmolested, but unchallenged. There may be some secret in the letter to +concern, though it may not console him. In any case, it will soon be +his. + +And it soon is, without imparting consolation. Rather the reverse. +Whatever the contents of that epistle, so curiously deposited, Richard +Darke, on becoming acquainted with them, reels like a drunken man; and +to save himself from falling, seeks support against the trunk of the +tree! + +After a time, recovering, he re-reads the letter, and gazes at a +picture--a photograph--also found within the envelope. + +Then from his lips come words, low-muttered--words of menace, made +emphatic by an oath. + +A man's name is heard among his mutterings, more than once repeated. + +As Dick Darke, after thrusting letter and picture into his pocket, +strides away from the spot, his clenched teeth, with the lurid light +scintillating in his eyes, to this man foretell danger--maybe death. + + + +CHAPTER FOUR. + +TWO GOOD GIRLS. + +The dark cloud, long lowering over Colonel Armstrong and his fortunes, +is about to fall. A dialogue with his eldest daughter occurring on the +same day--indeed in the same hour--when she refused Richard Darke, shows +him to have been but too well aware of the prospect of impending ruin. + +The disappointed suitor had not long left the presence of the lady, who +so laconically denied him, when another appears by her side. A man, +too; but no rival of Richard Darke--no lover of Helen Armstrong. The +venerable white-haired gentleman, who has taken Darke's place, is her +father, the old colonel himself. His air, on entering the room, betrays +uneasiness about the errand of the planter's son--a suspicion there is +something amiss. He is soon made certain of it, by his daughter +unreservedly communicating the object of the interview. He says in +rejoinder:-- + +"I supposed that to be his purpose; though, from his coming at this +early hour, I feared something worse." + +These words bring a shadow over the countenance of her to whom they are +addressed, simultaneous with a glance of inquiry from her grand, +glistening eyes. + +First exclaiming, then interrogating, she says:-- + +"Worse! Feared! Father, what should you be afraid of?" + +"Never mind, my child; nothing that concerns you. Tell me: in what way +did you give him answer?" + +"In one little word. I simply said _no_." + +"That little word will, no doubt, be enough. O Heaven! what is to +become of us?" + +"Dear father!" demands the beautiful girl, laying her hand upon his +shoulder, with a searching look into his eyes; "why do you speak thus? +Are you angry with me for refusing him? Surely you would not wish to +see me the wife of Richard Darke?" + +"You do not love him, Helen?" + +"Love him! Can you ask? Love that man!" + +"You would not marry him?" + +"Would not--could not. I'd prefer death." + +"Enough; I must submit to my fate." + +"Fate, father! What may be the meaning of this? There is some secret-- +a danger? Trust to me. Let me know all." + +"I may well do that, since it cannot remain much longer a secret. There +_is_ danger, Helen--_the danger of debt_! My estate is mortgaged to the +father of this fellow--so much as to put me completely in his power. +Everything I possess, land, houses, slaves, may become his at any hour; +this day, if he so will it. He is sure to will it now. Your little +word `no,' will bring about a big change--the crisis I've been long +apprehending. Never mind! Let it come! I must meet it like a man. It +is for you, daughter--you and your sister--I grieve. My poor dear +girls; what a change there will be in your lives, as your prospects! +Poverty, coarse fare, coarse garments to wear, and a log-cabin to live +in! Henceforth, this must be your lot. I can hold out hope of no +other." + +"What of all that, father? I, for one, care not; and I'm sure sister +will feel the same. But is there no way to--" + +"Save me from bankruptcy, you'd say? You need not ask that. I have +spent many a sleepless night thinking it there was. But no; there is +only one--that one. It I have never contemplated, even for an instant, +knowing it would not do. I was sure you did not love Richard Darke, and +would not consent to marry him. You could not, my child?" + +Helen Armstrong does not make immediate answer, though there is one +ready to leap to her lips. + +She hesitates giving it, from a thought, that it may add to the weight +of unhappiness pressing upon her father's spirit. + +Mistaking her silence, and perhaps with the spectre of poverty staring +him in the face--oft inciting to meanness, even the noblest natures--he +repeats the test interrogatory:-- + +"Tell me, daughter! Could you marry him?" + +"Speak candidly," he continues, "and take time to reflect before +answering. If you think you could not be contented--happy--with Richard +Darke for your husband, better it should never be. Consult your own +heart, and do not be swayed by me, or my necessities. Say, is the thing +impossible?" + +"I have said. _It is impossible_!" + +For a moment both remain silent; the father drooping, spiritless, as if +struck by a galvanic shock; the daughter looking sorrowful, as though +she had given it. + +She soonest recovering, makes an effort to restore him. + +"Dear father!" she exclaims, laying her hand upon his shoulder, and +gazing tenderly into his eyes; "you speak of a change in our +circumstances--of bankruptcy and other ills. Let them come! For myself +I care not. Even if the alternative were death, I've told you--I tell +you again--I would rather that, than be the wife of Richard Darke." + +"Then his wife you'll never be! Now, let the subject drop, and the ruin +fall! We must prepare for poverty, and Texas!" + +"Texas, if you will, but not poverty. Nothing of the kind. The wealth +of affection will make you feel rich; and in a lowly log-hut, as in this +grand house, you'll still have mine." + +So speaking, the fair girl flings herself upon her father's breast, her +hand laid across his forehead, the white fingers soothingly caressing +it. + +The door opens. Another enters the room--another girl, almost fair as +she, but brighter, and younger. 'Tis Jessie. + +"Not only my affection," Helen adds, at sight of the newcomer, "but hers +as well. Won't he, sister?" + +Sister, wondering what it is all about, nevertheless sees something is +wanted of her. She has caught the word "affection," at the same time +observing an afflicted cast upon her father's countenance. This decides +her; and, gliding forward, in another instant she is by his side, +clinging to the opposite shoulder, with an arm around his neck. + +Thus grouped, the three figures compose a family picture expressive of +purest love. + +A pleasing tableau to one who knew nothing of what has thus drawn them +together; or knowing it, could truly appreciate. For in the faces of +all beams affection, which bespeaks a happy, if not prosperous, future-- +without any doubting fear of either poverty, or Texas. + + + +CHAPTER FIVE. + +A PHOTOGRAPH IN THE FOREST. + +On the third day, after that on which Richard Darke abstracted the +letter from the magnolia, a man is seen strolling along the edge of the +cypress swamp. The hour is nearly the same, but the individual +altogether different. Only in age does he bear any similarity to the +planter's son; for he is also a youth of some three or four and twenty. +In all else he is unlike Dick Darke, as one man could well be to +another. + +He is of medium size and height, with a figure pleasingly proportioned. +His shoulders squarely set, and chest rounded out, tell of great +strength; while limbs tersely knit, and a firm elastic tread betoken +toughness and activity. Features of smooth, regular outline--the jaws +broad, and well balanced; the chin prominent; the nose nearly Grecian-- +while eminently handsome, proclaim a noble nature, with courage equal to +any demand that may be made upon it. Not less the glance of a blue-grey +eye, unquailing as an eagle's. + +A grand shock of hair, slightly curled, and dark brown in colour, gives +the finishing touch to his fine countenance, as the feather to a +Tyrolese hat. + +Dressed in a sort of shooting costume, with jack-boots, and gaiters +buttoned above them, he carries a gun; which, as can be seen, is a +single-barrelled rifle; while at his heels trots a dog of large size, +apparently a cross between stag-hound and mastiff, with a spice of +terrier in its composition. Such mongrels are not necessarily curs, but +often the best breed for backwoods' sport; where the keenness of scent +required to track a deer, needs supplementing by strength and +staunchness, when the game chances, as it often does, to be a bear, a +wolf, or a panther. + +The master of this trebly crossed canine is the man whose name rose upon +the lips of Richard Darke, after reading the purloined epistle--Charles +Clancy. To him was it addressed, and for him intended, as also the +photograph found inside. + +Several days have elapsed since his return from Texas, having come back, +as already known, to find himself fatherless. During the interval he +has remained much at home--a dutiful son, doing all he can to console a +sorrowing mother. Only now and then has he sought relaxation in the +chase, of which he is devotedly fond. On this occasion he has come down +to the cypress swamp; but, having encountered no game, is going back +with an empty bag. + +He is not in low spirits at his ill success; for he has something to +console him--that which gives gladness to his heart--joy almost reaching +delirium. She, who has won it, loves him. + +This she is Helen Armstrong. She has not signified as much, in words; +but by ways equally expressive, and quite as convincing. They have met +clandestinely, and so corresponded; the knot-hole in the magnolia +serving them as a post-box. At first, only phrases of friendship in +their conversation; the same in the letters thus surreptitiously +exchanged. For despite Clancy's courage among men, he is a coward in +the presence of women--in hers more than any. + +For all this, at their latest interview, he had thrown aside his +shyness, and spoken words of love--fervent love, in its last appeal. He +had avowed himself wholly hers, and asked her to be wholly his. She +declined giving him an answer _viva voce_, but promised it in writing. +He will receive it in a letter, to be deposited in the place convened. + +He feels no offence at her having thus put him off. He believes it to +have been but a whim of his sweetheart--the caprice of a woman, who has +been so much nattered and admired. He knows, that, like the Anne +Hathaway of Shakespeare, Helen Armstrong "hath a way" of her own. For +she is a girl of no ordinary character, but one of spirit, free and +independent, consonant with the scenes and people that surrounded her +youth. So far from being offended at her not giving him an immediate +answer, he but admires her the more. Like the proud eagle's mate, she +does not condescend to be wooed as the soft cooing dove, nor yield a too +easy acquiescence. + +Still daily, hourly, does he expect the promised response. And twice, +sometimes thrice, a day pays visit to the forest post-office. + +Several days have elapsed since their last interview; and yet he has +found no letter lying. Little dreams he, that one has been sent, with a +_carte de visite_ enclosed; and less of both being in the possession of +his greatest enemy on earth. + +He is beginning to grow uneasy at the delay, and shape conjectures as to +the cause. All the more from knowing, that a great change is soon to +take place in the affairs of the Armstrong family. A knowledge which +emboldened him to make the proposal he has made. + +And now, his day's hunting done, he is on his way for the tract of +woodland in which stands the sweet trysting tree. + +He has no thought of stopping, or turning aside; nor would he do so for +any small game. But at this moment a deer--a grand antlered stag--comes +"loping" along. + +Before he can bring his gun to bear upon it, the animal is out of sight; +having passed behind the thick standing trunks of the cypresses. He +restrains his hound, about to spring off on the slot. The stag has not +seen him; and, apparently, going unscared, he hopes to stalk, and again +get sight of it. + +He has not proceeded over twenty paces, when a sound fills his ears, as +well as the woods around. It is the report of a gun, fired by one who +cannot be far off. And not at the retreating stag, but himself! + +He feels that the bullet has hit him. This, from a stinging sensation +in his arm, like the touch of red-hot iron, or a drop of scalding water. +He might not know it to be a bullet, but for the crack heard +simultaneously--this coming from behind. + +The wound, fortunately but a slight one, does not disable him; and, like +a tiger stung by javelins, he is round in an instant, ready to return +the fire. + +There is no one in sight! + +As there has been no warning--not a word--he can have no doubt of the +intent: some one meaning to murder him! + +He is sure about its being an attempt to assassinate him, as of the man +who has made it. Richard Darke--certain, as if the crack of the gun had +been a voice pronouncing the name. + +Clancy's eyes, flashing angrily, interrogate the forest. The trees +stand close, the spaces between shadowy and sombre. For, as said, they +are cypresses, and the hour twilight. + +He can see nothing save the huge trunks, and their lower limbs, +garlanded with ghostly _tillandsia_ here and there draping down to the +earth. This baffles him, both by its colour and form. The grey +gauze-like festoonery, having a resemblance to ascending smoke, hinders +him from perceiving that of the discharged gun. + +He can see none. It must have whiffed up suddenly, and become +commingled with the moss? + +It does not matter much. Neither the twilight obscurity, nor that +caused by the overshadowing trees, can prevent his canine companion from +discovering the whereabouts of the would-be assassin. On hearing the +shot the hound has harked back; and, at some twenty paces off, brought +up beside a huge trunk, where it stands fiercely baying, as if at a +bear. The tree is buttressed, with "knees" several feet in height +rising around. In the dim light, these might easily be mistaken for +men. + +Clancy is soon among them; and sees crouching between two pilasters, the +man who meant to murder him--Richard Darke as conjectured. + +Darke makes no attempt at explanation. Clancy calls for none. His +rifle is already cocked; and, soon as seeing his adversary, he raises it +to his shoulder, exclaiming:-- + +"Scoundrel! you've had the first shot. It's my turn now." + +Darke does not remain inactive, but leaps--forth from his lurking-place, +to obtain more freedom for his arms. The buttresses hinder him from +having elbow room. He also elevates his gun; but, perceiving it will be +too late, instead of taking aim, he lowers the piece again, and dodges +behind the tree. + +The movement, quick and subtle, as a squirrel's bound, saves him. +Clancy fires without effect. His ball but pierces through the skirt of +Darke's coat, without touching his body. + +With a wild shout of triumph, the latter advances upon his adversary, +whose gun is now empty. His own, a double-barrel, has a bullet still +undischarged. Deliberately bringing the piece to his shoulder, and +covering the victim he is now sure of, he says derisively,-- + +"What a devilish poor shot you've made, Mister Charlie Clancy! A sorry +marksman--to miss a man scarce six feet from the muzzle of your gun! I +shan't miss you. Turn about's fair play. I've had the first, and I'll +have the last. Dog! take your _death shot_!" + +While delivering the dread speech, his finger presses the trigger; the +crack comes, with the flash and fiery jet. + +For some seconds Clancy is invisible, the sulphurous smoke forming a +nimbus around him. When it ascends, he is seen prostrate upon the +earth; the blood gushing from a wound in his breast, and spurting over +his waistcoat. + +He appears writhing in his death agony. + +And evidently thinks so himself, from his words spoken in slow, choking +utterance,-- + +"Richard Darke--you have killed--murdered me!" + +"I meant to do it," is the unpitying response. + +"O Heavens! You horrid wretch! Why--why--" + +"Bah! what are you blubbering about? You know why. If not, I shall +tell you--_Helen Armstrong_, After all, it isn't jealousy that's made me +kill you; only your impudence, to suppose you had a chance with her. +You hadn't; she never cared a straw for you. Perhaps, before dying, it +may be some consolation for you to know she didn't. I've got the proof. +Since it isn't likely you'll ever see herself again, it may give you a +pleasure to look at her portrait. Here it is! The sweet girl sent it +me this very morning, with her autograph attached, as you see. A +capital likeness, isn't it?" + +The inhuman wretch stooping down, holds the photograph before the eyes +of the dying man, gradually growing dim. + +But only death could hinder them from turning towards that sun-painted +picture--the portrait of her who has his heart. + +He gazes on it lovingly, but not long. For the script underneath claims +his attention. In this he recognises her handwriting, well-known to +him. Terrible the despair that sweeps through his soul, as he deciphers +it:-- + +"_Helen Armstrong_.--_For him she loves_." + +The picture is in the possession of Richard Darke. To him have the +sweet words been vouchsafed! + +"A charming creature!" Darke tauntingly continues, kissing the carte, +and pouring the venomous speech into his victim's ear. "It's the very +counterpart of her sweet self. As I said, she sent it me this morning. +Come, Clancy! Before giving up the ghost, tell me what you think of it. +Isn't it an excellent likeness?" + +To the inhuman interrogatory Clancy makes no response--either by word, +look, or gesture. His lips are mute, his eyes without light of life, +his limbs and body motionless as the mud on which they lie. + +A short, but profane, speech terminates the terrible episode; four words +of most heartless signification:-- + +"Damn him; he's dead!" + + + +CHAPTER SIX. + +A COON-CHASE INTERRUPTED. + +Notwithstanding the solitude of the place where the strife, apparently +fatal, has occurred, and the slight chances of its being seen, its +sounds have been heard. The shots, the excited speeches, and angry +exclamations, have reached the ears of one who can well interpret them. +This is a coon-hunter. + +There is no district in the Southern States without its coon-hunter. In +most, many of them; but in each, one who is noted. And, notedly, he is +a negro. The pastime is too tame, or too humble, to tempt the white +man. Sometimes the sons of "poor white trash" take part in it; but it +is usually delivered over to the "darkey." + +In the old times of slavery every plantation could boast of one, or +more, of these sable Nimrods; and they are not yet extinct. To them +coon-catching is a profit, as well as sport; the skins keeping them in +tobacco--and whisky, when addicted to drinking it. The flesh, too, +though little esteemed by white palates, is a _bonne-bouche_ to the +negro, with whom animal food is a scarce commodity. It often furnishes +him with the substance for a savoury roast. + +The plantation of Ephraim Darke is no exception to the general rule. +It, too, has its coon-hunter--a negro named, or nicknamed, "Blue Bill;" +the qualifying term bestowed, from a cerulean tinge, that in certain +lights appears upon the surface of his sable epidermis. Otherwise he is +black as ebony. + +Blue Bill is a mighty hunter of his kind, passionately fond of the +coon-chase--too much, indeed, for his own personal safety. It carries +him abroad, when the discipline of the plantation requires him to be at +home; and more than once, for so absenting himself, have his shoulders +been scored by the "cowskin." + +Still the punishment has not cured him of his proclivity. Unluckily for +Richard Darke, it has not. For on the evening of Clancy's being shot +down, as described, Blue Bill chances to be abroad; and, with a small +cur, which he has trained to his favourite chase, is scouring the timber +near the edge of the cypress swamp. + +He has "treed" an old he-coon, and is just preparing to ascend to the +creature's nest--a cavity in a sycamore high up--when a deer comes +dashing by. Soon after a shot startles him. He is more disturbed at +the peculiar crack, than by the mere fact of its being the report of a +gun. His ear, accustomed to such sounds, tells him the report has +proceeded from a fowling-piece, belonging to his young master--just then +the last man he would wish to meet. He is away from the "quarter" +without "pass," or permission of any kind. + +His first impulse is, to continue the ascent of the sycamore, and +conceal himself among its branches. + +But his dog, remaining below--that will betray him? + +While hurriedly reflecting on what he had best do, he hears a second +shot. Then a third, coming quickly after; while preceding, and mingling +with the reports are men's voices, apparently in mad expostulation. He +hears, too, the angry growling of a hound, at intervals barking and +baying. + +"Gorramity!" mutters Blue Bill; "dar's a skrimmage goin' on dar--a +_fight_, I reck'n, an' seemin' to be def! Clar enuf who dat fight's +between. De fuss shot wa' Mass' Dick's double-barrel; de oder am Charl +Clancy rifle. By golly! 'taint safe dis child be seen hya, no how. +Whar kin a hide maseff?" + +Again he glances upward, scanning the sycamore: then down at his dog; +and once more to the trunk of the tree. This is embraced by a creeper-- +a gigantic grape-vine--up which an ascent may easily be made; so easily, +there need be no difficulty in carrying the cur along. It was the +ladder he intended using to get at the treed coon. + +With the fear of his young master coming past--and if so, surely +"cow-hiding" him--he feels there is no time to be wasted in vacillation. + +Nor does he waste any. Without further stay, he flings his arm around +the coon-dog: raises the unresisting animal from the earth; and "swarms" +up the creeper, like a she-bear carrying her cub. + +In ten seconds after, he is snugly ensconced in a crotch of the +sycamore; screened from observation of any one who may pass underneath, +by the profuse foliage of the parasite. + +Feeling fairly secure, he once more sets himself to listen. And, +listening attentively, he hears the same voices as before. But not any +longer in angry ejaculation. The tones are tranquil, as though the two +men were now quietly conversing. One says but a word or two; the other +all. Then the last alone appears to speak, as if in soliloquy, or from +the first failing to make response. + +The sudden transition of tone has in it something strange--a contrast +inexplicable. + +The coon-hunter can tell, that he continuing to talk is his young +master, Richard Darke; though he cannot catch, the words, much less make +out their meaning. The distance is too great, and the current of sound +interrupted by the thick standing trunks of the cypresses. + +At length, also, the monologue ends; soon after, succeeded by a short +exclamatory phrase, in voice louder and more earnest. + +Then there is silence; so profound, that Blue Bill hears but his own +heart, beating in loud sonorous thumps--louder from his ribs being +contiguous to the hollow trunk of the tree. + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN. + +MURDER WITHOUT REMORSE. + +The breathless silence, succeeding Darke's profane speech, is +awe-inspiring; death-like, as though every living creature in the forest +had been suddenly struck dumb, or dead, too. + +Unspeakably, incredibly atrocious is the behaviour of the man who has +remained master of the ground. During the contest, Dick Darke has shown +the cunning of the fox, combined with the fiercer treachery of the +tiger; victorious, his conduct seems a combination of the jackal and +vulture. + +Stooping over his fallen foe, to assure himself that the latter no +longer lives, he says,-- + +"Dead, I take it." + +These are his cool words; after which, as though still in doubt, he +bends lower, and listens. At the same time he clutches the handle of +his hunting knife, as with the intent to plunge its blade into the body. + +He sees there is no need. It is breathless, almost bloodless--clearly a +corpse! + +Believing it so, he resumes his erect attitude, exclaiming in louder +tone, and with like profanity as before,-- + +"Yes, dead, damn him!" + +As the assassin bends over the body of his fallen foe, he shows no sign +of contrition, for the cruel deed he has done. No feeling save that of +satisfied vengeance; no emotion that resembles remorse. On the +contrary, his cold animal eyes continue to sparkle with jealous hate; +while his hand has moved mechanically to the hilt of his knife, as +though he meant to mutilate the form he has laid lifeless. Its beauty, +even in death, seems to embitter his spirit! + +But soon, a sense of danger comes creeping over him, and fear takes +shape in his soul. For, beyond doubt, he has done murder. + +"No!" he says, in an effort at self-justification. "Nothing of the +sort. I've killed him; that's true; but he's had the chance to kill me. +They'll see that his gun's discharged; and here's his bullet gone +through the skirt of my coat. By thunder, 'twas a close shave!" + +For a time he stands reflecting--his glance now turned towards the body, +now sent searchingly through the trees, as though in dread of some one +coming that way. + +Not much likelihood of this. The spot is one of perfect solitude, as is +always a cypress forest. There is no path near, accustomed to be +trodden by the traveller. The planter has no business among those great +buttressed trunks. The woodman will never assail them with his axe. +Only a stalking hunter, or perhaps some runaway slave, is at all likely +to stray thither. + +Again soliloquising, he says,-- + +"Shall I put a bold face upon it, and confess to having killed him? I +can say we met while out hunting; quarrelled, and fought--a fair fight; +shot for shot; my luck to have the last. Will that story stand?" + +A pause in the soliloquy; a glance at the prostrate form; another, which +interrogates the scene around, taking in the huge unshapely trunks, +their long outstretched limbs, with the pall-like festoonery of Spanish +moss; a thought about the loneliness of the place, and its fitness for +concealing a dead body. + +Like the lightning's flashes, all this flits through the mind of the +murderer. The result, to divert him from his half-formed resolution-- +perceiving its futility. + +"It won't do," he mutters, his speech indicating the change. "No, that +it won't! Better say nothing about what's happened. They're not likely +to look for him here..." + +Again he glances inquiringly around, with a view to secreting the +corpse. He has made up his mind to this. + +A sluggish creak meanders among the trees, some two hundred yards from +the spot. At about a like distance below, it discharges itself into the +stagnant reservoir of the swamp. + +Its waters are dark, from the overshadowing of the cypresses, and deep +enough for the purpose he is planning. + +But to carry the body thither will require an effort of strength; and to +drag it would be sure to leave traces. + +In view of this difficulty, he says to himself,-- + +"I'll let it lie where it is. No one ever comes along hero--not likely. +At the same time, I take it, there can be no harm in hiding him a +little. So, Charley Clancy, if I have sent you to kingdom come, I +shan't leave your bones unburied. Your ghost might haunt me, if I did. +To hinder that you shall have interment." + +In the midst of this horrid mockery, he rests his gun against a tree, +and commences dragging the Spanish moss from the branches above. The +beard-like parasite comes off in flakes--in armfuls. Half a dozen he +flings over the still palpitating corpse; then pitches on top some +pieces of dead wood, to prevent any stray breeze from sweeping off the +hoary shroud. + +After strewing other tufts around, to conceal the blood and boot tracks, +he rests from his labour, and for a time stands surveying what he has +done. + +At length seeming satisfied, he again grasps hold of his gun; and is +about taking departure from the place, when a sound, striking his ear, +causes him to start. No wonder, since it seems the voice of one wailing +for the dead! + +At first he is affrighted, fearfully so; but recovers himself on +learning the cause. + +"Only the dog!" he mutters, perceiving Clancy's hound at a distance, +among the trees. + +On its master being shot down, the animal had scampered off--perhaps +fearing a similar fate. It had not gone far, and is now returning--by +little and little, drawing nearer to the dangerous spot. + +The creature seems struggling between two instincts--affection for its +fallen master, and fear for itself. + +As Darke's gun is empty, he endeavours to entice the dog within reach of +his knife. Despite his coaxing, it will not come! + +Hastily ramming a cartridge into the right-hand barrel, he aims, and +fires. + +The shot takes effect; the ball passing through the fleshy part of the +dog's neck. Only to crease the skin, and draw forth a spurt of blood. + +The hound hit, and further frightened, gives out a wild howl, and goes +off, without sign of return. + +Equally wild are the words that leap from the lips of Richard Darke, as +he stands gazing after. + +"Great God!" he cries; "I've done an infernal foolish thing. The cur +will go home to Clancy's house. That'll tell a tale, sure to set people +searching. Ay, and it may run back here, guiding them to the spot. +Holy hell!" + +While speaking, the murderer turns pale. It is the first time for him +to experience real fear. In such an out-of-the-way place he has felt +confident of concealing the body, and along with it the bloody deed. +Then, he had not taken the dog into account, and the odds were in his +favour. Now, with the latter adrift, they are heavily against him. + +It needs no calculation of chances to make this clear. Nor is it any +doubt which causes him to stand hesitating. His irresolution springs +from uncertainty as to what course he shall pursue. + +One thing certain--he must not remain there. The hound has gone off +howling. It is two miles to the widow Clancy's house; but there is an +odd squatter's cabin and clearing between. A dog going in that guise, +blood-bedraggled, in full cry of distress, will be sure of being seen-- +equally sure to raise an alarm. + +On the probable, or possible, contingencies Dick Darke does not stand +long reflecting. Despite its solitude, the cypress forest is not the +place for tranquil thought--at least, not now for him. Far off through +the trees he can hear the wail of the wounded Molossian. + +Is it fancy, or does he also hear human voices? + +He stays not to be sure. Beside that gory corpse, shrouded though it +be, he dares not remain a moment longer. + +Hastily shouldering his gun, he strikes off through the trees; at first +in quick step; then in double; this increasing to a rapid run. + +He retreats in a direction contrary to that taken by the dog. It is +also different from the way leading to his father's house. It forces +him still further into the swamp--across sloughs, and through soft mud, +where he makes footmarks. Though he has carefully concealed Clancy's +corpse, and obliterated all other traces of the strife, in his "scare," +he does not think of those he is now making. + +The murderer is only--cunning before the crime. After it, if he have +conscience, or be deficient in coolness, he loses self-possession, and +is pretty sure to leave behind something which will furnish a clue for +the detective. + +So is it with Richard Darke. As he retreats from the scene of his +diabolical deed, his only thought is to put space between himself and +the spot where he has shed innocent blood; to get beyond earshot of +those canine cries, that seem commingled with the shouts of men--the +voices of avengers! + + + +CHAPTER EIGHT. + +THE COON-HUNTER CAUTIOUS. + +During the time that Darke is engaged in covering up Clancy's body, and +afterwards occupied in the attempt to kill his dog, the coon-hunter, +squatted in the sycamore fork, sticks to his seat like "death to a dead +nigger." And all the time trembling. Not without reason. For the +silence succeeding the short exclamatory speech has not re-assured him. +He believes it to be but a lull, denoting some pause in the action, and +that one, or both, of the actors is still upon the ground. If only one, +it will be his master, whose monologue was last heard. During the +stillness, somewhat prolonged, he continues to shape conjectures and put +questions to himself, as to what can have been the _fracas_, and its +cause. Undoubtedly a "shooting scrape" between Dick Darke and Charles +Clancy. But how has it terminated, or is the end yet come? Has one of +the combatants been killed, or gone away? Or have both forsaken the +spot where they have been trying to spill each other's blood? + +While thus interrogating himself, a new sound disturbs the tranquillity +of the forest--the same, which the assassin at first fancied was the +voice of one wailing for his victim. The coon-hunter has no such +delusion. Soon as hearing, he recognises the tongue of a stag-hound, +knowing it to be Clancy's. He is only astray about its peculiar tone, +now quite changed. The animal is neither barking nor baying; nor yet +does it yelp as if suffering chastisement. The soft tremulous whine, +that comes pealing in prolonged reverberation through the trunks of the +cypresses, proclaims distress of a different kind--as of a dog asleep +and dreaming! + +And now, once more a man's voice, his master's. It too changed in tone. +No longer in angry exclaim, or quiet conversation, but as if earnestly +entreating; the speech evidently not addressed to Clancy, but the hound. + +Strange all this; and so thinks the coon-hunter. He has but little time +to dwell on it, before another sound waking the echoes of the forest, +interrupts the current of his reflections. Another shot! This time, as +twice before, the broad round boom of a smooth-bore, so different from +the short sharp "spang" of a rifle. + +Thoroughly versed in the distinction--indeed an adept--Blue Bill knows +from whose gun the shot has been discharged. It is the double-barrel +belonging to Richard Darke. All the more reason for him to hug close to +his concealment. + +And not the less to be careful about the behaviour of his own dog, which +he is holding in hard embrace. For hearing the bound, the cur is +disposed to give response; would do so but for the muscular fingers of +its master closed chokingly around its throat, at intervals detached to +give it a cautionary cuff. + +After the shot the stag-hound continues its lugubrious cries; but again +with altered intonation, and less distinctly heard; as though the animal +had gone farther off, and were still making away. + +But now a new noise strikes upon the coon-hunter's ears; one at first +slight, but rapidly growing louder. It is the tread of footsteps, +accompanied by a swishing among the palmettoes, that form an underwood +along the edge of the swamp. Some one is passing through them, +advancing towards the tree where he is concealed. + +More than ever does he tremble on his perch; tighter than ever clutching +the throat of his canine companion. For he is sure, that the man whose +footsteps speak approach, is his master, or rather his master's son. +The sounds seem to indicate great haste--a retreat rapid, headlong, +confused. On which the peccant slave bases a hope of escaping +observation, and too probable chastisement. Correct in his conjecture, +as in the prognostication, in a few seconds after he sees Richard Darke +coming between the trees; running as for very life--the more like it +that he goes crouchingly; at intervals stopping to look back and listen, +with chin almost touching his shoulder! + +When opposite the sycamore--indeed under it--he makes pause longer than +usual. The perspiration stands in beads upon his forehead, pours down +his cheeks, over his eyebrows, almost blinding him. He whips a kerchief +out of his coat pocket, and wipes it off. While so occupied, he does +not perceive that he has let something drop--something white that came +out along with the kerchief. Replacing the piece of cambric he hurries +on again, leaving it behind; on, on, till the dull thud of his footfall, +and the crisp rustling of the stiff fan-like leaves, become both blended +with the ordinary noises of the forest. + +Then, but not before, does Blue Bill think of forsaking the fork. +Descending from his irksome seat, he approaches the white thing left +lying on the ground--a letter enveloped in the ordinary way. He takes +it up, and sees it has been already opened. He thinks not of drawing +out the sheet folded inside. It would be no use; since the coon-hunter +cannot read. Still, an instinct tells him, the little bit of +treasure-trove may some time, and in some way, prove useful. So +forecasting, he slips it into his pocket. + +This done he stands reflecting. No noise to disturb him now. Darke's +footsteps have died away in the distance, leaving swamp and cypress +forest restored to their habitual stillness. The only sound, Blue Bill +hears, is the beating of his own heart, yet loud enough. + +No longer thinks he of the coon he has succeeded in treeing. The +animal, late devoted to certain death, will owe its escape to an +accident, and may now repose securely within its cave. Its pursuer has +other thoughts--emotions, strong enough to drive coon-hunting clean out +of his head. Among these are apprehensions about his own safety. +Though unseen by Richard Darke--his presence there unsuspected--he knows +that an unlucky chance has placed him in a position of danger. That a +sinister deed has been done he is sure. + +Under the circumstances, how is he to act? Proceed to the place whence +the shots came, and ascertain what has actually occurred? + +At first he thinks of doing this; but surrenders the intention. +Affrighted by what is already known to him, he dares not know more. His +young master may be a murderer? The way in which he was retreating +almost said as much. Is he, Blue Bill, to make himself acquainted with +the crime, and bear witness against him who has committed it? As a +slave, he knows his testimony will count for little in a court of +justice. And as the slave of Ephraim Darke, as little would his life be +worth after giving it. + +The last reflection decides him; and, still carrying the coon-dog under +his arm, he parts from the spot, in timid skulking gait, never stopping, +not feeling safe, till he finds himself inside the limits of the "negro +quarter." + + + +CHAPTER NINE. + +AN ASSASSIN IN RETREAT. + +Athwart the thick timber, going as one pursued--in a track straight as +the underwood will allow--breaking through it like a chased bear--now +stumbling over a fallen log, now caught in a trailing grape-vine-- +Richard Darke flees from the place where he has laid his rival low. + +He makes neither stop, nor stay. If so, only for a few instants, just +long enough to listen, and if possible learn whether he is being +followed. + +Whether or not, he fancies it; again starting off, with terror in his +looks, and trembling in his limbs. The _sangfroid_ he exhibited while +bending over the dead body of his victim, and afterwards concealing it, +has quite forsaken him now. Then he was confident, there could be no +witness of the deed--nothing to connect him with it as the doer. Since, +there is a change--the unthought-of presence of the dog having produced +it. Or, rather, the thought of the animal having escaped. This, and +his own imagination. + +For more than a mile he keeps on, in headlong reckless rushing. Until +fatigue overtaking him, his terror becomes less impulsive, his fancies +freer from exaggeration; and, believing himself far enough from the +scene of danger, he at length desists from flight, and comes to a dead +stop. + +Sitting down upon a log, he draws forth his pocket-handkerchief, and +wipes the sweat from his face. For he is perspiring at every pore, +panting, palpitating. He now finds time to reflect; his first +reflection being the absurdity of his making such precipitate retreat; +his next, its imprudence. + +"I've been a fool for it," he mutters. "Suppose that some one has seen +me? 'Twill only have made things worse. And what have I been running +away from? A dead body, and a living dog! Why should I care for +either? Even though the adage be true--about a live dog better than a +dead lion. Let me hope the hound won't tell a tale upon me. For +certain the shot hit him. That's nothing. Who could say what sort of +ball, or the kind of gun it came from? No danger in that. I'd be +stupid to think there could be. Well, it's all over now, and the +question is: what next?" + +For some minutes he remains upon the log, with the gun resting across +his knees, and his head bent over the barrels. He appears engaged in +some abstruse calculation. A new thought has sprang up in his mind--a +scheme requiring all his intellectual power to elaborate. + +"I shall keep that tryst," he says, in soliloquy, seeming at length to +have settled it. "Yes; I'll meet her under the magnolia. Who can tell +what changes may occur in the heart of a woman? In history I had a +royal namesake--an English king, with an ugly hump on his shoulders--as +he's said himself, `deformed, unfinished, sent into the world scarce +half made up,' so that the `dogs barked at _him_,' just as this brute of +Clancy's has been doing at me. And this royal Richard, shaped `so +lamely and unfashionable,' made court to a woman, whose husband he had +just assassinated--more than a woman, a proud queen--and more than +wooed, he subdued her. This ought to encourage me; the better that I, +Richard Darke, am neither halt, nor hunchbacked. No, nor yet +unfashionable, as many a Mississippian girl says, and more than one is +ready to swear. + +"Proud Helen Armstrong may be, and is; proud as England's queen herself. +For all that, I've got something to subdue her--a scheme, cunning as +that of my royal namesake. May God, or the Devil, grant me like +success!" + +At the moment of giving utterance to the profane prayer, he rises to his +feet. Then, taking out his watch, consults it. + +It is too dark for him to see the dial; but springing open the glass, he +gropes against it, feeling for the hands. + +"Half-past nine," he mutters, after making out the time. "Ten is the +hour of her assignation. No chance for me to get home before, and then +over to Armstrong's wood-ground. It's more than two miles from here. +What matters my going home? Nor any need changing this dress. She +won't notice the hole in the skirt. If she do, she wouldn't think of +what caused it--above all it's being a bullet. Well, I must be off! It +will never do to keep the young lady waiting. If she don't feel +disappointed at seeing me, bless her! If she do, I shall curse her! +What's passed prepares me for either event. In any case, I shall have +satisfaction for the slight she's put upon me. By God I'll get that!" + +He is moving away, when a thought occurs staying him. He is not quite +certain about the exact hour of Helen Armstrong's tryst, conveyed in her +letter to Clancy. In the madness of his mind ever since perusing that +epistle, no wonder he should confuse circumstances, and forget dates. + +To make sure, he plunges his hand into the pocket, where he deposited +both letter and photograph--after holding the latter before the eyes of +his dying foeman, and witnessing the fatal effect. With all his +diabolical hardihood, he had been awed by this--so as to thrust the +papers into his pocket, hastily, carelessly. + +They are no longer there! + +He searches in his other pockets--in all of them, with like result. He +examines his bullet-pouch and gamebag. But finds no letter, no +photograph, not a scrap of paper, in any! The stolen epistle, its +envelope, the enclosed _carte de visite_--all are absent. + +After ransacking his pockets, turning them inside out, he comes to the +conclusion that the precious papers are lost. + +It startles, and for a moment dismays him. Where are they? He must +have let them fall in his hasty retreat through the trees; or left them +by the dead body. + +Shall he go back in search of them? + +No--no--no! He does not dare to return upon that track. The forest +path is too sombre, too solitary, now. By the margin of the dank +lagoon, under the ghostly shadow of the cypresses, he might meet the +ghost of the man murdered! + +And why should he go back? After all, there is no need; nothing in the +letter which can in any way compromise him. Why should he care to +recover it? + +"It may go to the devil, her picture along! Let both rot where I +suppose I must have dropped them--in the mud, or among the palmettoes. +No matter where. But it does matter, my being under the magnolia at the +right time, to meet her. Then shall I learn my fate--know it, for +better, for worse. If the former, I'll continue to believe in the story +of Richard Plantagenet; if the latter, Richard Darke won't much care +what becomes of him." + +So ending his strange soliloquy, with a corresponding cast upon his +countenance, the assassin rebuttons his coat--thrown open in search for +the missing papers. Then, flinging the double-barrelled fowling-piece-- +the murder-gun--over his sinister shoulder, he strides off to keep an +appointment not made for him, but for the man he has murdered! + + + +CHAPTER TEN. + +THE EVE OF DEPARTURE. + +The evil day has arrived; the ruin, foreseen, has fallen. + +The mortgage deed, so long held in menace over the head of Archibald +Armstrong--suspended, as it were, by a thread, like the sword of +Damocles--is to be put into execution. Darke has demanded immediate +payment of the debt, coupled with threat of foreclosure. + +The demand is a month old, the threat has been carried out, and the +foreclosure effected. The thread having been cut, the keen blade of +adversity has come down, severing the tie which attached Colonel +Armstrong to his property, as it to him. Yesterday, he was owner, +reputedly, of one of the finest plantations along the line of the +Mississippi river, an hundred able-bodied negroes hoeing cotton in his +fields, with fifty more picking it from the pod, and "ginning" the +staple clear of seed; to-day, he is but their owner in seeming, Ephraim +Darke being this in reality. And in another day the apparent ownership +will end: for Darke has given his debtor notice to yield up houses, +lands, slaves, plantation-stock--in short, everything he possesses. + +In vain has Armstrong striven against this adverse fate; in vain made +endeavours to avert it. When men are falling, false friends grow +falser; even true ones becoming cold. Sinister chance also against him; +a time of panic--a crisis in the money-market--as it always is on such +occasions, when interest runs high, and _second_ mortgages are sneered +at by those who grant loans. + +As no one--neither friend nor financial speculator--comes to Armstrong's +rescue, he has no alternative but submit. + +Too proud, to make appeal to his inexorable creditor--indeed deeming it +idle--he vouchsafes no answer to the notice of foreclosure, beyond +saying: "Let it be done." + +At a later period he gives ear to a proposal, coming from the mortgagee: +to put a valuation upon the property, and save the expenses of a public +sale, by disposing of it privately to Darke himself. + +To this he consents; less with a view to the convenience of the last, +than because his sensitive nature recoils from the vulgarism of the +first. Tell me a more trying test to the delicate sensibilities of a +gentleman, or his equanimity, than to see his gate piers pasted over +with the black and white show bills of the auctioneer; a strip of stair +carpet dangling down from one of his bedroom windows, and a crowd of +hungry harpies clustered around his door-stoop; some entering with eyes +that express keen concupiscence; others coming out with countenances +more beatified, bearing away his Penates--jeering and swearing over +them--insulting the Household Gods he has so long held in adoration. +Ugh! A hideous, horrid sight--a spectacle of Pandemonium! + +With a vision of such domestic iconoclasm flitting before his mind--not +a dream, but a reality, that will surely arise by letting his estate go +to the hammer--Colonel Armstrong accepts Darke's offer to deliver +everything over in a lump, and for a lamp sum. The conditions have been +some time settled; and Armstrong now knows the worst. Some half-score +slaves he reserves; the better terms secured to his creditor by private +bargain enabling him to obtain this concession. + +Several days have elapsed since the settlement came to a conclusion--the +interval spent in preparation for the change. A grand one, too; which +contemplates, not alone leaving the old home, but the State in which it +stands. The fallen man shrinks from further association with those who +have witnessed his fall. Not but that he will leave behind many +friends, faithful and true. Still to begin life again in their midst-- +to be seen humbly struggling at the bottom of the ladder on whose top he +once proudly reposed--that would indeed be unendurable. + +He prefers to carry out the design, he once thought only a dreamy +prediction--migrating to Texas. There, he may recommence life with more +hopeful energy, and lesser sense of humiliation. + +The moving day has arrived, or rather the eve preceding it. On the +morrow, Colonel Archibald Armstrong is called upon by the exigency of +human laws,--oft more cruel, if not more inexorable, than those of +Nature--to vacate the home long his. + +'Tis night. Darkness has spread its sable pall over forest and field, +and broods upon the brighter surface of the stream gliding between--the +mighty Mississippi. All are equally obscured--from a thick veil of +lead-coloured cloud, at the sun's setting, drawn over the canopy of the +sky. Any light seen is that of the fire-flies, engaged in their +nocturnal cotillon; while the sounds heard are nightly noises in a +Southern States forest, semi-tropical, as the wild creatures who have +their home in it. The green _cicada_ chirps continuously, "Katy did-- +Katy did;" the _hyladae_, though reptiles, send forth an insect note; +while the sonorous "gluck-gluck" of the huge _rana pipiens_ mingles with +the melancholy "whoo-whooa" of the great horned owl; which, unseen, +sweeps on silent wing through the shadowy aisles of the forest, leading +the lone traveller to fancy them peopled by departed spirits in torment +from the pains of Purgatory. + +Not more cheerful are the sounds aloft: for there are such, far above +the tops of the tallest trees. There, the nightjar plies its calling, +not so blind but that it can see in deepest darkness the smallest moth +or midge, that, tired of perching on the heated leaves essays to soar +higher. Two sorts of these goatsuckers, utter cries quite distinct; +though both expressing aversion to "William." One speaks of him as +still alive, mingling pity with its hostile demand: "Whippoor-Will!" +The other appears to regard him as dead, and goes against his marital +relict, at intervals calling out: "Chuck Will's widow!" + +Other noises interrupt the stillness of a Mississippian night. High up +in heaven the "honk" of a wild gander leading his flock in the shape of +an inverted V; at times the more melodious note of a trumpeter swan; or +from the top of a tall cottonwood, or cypress, the sharp saw-filing +shriek of the white-headed eagle, angered by some stray creature coming +too close, and startling it from its slumbers. Below, out of the swamp +sedge, rises the mournful cry of the quabird--the American bittern--and +from the same, the deep sonorous bellow of that ugliest animal on +earth--the alligator. + +Where fields adjoin the forest--plantation clearings--oft few and far +between--there are sounds more cheerful. The song of the slave, his +day's work done, sure to be preceded, or followed, by peals of loud +jocund laughter; the barking of the house-dog, indicative of a +well-watched home; with the lowing of cattle, and other domestic calls +that proclaim it worth watching. A galaxy of little lights, in rows +like street lamps, indicate the "negro quarter;" while in the foreground +a half-dozen windows of larger size, and brighter sheen, show where +stands the "big house"--the planter's own dwelling. + +To that of Colonel Armstrong has come a night of exceptional character, +when its lights are seen burning later than usual. The plantation clock +has tolled nine, nearly an hour ago. Still light shines through the +little windows of the negro cabins, while the larger ones of the "big +house" are all aflame. And there are candles being carried to and fro, +lighting up a scene of bustling activity: while the clack of voices-- +none of them in laughter--is heard commingled with the rattling of +chains, and the occasional stroke of a hammer. The forms of men and +women, are seen to flit athwart the shining windows, all busy about +something. + +There is no mystery in the matter. It is simply the planter, with his +people, occupied in preparation for the morrow's moving. Openly, and +without restraint: for, although so near the mid hour of night, it is no +midnight flitting. + +The only individual, who appears to act surreptitiously, is a young +girl; who, coming out by the back door of the dwelling, makes away from +its walls in gliding gait--at intervals glancing back over her shoulder, +as if in fear of being followed, or observed. + +Her style of dress also indicates a desire to shun observation; for she +is cloaked and close hooded. Not enough to ensure disguise, though she +may think so. The most stolid slave on all Colonel Armstrong's +plantation, could tell at a glance whose figure is enfolded in the +shapeless garment, giving it shape. He would at once identify it as +that of his master's daughter. For no wrap however loosely flung over +it, could hide the queenly form of Helen Armstrong, or conceal the +splendid symmetry of her person. Arrayed in the garb of a laundress, +she would still look the lady. + +Perhaps, for the first time in her life she is walking with stealthy +step, crouched form, and countenance showing fear. Daughter of a large +slave-owner--mistress over many slaves--she is accustomed to an upright +attitude, and aristocratic bearing. But she is now on an errand that +calls for more than ordinary caution, and would dread being recognised +by the humblest slave on her father's estate. + +Fortunately for her, none see; therefore no one takes note of her +movements, or the mode of her apparel. If one did, the last might cause +remark. A woman cloaked, with head hooded in a warm summer night, the +thermometer at ninety! + +Notwithstanding the numerous lights, she is not observed as she glides +through their crossing coruscations. And beyond, there is but little +danger--while passing through the peach orchard, that stretches rearward +from the dwelling. Still less, after getting out through a wicket-gate, +which communicates with a tract of woodland. For then she is among +trees whose trunks stand close, the spaces between buried in deep +obscurity--deeper from the night being a dark one. It is not likely so +to continue: for, before entering into the timber, she glances up to the +sky, and sees that the cloud canopy has broken; here and there stars +scintillating in the blue spaces between. While, on the farther edge of +the plantation clearing, a brighter belt along the horizon foretells the +uprising of the moon. + +She does not wait for this; but plunges into the shadowy forest, daring +its darkness, regardless of its dangers. + + + +CHAPTER ELEVEN. + +UNDER THE TRYSTING TREE. + +Still stooping in her gait, casting furtive glances to right, to left, +before and behind--at intervals stopping to listen--Helen Armstrong +continues her nocturnal excursion. Notwithstanding the obscurity, she +keeps in a direct course, as if to reach some particular point, and for +a particular reason. + +What this is needs not be told. Only love could lure a young lady out +at that late hour, and carry her along a forest path, dark, and not +without dangers. And love unsanctioned, unallowed--perhaps forbidden, +by some one who has ascendancy over her. + +Just the first it is which has tempted her forth; while the last, not +the cold, has caused her to cloak herself, and go close hooded. If her +father but knew of the errand she is on, it could not be executed. And +well is she aware of this. For the proud planter is still proud, +despite his reverses, still clings to the phantom of social superiority; +and if he saw her now, wandering through the woods at an hour near +midnight, alone; if he could divine her purpose: to meet a man, who in +time past has been rather coldly received at his house--because scarce +ranking with his own select circle--had Colonel Armstrong but the gift +of clairvoyance, in all probability he would at once suspend the +preparations for departure, rush to his rifle, then off through the +woods on the track of his erring daughter, with the intent to do a deed +sanguinary as that recorded, if not so repulsive. + +The girl has not far to go--only half a mile or so, from the house, and +less than a quarter beyond the zigzag rail fence, which forms a boundary +line between the maize fields and primeval forest. Her journey, when +completed, will bring her under a tree--a grand magnolia, monarch of the +forest surrounding. Well does she know it, as the way thither. + +Arriving at the tree, she pauses beneath its far-stretching boughs. At +the same time tossing back her hood, she shows her face unveiled. + +She has no fear now. The place is beyond the range of night-strolling +negroes. Only one in pursuit of 'possum, or 'coon, would be likely to +come that way; a contingency too rare to give her uneasiness. + +With features set in expectation, she stands. The fire-flies illuminate +her countenance--deserving a better light. But seen, even under their +pale fitful coruscation, its beauty is beyond question. Her features of +gipsy cast--to which the cloak's hood adds characteristic expression-- +produce a picture appropriate to its framing--the forest. + +Only for a few short moments does she remain motionless. Just long +enough to get back her breath, spent by some exertion in making her way +through the wood--more difficult in the darkness. Strong emotions, too, +contribute to the pulsations of her heart. + +She does not wait for them to be stilled. Facing towards the tree, and +standing on tiptoe, she raises her hand aloft, and commences groping +against the trunk. The fire-flies flicker over her snow-white fingers, +as these stray along the bark, at length resting upon the edge of a dark +disc--the knot-hole in the tree. + +Into this her hand is plunged; then drawn out--empty! + +At first there is no appearance of disappointment. On the contrary, the +phosphoric gleam dimly disclosing her features, rather shows +satisfaction--still further evinced by the phrase falling from her lips, +with the tone of its utterance. She says, contentedly:--"_He has got +it_!" + +But by the same fitful light, soon after is perceived a change--the +slightest expression of chagrin, as she adds, in murmured interrogatory, +"Why hasn't he left an answer?" + +Is she sure he has not? No. But she soon will be. + +With this determination, she again faces towards the tree; once more +inserts her slender fingers; plunges in her white hand up to the wrist-- +to the elbow; gropes the cavity all round; then draws out again, this +time with an exclamation which tells of something more than +disappointment. It is discontent--almost anger. So too a speech +succeeding, thus:-- + +"He might at least have let me know, whether he was coming or not--a +word to say, I might expect him. He should have been here before me. +It's the hour--past it!" + +She is not certain--only guessing. She may be mistaken about the time-- +perhaps wronging the man. She draws the watch from her waistbelt, and +holds the dial up. By the moon, just risen, she can read it. +Reflecting the rays, the watch crystal, the gold rings on her fingers, +and the jewels gleam joyfully. But there is no joy on her countenance. +On the contrary, a mixed expression of sadness and chagrin. For the +hands indicate ten minutes after the hour of appointment. + +There can be no mistake about the time--she herself fixed it. And none +in the timepiece. Her watch is not a cheap one. No fabric of Germany, +or Geneva; no pedlar's thing from Yankeeland, which as a Southron she +would despise; but an article of solid English manufacture, _sun-sure_, +like the machine-made watches of "Streeter." + +In confidence she consults it; saying vexatiously: + +"Ten minutes after, and he not here! No answer to my note! He must +have received it: Surely Jule put it into the tree? Who but he could +have taken it out? Oh, this is cruel! He comes not--I shall go home." + +The cloak is once more closed, the hood drawn over her head. Still she +lingers--lingers, and listens. + +No footstep--no sound to break the solemn stillness--only the chirrup of +tree-crickets, and the shrieking of owls. + +She takes a last look at the dial, sadly, despairingly. The hands +indicate full fifteen minutes after the hour she had named--going on to +twenty. + +She restores the watch to its place, beneath her belt, her demeanour +assuming a sudden change. Some chagrin still, but no sign of sadness. +This is replaced by an air of determination, fixed and stern. The +moon's light, with that of the fire-flies, have both a response in +flashes brighter than either--sparks from the eyes of an angry woman. +For Helen Armstrong is this, now. + +Drawing her cloak closer around, she commences moving off from the tree. + +She is not got beyond the canopy of its branches, ere her steps are +stayed. A rustling among the dead leaves--a swishing against those that +live--a footstep with tread solid and heavy--the footfall of a man! + +A figure is seen approaching; as yet only indistinctly, but surely that +of a man. As surely the man expected? + +"He's been detained--no doubt by some good cause," she reflects, her +spite and sadness departing as he draws near. + +They are gone, before he can get to her side. But woman-like, she +resolves to make a grace of forgiveness, and begins by upbraiding him. + +"So you're here at last. A wonder you condescended coming at all! +There's an old adage `Better late than never.' Perhaps, you think it +befits present time and company? And, perhaps, you may be mistaken. +Indeed you are, so far as I'm concerned. I've been here long enough, +and won't be any longer. Good-night, sir! Good-night!" + +Her speech is taunting in tone, and bitter in sense. She intends it to +be both--only in seeming. But to still further impress a lesson on the +lover who has slighted her, she draws closer the mantle, and makes as if +moving away. + +Mistaking her pretence for earnest, the man flings himself across her +path--intercepting her. Despite the darkness she can see that his arms +are in the air, and stretched towards her, as if appealingly. The +attitude speaks apology, regret, contrition--everything to make her +relent. + +She relents; is ready to fling herself upon his breast, and there lie +lovingly, forgivingly. + +But again woman-like, not without a last word of reproach, to make more +esteemed her concession, she says:-- + +"'Tis cruel thus to have tried me. Charles! Charles! why have you done +it?" + +As she utters the interrogatory a cloud comes over her countenance, +quicker than ever shadow over sun. Its cause--the countenance of him +standing _vis-a-vis_. A change in their relative positions has brought +his face full under the moonlight. He is _not_ the man she intended +meeting! + +Who he really is can be gathered from his rejoinder:-- + +"You are mistaken, Miss Armstrong. My name is not Charles, but Richard. +I am _Richard Darke_." + + + +CHAPTER TWELVE. + +THE WRONG MAN. + +Richard Darke instead of Charles Clancy! + +Disappointment were far too weak a word to express the pang that shoots +through the heart of Helen Armstrong, on discovering the mistake she has +made. It is bitter vexation, commingled with a sense of shame. I or +her speeches, in feigned reproach, have terribly compromised her. + +She does not drop to the earth, nor show any sign of it. She is not a +woman of the weak fainting sort. No cry comes from her lips--nothing to +betray surprise, or even the most ordinary emotion. + +As Darke stands before her with arms upraised, she simply says,-- + +"Well, sir; if you _are_ Richard Darke, what then? Your being so +matters not to me; and certainly gives you no right thus to intrude upon +me. I wish to be alone, and must beg of you to leave me so." + +The cool firm tone causes him to quail. He had hoped that the surprise +of his unexpected appearance--coupled with his knowledge of her +clandestine appointment--would do something to subdue, perhaps make her +submissive. + +On the contrary, the thought of the last but stings her to resentment, +as he soon perceives. + +His raised arms drop down, and he is about to step aside, leaving her +free to pass. Though not before making an attempt to justify himself; +instinct supplying a reason, with hope appended. He does so, saying,-- + +"If I've intruded, Miss Armstrong, permit me to apologise for it. I +assure you it's been altogether an accident. Having heard you are about +to leave the neighbourhood--indeed, that you start to-morrow morning--I +was on the way to your father's house to say farewell. I'm sorry my +coming along here, and chancing to meet you, should lay me open to the +charge of intrusion. I shall still more regret, if my presence has +spoiled any plans, or interfered with an appointment. Some one else +expected, I presume?" + +For a time she is silent--abashed, while angered, by the impudent +interrogatory. + +Recovering herself, she rejoins,-- + +"Even were it as you say, sir, by what authority do you question me? +I've said I wish to be alone." + +"Oh, if that's your wish, I must obey, and relieve you of my presence, +apparently so disagreeable." + +Saying this he steps to one side. Then continues,-- + +"As I've told you, I was on the way to your father's house to take leave +of the family. If you're not going immediately home, perhaps I may be +the bearer of a message for you?" + +The irony is evident; but Helen Armstrong is not sensible of it. She +does not even think of it. Her only thought is how to get +disembarrassed of this man who has appeared at a moment so _mal +apropos_. Charles Clancy--for he was the expected one--may have been +detained by some cause unknown, a delay still possible of justification. +She has a lingering thought he may yet come; and, so thinking, her eye +turns towards the forest with a quick, subtle glance. + +Notwithstanding its subtlety, and the obscurity surrounding them, Darke +observes, comprehends it. + +Without waiting for her rejoinder, he proceeds to say,-- + +"From the mistake you've just made, Miss Armstrong, I presume you took +me for some one bearing the baptismal name of Charles. In these parts I +know only one person who carries that cognomen--one Charles Clancy. If +it be he you are expecting, I think I can save you the necessity of +stopping out in the night air any longer. If you're staying for him +you'll be disappointed; he will certainly not come." + +"What mean you, Mr Darke? Why do you say that?" + +His words carry weighty significance, and throw the proud girl off her +guard. She speaks confusedly, and without reflection. + +His rejoinder, cunningly conceived, designed with the subtlety of the +devil, still further affects her, and painfully. + +He answers, with assumed nonchalance,-- + +"Because I know it." + +"How?" comes the quick, unguarded interrogatory. + +"Well; I chanced to meet Charley Clancy this morning, and he told me he +was going off on a journey. He was just starting when I saw him. Some +affair of the heart, I believe; a little love-scrape he's got into with +a pretty Creole girl, who lives t'other side of Natchez. By the way, he +showed me a photograph of yourself, which he said you had sent him. A +very excellent likeness, indeed. Excuse me for telling you, that he and +I came near quarrelling about it. He had another photograph--that of +his Creole _chere amie_--and would insist that she is more beautiful +than you. I may own, Miss Armstrong, you've given me no great reason +for standing forth as your champion. Still, I couldn't stand that; and, +after questioning Clancy's taste, I plainly told him he was mistaken. +I'm ready to repeat the same to him, or any one, who says you are not +the most beautiful woman in the State of Mississippi." + +At the conclusion of his fulsome speech Helen Armstrong cares but little +for the proffered championship, and not much for aught else. + +Her heart is nigh to breaking. She has given her affections to Clancy-- +in that last letter written, lavished them. And they have been trifled +with--scorned! She, daughter of the erst proudest planter in all +Mississippi State, has been slighted for a Creole girl; possibly, one of +the "poor white trash" living along the bayous' edge. Full proof she +has of his perfidy, or how should Darke know of it? More maddening +still, the man so slighting her, has been making boast of it, +proclaiming her suppliance and shame, showing her photograph, exulting +in the triumph obtained! "O God!" + +Not in prayer, but angry ejaculation, does the name of the Almighty +proceed from her lips. Along with it a scarce-suppressed scream, as, +despairingly, she turns her face towards home. + +Darke sees his opportunity, or thinks so; and again flings himself +before her--this time on his knees. + +"Helen Armstrong!" he exclaims, in an earnestness of passion--if not +pure, at least heartfelt and strong--"why should you care for a man who +thus mocks you? Here am I, who love you, truly--madly--more than my own +life! 'Tis not too late to withdraw the answer you have given me. +Gainsay it, and there need be no change--no going to Texas. Your +father's home may still be his, and yours. Say you'll be my wife, and +everything shall be restored to him--all will yet be well." + +She is patient to the conclusion of his appeal. Its apparent sincerity +stays her; though she cannot tell, or does not think, why. It is a +moment of mechanical irresolution. + +But, soon as ended, again returns the bitterness that has just swept +through her soul--torturing her afresh. + +There is no balm in the words spoken by Dick Darke; on the contrary, +they but cause increased rankling. + +To his appeal she makes answer, as once before she has answered him-- +with a single word. But now repeated three times, and in a tone not to +be mistaken. + +On speaking it, she parts from the spot with proud haughty step, and a +denying disdainful gesture, which tells him, she is not to be further +stayed. + +Spited, chagrined, angry, in his craven heart he feels also cowed, +subdued, crestfallen. So much, he dares not follow her, but remains +under the magnolia; from whose hollow trunk seems to reverberate +the echo of her last word, in its treble repetition: +"_never_--_never_--_never_!" + + + +CHAPTER THIRTEEN. + +THE COON-HUNTER AT HOME. + +Over the fields of Ephraim Darke's plantation a lingering ray of +daylight still flickers, as Blue Bill, returning from his abandoned +coon-hunt, gets back to the negro quarter. He enters it, with stealthy +tread, and looking cautiously around. + +For he knows that some of his fellow-slaves are aware of his having gone +out "a-cooning," and will wonder at his soon return--too soon to pass +without observation. If seen by them he may be asked for an +explanation, which he is not prepared to give. + +To avoid being called upon for it, he skulks in among the cabins; still +carrying the dog under his arm, lest the latter may take a fancy to go +smelling among the utensils of some other darkey's kitchen, and betray +his presence in the "quarter." + +Fortunately for the coon-hunter, the little "shanty" that claims him as +its tenant stands at the outward extremity of the row of cabins--nearest +the path leading to the plantation woodland. He is therefore enabled to +reach, and re-enter it, without any great danger of attracting +observation. + +And as it chances, he is not observed; but gets back into the bosom of +his family, no one being a bit the wiser. + +Blue Bill's domestic circle consists of his wife, Phoebe, and several +half-naked little "niggers," who, at his return, tackle on to his legs, +and, soon as he sits down, clamber confusedly over his knees. So +circumstanced, one would think he should now feel safe, and relieved +from further anxiety. Far from it: he has yet a gauntlet to run. + +His re-appearance so early, unexpected; his empty gamebag; the coon-dog +carried under his arm; all have their effect upon Phoebe. She cannot +help feeling surprise, accompanied by a keen curiosity. + +She is not the woman to submit to it in silence. + +Confronting her dark-skinned lord and master, with arms set akimbo, she +says,-- + +"Bress de Lor', Bill! Wha' for you so soon home? Neider coon nor +possum! An' de dog toated arter dat trange fashun! You ain't been gone +more'n a hour! Who'd speck see you come back dat a way, empty-handed; +nuffin, 'cep your own ole dog! 'Splain it, sah?" + +Thus confronted, the coon-hunter lets fall his canine companion; which +drops with a dump upon the floor. Then seats himself on a stool, but +without entering upon the demanded explanation. He only says:-- + +"Nebba mind, Phoebe, gal; nebba you mind why I'se got home so soon. +Dat's nuffin 'trange. I seed de night warn't a gwine to be fav'ble fo' +trackin' de coon; so dis nigga konklood he'd leab ole cooney 'lone." + +"Lookee hya, Bill!" rejoins the sable spouse, laying her hand upon his +shoulder, and gazing earnestly into his eyes. "Dat ere ain't de correck +explicashun. You's not tellin' me de troof!" + +The coon-hunter quails under the searching glance, as if in reality a +criminal; but still holds back the demanded explanation. He is at a +loss what to say. + +"Da's somethin' mysteerus 'bout dis," continues his better half. +"You'se got a seecrit, nigga; I kin tell it by de glint ob yer eye. I +nebba see dat look on ye, but I know you ain't yaseff; jess as ye use +deseeve me, when you war in sich a way 'bout brown Bet." + +"Wha you talkin 'bout, Phoebe? Dar's no brown Bet in de case. I swar +dar ain't." + +"Who sayed dar war? No, Bill, dat's all pass. I only spoked ob her +'kase ya look jess now like ye did when Bet used bamboozle ye. What I +say now am dat you ain't yaseff. Dar's a cat in de bag, somewha; you +better let her out, and confess de whole troof." + +As Phoebe makes this appeal, her glance rests inquiringly on her +husband's countenance, and keenly scrutinises the play of his features. + +There is not much play to be observed. The coon-hunter is a +pure-blooded African, with features immobile as those of the Sphinx. +And from his colour nought can be deduced. As already said, it is the +depth of its ebon blackness, producing a purplish iridescence over the +epidermis, that has gained for him the sobriquet "Blue Bill." + +Unflinchingly he stands the inquisitorial glance, and for the time +Phoebe is foiled. + +Only until after supper, when the frugality of the meal--made so by the +barren chase--has perhaps something to do in melting his heart, and +relaxing his tongue. Whether this, or whatever the cause, certain it +is, that before going to bed, he unburdens himself to the partner of his +joys, by making full confession of what he has heard and seen by the +side of the cypress swamp. + +He tells her, also, of the letter picked up; which, cautiously pulling +out of his pocket, he submits to her inspection. + +Phoebe has once been a family servant--an indoor domestic, and +handmaiden to a white mistress. This in the days of youth--the halcyon +days of her girlhood, in "Ole Varginny"--before she was transported +west, sold to Ephraim Darke, and by him degraded to the lot of an +ordinary outdoor slave. But her original owner taught her to read, and +her memory still retains a trace of this early education--sufficient for +her to decipher the script put into her hands. + +She first looks at the photograph; as it is the first to come out of the +envelope. There can be no mistaking whose likeness it is. A lady too +conspicuously beautiful to have escaped notice from the humblest slave +in the settlement. + +The negress spends some seconds gazing upon the portrait, as she does so +remarking,-- + +"How bewful dat young lady!" + +"You am right 'bout dat, Phoebe. She bewful as any white gal dis nigga +ebber sot eyes on. And she good as bewful. I'se sorry she gwine leab +dis hya place. Dar's many a darkie 'll miss de dear young lady. An' +won't Mass Charl Clancy miss her too! Lor! I most forgot; maybe he no +trouble 'bout her now; maybe he's gone dead! Ef dat so, she miss _him_, +a no mistake. She cry her eyes out." + +"You tink dar war something 'tween dem two?" + +"Tink! I'se shoo ob it, Phoebe. Didn't I see dem boaf down dar in de +woodland, when I war out a-coonin. More'n once I seed em togedder. A +young white lady an' genl'm don't meet dat way unless dar's a feelin' +atween em, any more dan we brack folks. Besides, dis nigga know dey lub +one noder--he know fo sartin. Jule, she tell Jupe; and Jupe hab trussed +dat same seecret to me. Dey been in lub long time; afore Mass Charl +went 'way to Texas. But de great Kurnel Armstrong, he don't know +nuffin' 'bout it. Golly! ef he did, he shoo kill Charl Clancy; dat is, +if de poor young man ain't dead arready. Le's hope 'tain't so. But, +Phoebe, gal, open dat letter, an' see what de lady say. Satin it's been +wrote by her. Maybe it trow some light on dis dark subjeck." + +Phoebe, thus solicited, takes the letter from the envelope. Then +spreading it out, and holding it close to the flare of the tallow dip, +reads it from beginning to end. + +It is a task that occupies her some considerable time; for her +scholastic acquirements, not very bright at the best, have become dimmed +by long disuse. For all, she succeeds in deciphering its contents and +interpreting them to Bill; who listens with ears wide open and eyes in +staring wonderment. + +When the reading is at length finished, the two remain for some time +silent,--pondering upon the strange circumstances thus revealed to them. + +Blue Bill is the first to resume speech. He says:-- + +"Dar's a good deal in dat letter I know'd afore, and dar's odder points +as 'pear new to me; but whether de old or de new, 'twon't do for us folk +declar a single word o' what de young lady hab wrote in dat ere 'pistle. +No, Phoebe, neery word must 'scape de lips ob eider o' us. We muss +hide de letter, an' nebba let nob'dy know dar's sich a dockyment in our +posseshun. And dar must be nuffin' know'd 'bout dis nigga findin' it. +Ef dat sakumstance war to leak out, I needn't warn you what 'ud happen +to me. Blue Bill 'ud catch de cowhide,--maybe de punishment ob de pump. +So, Phoebe, gal, gi'e me yar word to keep dark, for de case am a +dangersome, an a desprit one." + +The wife can well comprehend the husband's caution, with the necessity +of compliance; and the two retire to rest, in the midst of their black +olive branches, with a mutual promise to be "mum." + + + +CHAPTER FOURTEEN. + +WHY COMES HE NOT? + +Helen Armstrong goes to bed, with spiteful thoughts about Charles +Clancy. So rancorous she cannot sleep, but turns distractedly on her +couch, from time to time changing cheek upon the pillow. + +At little more than a mile's distance from this chamber of unrest, +another woman is also awake, thinking of the same man--not spitefully, +but anxiously. It is his mother. + +As already said, the road running north from Natchez leads past Colonel +Armstrong's gate. A traveller, going in the opposite direction--that is +towards the city--on clearing the skirts of the plantation, would see, +near the road side, a dwelling of very different kind; of humble +unpretentious aspect, compared with the grand mansion of the planter. +It would be called a cottage, were this name known in the State of +Mississippi--which it is not. Still it is not a log-cabin; but a +"frame-house," its walls of "weather-boarding," planed and painted, its +roof cedar-shingled; a style of architecture occasionally seen in the +Southern States, though not so frequently as in the Northern--inhabited +by men in moderate circumstances, poorer than planters, but richer, or +more gentle, than the "white trash," who live in log-cabins. + +Planters they are in social rank, though poor; perhaps owning a +half-dozen slaves, and cultivating a small tract of cleared ground, from +twenty to fifty acres. The frame-house vouches for their +respectability; while two or three log structures at back--representing +barn, stable, and other outbuildings--tell of land attached. + +Of this class is the habitation referred to--the home of the widow +Clancy. + +As already known, her widowhood is of recent date. She still wears its +emblems upon her person, and carries its sorrow in her heart. + +Her husband, of good Irish lineage, had found his way to Nashville, the +capital city of Tennessee; where, in times long past, many Irish +families made settlements. There he had married her, she herself being +a native Tennesseean--sprung from the old Carolina pioneer stock, that +colonised the state near the end of the eighteenth century--the +Robertsons, Hyneses, Hardings, and Bradfords--leaving to their +descendants a patent of nobility, or at least a family name deserving +respect, and generally obtaining it. + +In America, as elsewhere, it is not the rule for Irishmen to grow rich; +and still more exceptional in the case of Irish gentlemen. When these +have wealth their hospitality is too apt to take the place of a +spendthrift profuseness, ending in pecuniary embarrassment. + +So was it with Captain Jack Clancy; who got wealth with his wife, but +soon squandered it entertaining his own and his wife's friends. The +result, a move to Mississippi, where land was cheaper, and his +attenuated fortune would enable him to hold out a little longer. + +Still, the property he had purchased in Mississippi State was but a poor +one; leading him to contemplate a further flit into the rich red lands +of North-Eastern Texas, just becoming famous as a field for +colonisation. His son Charles sent thither, as said, on a trip of +exploration, had spent some months in the Lone Star State, prospecting +for the new home; and brought back a report in every way favourable. + +But the ear, to which it was to have been spoken, could no more hear. +On his return, he found himself fatherless; and to the only son there +remains only a mother; whose grief, pressing heavily, has almost brought +her to the grave. It is one of a long series of reverses which have +sorely taxed her fortitude. Another of like heaviness, and the tomb may +close over her. + +Some such presentiment is in the mother's mind, on this very day, as the +sun goes down, and she sits in her chamber beside a dim candle, with ear +keenly bent to catch the returning footsteps of her son. + +He has been absent since noon, having gone deer-stalking, as frequently +before. She can spare him for this, and pardon his prolonged absence. +She knows how fond he is of the chase; has been so from a boy. + +But, on the present occasion, he is staying beyond his usual time. It +is now night; the deer have sought their coverts; and he is not +"torch-hunting." + +Only one thing can she think of to explain the tardiness of his return. +The eyes of the widowed mother have been of late more watchful than +wont. She has noticed her son's abstracted air, and heard sighs that +seemed to come from his inner heart. Who can mistake the signs of love, +either in man or woman? Mrs Clancy does not. She sees that Charles +has lapsed into this condition. + +Rumours that seem wafted on the air--signs slight, but significant-- +perhaps the whisper of a confidential servant--these have given her +assurance of the fact: telling her, at the same time, who has won his +affections. + +Mrs Clancy is neither dissatisfied nor displeased. In all the +neighbourhood there is no one she would more wish to have for a +daughter-in-law than Helen Armstrong. Not from any thought of the +girl's great beauty, or high social standing. Caroline Clancy is +herself too well descended to make much of the latter circumstance. It +is the reputed noble character of the lady that influences her approval +of her son's choice. + +Thinking of this--remembering her own youth, and the stolen interviews +with Charles Clancy's father--oft under the shadow of night--she could +not, does not, reflect harshly on the absence of that father's son from +home, however long, or late the hour. + +It is only as the clock strikes twelve, she begins to think seriously +about it. Then creeps over her a feeling of uneasiness, soon changing +to apprehension. Why should he be staying out so late--after midnight? +The same little bird, that brought her tidings of his love-affair, has +also told her it is clandestine. Mrs Clancy may not like this. It has +the semblance of a slight to her son, as herself--more keenly felt by +her in their reduced circumstances. But then, as compensation, arises +the retrospect of her own days of courtship carried on in the same way. + +Still, at that hour the young lady cannot--dares not--be abroad. All +the more unlikely, that the Armstrongs are moving off--as all the +neighbourhood knows--and intend starting next day, at an early hour. + +The plantation people will long since have retired to rest; therefore an +interview with his sweetheart can scarce be the cause of her son's +detention. Something else must be keeping him. What? So run the +reflections of the fond mother. + +At intervals she starts up from her seat, as some sound reaches her; +each time gliding to the door, and gazing out--again to go back +disappointed. + +For long periods she remains in the porch, her eye interrogating the +road that runs past the cottage-gate; her ear acutely listening for +footsteps. + +Early in the night it has been dark; now there is a brilliant moonlight. +But no man, no form moving underneath it. No sound of coming feet; +nothing that resembles a footfall. + +One o'clock, and still silence; to the mother of Charles Clancy become +oppressive, as with increased anxiety she watches and waits. + +At intervals she glances at the little "Connecticut" clock that ticks +over the mantel. A pedlar's thing, it may be false, as the men who come +south selling "sech." It is the reflection of a Southern woman, hoping +her conjecture may be true. + +But, as she lingers in the porch, and looks at the moving moon, she +knows the hour must be late. + +Certain sounds coming from the forest, and the farther swamp, tell her +so. As a backwoods woman she can interpret them. She hears the call of +the turkey "gobbler." She knows it means morning. + +The clock strikes two; still she hears no fall of footstep--sees no son +returning! + +"Where is my Charles? What can be detaining him?" + +Phrases almost identical with those that fell from the lips of Helen +Armstrong, but a few hours before, in a different place, and prompted by +a different sentiment--a passion equally strong, equally pure! + +Both doomed to disappointment, alike bitter and hard to bear. The same +in cause, but dissimilar in the impression produced. The sweetheart +believing herself slighted, forsaken, left without a lover; the mother +tortured with the presentiment, she no longer has a son! + +When, at a yet later hour--or rather earlier, since it is nigh +daybreak--a dog, his coat disordered, comes gliding through the gate, +and Mrs Clancy recognises her son's favourite hunting hound, she has +still only a presentiment of the terrible truth. But one which to the +maternal heart, already filled with foreboding, feels too like +certainty. + +And too much for her strength. Wearied with watching, prostrated by the +intensity of her vigil, when the hound crawls up the steps, and under +the dim light she sees his bedraggled body--blood as well as mud upon +it--the sight produces a climax--a shock apparently fatal. + +She swoons upon the spot, and is carried inside the house by a female +slave--the last left to her. + + + +CHAPTER FIFTEEN. + +A MOONLIGHT MOVING. + +While the widowed mother, now doubly bereft--stricken down by the blow-- +is still in a state of syncope, the faithful negress doing what she can +to restore her, there are sounds outside unheard by either. A dull +rumble of wheels, as of some heavy vehicle coming along the main road, +with the occasional crack of a whip, and the sonorous "wo-ha" of a +teamster. + +Presently, a large "Conestoga" wagon passes the cottage-gate, full +freighted with what looks like house furniture, screened under canvas. +The vehicle is drawn by a team of four strong mules, driven by a negro; +while at the wagon's tail, three or four other darkeys follow afoot. + +The cortege, of purely southern character, has scarce passed out of +sight, and not yet beyond hearing, when another vehicle comes rolling +along the road. This, of lighter build, and proceeding at a more rapid +rate, is a barouche, drawn by a pair of large Kentucky horses. As the +night is warm, and there is no need to spring up the leathern hood--its +occupants can all be seen, and their individuality made out. On the +box-seat is a black coachman; and by his side a young girl whose tawny +complexion, visible in the whiter moonbeams, tells her to be a mulatto. +Her face has been seen before, under a certain forest tree--a magnolia-- +its owner depositing a letter in the cavity of the trunk. She who sits +alongside the driver is "Jule." + +In the barouche, behind, is a second face that has been seen under the +same tree, but with an expression upon it sadder and more disturbed. +For of the three who occupy the inside seats one is Helen Armstrong; the +others her father, and sister. They are _en route_ for the city of +Natchez, the port of departure for their journey south-westward into +Texas; just starting away from their old long-loved dwelling, whose +gates they have left ajar, its walls desolate behind thorn. + +The wagon, before, carries the remnant of the planter's property,--all +his inexorable creditor allows him to take along. No wonder he sits in +the barouche, with bowed head, and chin between his knees, not caring to +look back. For the first time in his life he feels truly, terribly +humiliated. + +This, and no flight from creditors, no writ, nor pursuing sheriff, will +account for his commencing the journey at so early an hour. To be seen +going off in the open daylight would attract spectators around; it may +be many sympathisers. But in the hour of adversity his sensitive nature +shrinks from the glance of sympathy, as he would dread the stare of +exultation, were any disposed to indulge in it. + +But besides the sentiment, there is another cause for their night +moving--an inexorable necessity as to time. The steamboat, which is to +take them up Red River, leaves Natchez at sunrise. He must be aboard by +daybreak. + +If the bankrupt planter be thus broken-spirited, his eldest daughter is +as much cast down as he, and far more unhappily reflecting. + +Throughout all that night Helen Armstrong has had no sleep; and now, in +the pale moonlight of the morning, her cheeks show white and wan, while +a dark shadow broods upon her brow, and her eyes glisten with wild +unnatural light, as one in a raging fever. Absorbed in thought, she +takes no heed of anything along the road; and scarce makes answer to an +occasional observation addressed to her by her sifter, evidently with +the intention to cheer her. It has less chance of success, because of +Jessie herself being somewhat out of sorts. Even she, habitually merry, +is for the time sobered; indeed saddened at the thought of that they are +leaving behind, and what may be before them. Possibly, as she looks +back at the gate of their grand old home, through which they will never +again go, she may be reflecting on the change from their late luxurious +life, to the log-cabin and coarse fare, of which her father had +forewarned them. + +If so, the reflection is hers--not Helen's. Different with the latter, +and far more bitter the emotion that stirs within her person, scalding +her heart. Little cares she what sort of house she is hitherto to dwell +in, what she will have to wear, or eat. The scantiest raiment, or +coarsest food, can give no discomfort now. She could bear the thought +of sheltering under the humblest roof in Texas--ay, think of it with +cheerfulness--had Charles Clancy been but true, to share its shelter +along with her. He has not, and that is an end of it. + +Is it? No; not for her, though it may be for him. In the company of +his Creole girl he will soon cease to think of her--forget the solemn +vows made, and the sweet words spoken, beneath the magnolia--tree, in +her retrospect seeming sadder than yew, or cypress. + +Will she ever forget him? Can she? No; unless in that land, whither +her face is set, she find the fabled Lethean stream. Oh! it is bitter-- +keenly bitter! + +It reaches the climax of its bitterness, when the barouche rolling along +opens out a vista between the trees, disclosing a cottage--Clancy's. +Inside it sleeps the man, who has made her life a misery! Can he sleep, +after what he has done? + +While making this reflection she herself feels, as if never caring to +close her eyelids more--except in death! + +Her emotions are terribly intense, her anguish so overpowering, she can +scarce conceal it--indeed does not try, so long as the house is in +sight. Perhaps fortunate that her father is absorbed in his own +particular sadness. But her sister observes all, guessing--nay, knowing +the cause. She says nothing. Such sorrow is too sacred to be intruded +on. There are times, when even a sister may not attempt consolation. + +Jessie is glad when the carriage, gliding on, again enters among trees, +and the little cottage of the Clancys, like their own great house, is +forever lost to view. + +Could the eyes of Helen Armstrong, in passing, have penetrated through +the walls of that white painted dwelling--could she have rested them +upon a bed with a woman laid astretch upon it, apparently dead, or +dying--could she have looked on another bed, unoccupied, untouched, and +been told how he, its usual occupant, was at that moment lying in the +middle of a chill marsh, under the sombre canopy of cypresses--it would +have caused a revulsion in her feelings, sudden, painful, and powerful +as the shock already received. + +There would still be sadness in her breast, but no bitterness. The +former far easier to endure; she would sooner believe Clancy dead, than +think of his traitorous defection. + +But she is ignorant of all that has occurred; of the sanguinary scene +enacted--played out complete--on the edge of the cypress swamp, and the +sad one inside the house--still continuing. Aware of the one, or +witness of the other, while passing that lone cottage, as with wet eyes +she takes a last look at its walls, she would still be shedding tears-- +not of spite, but sorrow. + + + +CHAPTER SIXTEEN. + +WHAT HAS BECOME OF CLANCY? + +The sun is up--the hour ten o'clock, morning. Around the residence of +the widow Clancy a crowd of people has collected. They are her nearest +neighbours; while those who dwell at a distance are still in the act of +assembling. Every few minutes two or three horsemen ride up, carrying +long rifles over their shoulders, with powder-horns and bullet-pouches +strapped across their breasts. Those already on the ground are +similarly armed, and accoutred. + +The cause of this warlike muster is understood by all. Some hours +before, a report has spread throughout the plantations that Charles +Clancy is missing from his home, under circumstances to justify +suspicion of foul play having befallen him. His mother has sent +messengers to and fro; hence the gathering around her house. + +In the South-Western States, on occasions of this kind, it does not do +for any one to show indifference, whatever his station in life. The +wealthiest, as well as the poorest, is expected to take part in the +administration of backwoods' justice--at times not strictly _en regle_ +with the laws of the land. + +For this reason Mrs Clancy's neighbours, far and near, summoned or not +summoned, come to her cottage. Among them Ephraim Darke, and his son +Richard. + +Archibald Armstrong is not there, nor looked for. Most know of his +having moved away that same morning. The track of his waggon wheels has +been seen upon the road; and, if the boat he is to take passage by, +start at the advertised hour, he should now be nigh fifty miles from the +spot, and still further departing. No one is thinking of him, or his; +since no one dreams of the deposed planter, or his family, having ought +to do with the business that brings them together. + +This is to search for Charles Clancy, still absent from his home. The +mother's story has been already told, and only the late comers have to +hear it again. + +In detail she narrates what occurred on the preceding night; how the +hound came home wet, and wounded. Confirmatory of her speech, the +animal is before their eyes, still in the condition spoken of. They can +all see it has been shot--the tear of the bullet being visible on its +back, having just cut through the skin. Coupled with its master's +absence, this circumstance strengthens the suspicion of something amiss. + +Another, of less serious suggestion, is a piece of cord knotted around +the dog's neck--the loose end looking as though gnawed by teeth, and +then broken off with a pluck; as if the animal had been tied up, and +succeeded in setting itself free. + +But why tied? And why has it been shot? These are questions that not +anybody can answer. + +Strange, too, in the hound having reached home at the hour it did. As +Clancy went out about the middle of the day, he could not have gone to +such a distance for his dog to have been nearly all night getting back. + +Could he himself have fired the bullet, whose effect is before their +eyes? + +A question almost instantly answered in the negative; by old +backwoodsmen among the mustered crowd--hunters who know how to interpret +"sign" as surely as Champollion an Egyptian hieroglyph. These having +examined the mark on the hound's skin, pronounce the ball that made it +to have come from a _smooth-bore, and not a rifle_. It is notorious, +that Charles Clancy never carried a smooth-bore, but always a rifled +gun. His own dog has not been shot by him. + +After some time spent in discussing the probabilities and possibilities +of the case, it is at length resolved to drop conjecturing, and commence +search for the missing man. In the presence of his mother no one speaks +of searching for his _dead body_; though there is a general +apprehension, that this will be the thing found. + +She, the mother, most interested of all, has a too true foreboding of +it. When the searchers, starting off, in kindly sympathy tell her to be +of good cheer, her heart more truly says, she will never see her son +again. + +On leaving the house, the horsemen separate into two distinct parties, +and proceed in different directions. + +With one and the larger, goes Clancy's hound; an old hunter, named +Woodley, taking the animal along. He has an idea it may prove +serviceable, when thrown on its master's track--supposing this can be +discovered. + +Just as conjectured, the hound does prove of service. Once inside the +woods, without even setting nose to the ground, it starts off in a +straight run--going so swiftly, the horsemen find it difficult to keep +pace with it. + +It sets them all into a gallop; this continued for quite a couple of +miles through timber thick and thin, at length ending upon the edge of +the swamp. + +Only a few have followed the hound thus far, keeping close. The others, +straggling behind, come up by twos and threes. + +The hunter, Woodley, is among the foremost to be in at the death; for +_death_ all expect it to prove. They are sure of it, on seeing the +stag-hound stop beside something, as it does so loudly baying. + +Spurring on towards the spot, they expect to behold the dead body of +Charles Clancy. They are disappointed. + +There is no body there--dead or alive. Only a pile of Spanish moss, +which appears recently dragged from the trees; then thrown into a heap, +and afterwards scattered. + +The hound has taken stand beside it; and there stays, giving tongue. As +the horsemen dismount, and get their eyes closer to the ground, they see +something red; which proves to be blood. It is dark crimson, almost +black, and coagulated. Still is it blood. + +From under the edge of the moss-heap protrudes the barrel of a gun. On +kicking the loose cover aside, they see it is a rifle--not of the kind +common among backwoodsmen. But they have no need to waste conjecture on +the gun. Many present identify it as the yager usually carried by +Clancy. + +More of the moss being removed, a hat is uncovered--also Clancy's. +Several know it as his--can swear to it. + +A gun upon the ground, abandoned, discharged as they see; a hat +alongside it; blood beside both--there must have been shooting on the +spot--some one wounded, if not actually killed? And who but Charles +Clancy? The gun is his, the hat too, and his must be the blood. + +They have no doubt of its being his, no more of his being dead; the only +question asked is "Where's his body?" + +While those first up are mutually exchanging this interrogatory, others, +later arriving, also put it in turn. All equally unable to give a +satisfactory answer--alike surprised by what they see, and puzzled to +explain it. + +There is one man present who could enlighten them in part, though not +altogether--one who comes lagging up with the last. It is Richard +Darke. + +Strange he should be among the stragglers. At starting out he appeared +the most zealous of all! + +Then he was not thinking of the dog; had no idea how direct, and soon, +the instinct of the animal would lead them to the spot where he had +given Clancy his death shot. + +The foremost of the searchers have dismounted and are standing grouped +around it. He sees them, and would gladly go back, but dares not. +Defection now would be damning evidence against him. After all, what +has he to fear? They will find a dead body--Clancy's--a corpse with a +bullet-hole in the breast. They can't tell who fired the fatal shot-- +how could they? There were no witnesses save the trunks of the +cypresses, and the dumb brute of a dog--not so dumb but that it now +makes the woods resound with its long-drawn continuous whining. If it +could but shape this into articulate speech, then he might have to fear. +As it is, he need not. + +Fortified with these reflections, he approaches the spot, by himself +made bloody. Trembling, nevertheless, and with cheeks pale. _Not_ +strange. He is about being brought face to face with the man he has +murdered--with his corpse! + +Nothing of the kind. There is no murdered man there, no corpse! Only a +gun, a hat, and some blotches of crimson! + +Does Darke rejoice at seeing only this? Judging by his looks, the +reverse. Before, he only trembled slightly, with a hue of pallor on his +cheeks. Now his lips show white, his eyes sunken in their sockets, +while his teeth chatter and his whole frame shivers as if under an ague +chill! + +Luckily for the assassin this tale-telling exhibition occurs under the +shadow of the great cypress, whose gloomy obscurity guards against its +being observed. But to counteract this little bit of good luck there +chances to be present a detective that trusts less to sight, than scent. +This is Clancy's dog. As Darke presents himself in the circle of +searchers collected around it, the animal perceiving, suddenly springs +towards him with the shrill cry of an enraged cat, and the elastic leap +of a tiger! + +But for Simeon Woodley seizing the hound, and holding it back, the +throat of Richard Darke would be in danger. + +It is so, notwithstanding. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Around the blood-stained spot there is a pause; the searchers forming a +tableau strikingly significant. They have come up, to the very last +lagger; and stand in attitudes expressing astonishment, with glances +that speak inquiry. These, not directed to the ground, nor straying +through the trees, but fixed upon Dick Darke. + +Strange the antipathy of the dog, which all observe! For the animal, +soon as let loose, repeats its hostile demonstrations, and has to be +held off again. Surely it signifies something, and this bearing upon +the object of their search? The inference is unavoidable. + +Darke is well aware their eyes are upon him, as also their thoughts. +Fortunate for him, that night-like shadow surrounding. But for it, his +blanched lips, and craven cast of countenance, would tell a tale to +condemn him at once--perhaps to punishment on the spot. + +As it if, his scared condition is not unnoticed. It is heard, if not +clearly seen. Two or three, standing close to him, can hear his teeth +clacking like castanets! + +His terror is trebly intensified--from a threefold cause. Seeing no +body first gave him a shock of surprise; soon followed by superstitious +awe; this succeeded by apprehension of another kind. But he had no time +to dwell upon it before being set upon by the dog, which drove the more +distant danger out of his head. + +Delivered also from this, his present fear is about those glances +regarding him. In the obscurity he cannot read them, but for all that +can tell they are sternly inquisitorial. _En revanche_, neither can +they read his; and, from this drawing confidence, he recovers his +habitual coolness--knowing how much he now needs it. + +The behaviour of the hound must not pass unspoken of. With a forced +laugh, and in a tone of assumed nonchalance, he says: + +"I can't tell how many scores of times that dog of Clancy's has made at +me in the same way. It's never forgiven me since the day I chastised +it, when it came after one of our sluts. I'd have killed the cur long +ago, but spared it through friendship for its master." + +An explanation plausible, and cunningly conceived; though not +satisfactory to some. Only the unsuspicious are beguiled by it. +However, it holds good for the time; and, so regarded, the searchers +resume their quest. + +It is no use for them to remain longer by the moss-heap. There they but +see blood; they are looking for a body. To find this they must go +farther. + +One taking up the hat, another the abandoned gun, they scatter off, +proceeding in diverse directions. + +For several hours they go tramping among the trees, peering under the +broad fan-like fronds of the saw-palmettoes, groping around the +buttressed trunks of the cypresses, sending glances into the shadowed +spaces between--in short, searching everywhere. + +For more than a mile around they quarter the forest, giving it thorough +examination. The swamp also, far as the treacherous ooze will allow +them to penetrate within its _gloomy_ portals--fit abode of death--place +appropriate for the concealment of darkest crime. + +Notwithstanding their zeal, prompted by sympathising hearts, as by a +sense of outraged justice, the day's search proves fruitless--bootless. +No body can be found, dead or living; no trace of the missing man. +Nothing beyond what they have already obtained--his hat and gun. + +Dispirited, tired out, hungry, hankering after dinners delayed, as eve +approaches they again congregate around the gory spot; and, with a +mutual understanding to resume search on the morrow, separate, and set +off--each to his own home. + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. + +A BULLET EXTRACTED. + +Not all of the searching party leave the place. Two remain, staying as +by stealth. Some time before the departure of the others, these had +slipped aside, and sauntered off several hundred yards, taking their +horses along with them. + +Halting in an out-of-the-way spot, under deepest shadow, and then +dismounting, they wait till the crowd shall disperse. To all appearance +impatiently, as if they wanted to have the range of the forest to +themselves, and for some particular reason. Just this do they, or at +least one of them does; making his design known to the other, soon as he +believes himself beyond earshot of those from whom they separated. + +It is the elder that instructs; who, in addition to the horse he is +holding, has another animal by his side--a dog. For it is the hunter, +Woodley, still in charge of Clancy's hound. + +The man remaining with him is one of his own kind and calling; younger +in years, but, like himself, a professional follower of the chase--by +name, Heywood. + +Giving his reason for the step he is taking, Woodley says, "We kin do +nothin' till them greenhorns air gone. Old Dan Boone hisself kedn't +take up trail, wi' sich a noisy clanjamfry aroun him. For myself I +hain't hardly tried, seein' 'twar no use till they'd clar off out o' the +way. And now the darned fools hev' made the thing more diffeequilt, +trampin about, an' blottin' out every shadder o' sign, an everything as +looks like a futmark. For all, I've tuk notice to somethin' none o' +them seed. Soon's the coast is clar we kin go thar, an' gie it a more +pertikler examinashun." + +The younger hunter nods assent, adding a word, signifying readiness to +follow his older confrere. + +For some minutes they remain; until silence restored throughout the +forest tells them it is forsaken. Then, leaving their horses behind, +with bridles looped around branches--the hound also attached to one of +the stirrups--they go back to the place, where the hat and gun were +found. + +They do not stay there; but continue a little farther on, Woodley +leading. + +At some twenty paces distance, the old hunter comes to a halt, stopping +by the side of a cypress "knee"; one of those vegetable monstrosities +that perplex the botanist--to this hour scientifically unexplained. In +shape resembling a ham, with the shank end upwards; indeed so like to +this, that the Yankee bacon-curers have been accused, by their southern +customers, of covering them with canvas, and selling them for the real +article! + +It may be that the Mississippian backwoodsman, Woodley, could give a +better account of these singular excrescences than all the closet +scientists in the world. + +He is not thinking of either science, or his own superior knowledge, +while conducting his companion to the side of that "cypress knee." His +only thought is to show Heywood something he had espied while passing it +in the search; but of which he did not then appear to take notice, and +said nothing, so long as surrounded by the other searchers. + +The time has come to scrutinise it more closely, and ascertain if it be +what he suspects it. + +The "knee" in question is one which could not be palmed off for a +porker's ham. Its superior dimensions forbid the counterfeit. As the +two hunters halt beside it, its bulk shows bigger than either of their +own bodies, while its top is at the height of their heads. + +Standing in front of it, Woodley points to a break in the bark--a round +hole, with edge slightly ragged. The fibre appears freshly cut, and +more than cut--encrimsoned! Twenty-four hours may have elapsed, but not +many more, since that hole was made. So believe the backwoodsmen, soon +as setting their eyes on it. + +Speaking first, Woodley asks,-- + +"What d'ye think o' it, Ned?" + +Heywood, of taciturn habit, does not make immediate answer, but stands +silently regarding the perforated spot. His comrade continues:-- + +"Thar's a blue pill goed in thar', which jedgin' by the size and shape +o' the hole must a kum out a biggish gun barrel. An', lookin' at the +red stain 'roun' its edge, that pill must a been blood-coated." + +"Looks like blood, certainly." + +"_It air blood_--the real red thing itself; the blood o' Charley Clancy. +The ball inside thar' has first goed through his body. It's been +deadened by something and don't appear to hev penetrated a great way +into the timmer, for all o' that bein' soft as sapwood." + +Drawing out his knife, the old hunter inserts the point of its blade +into the hole, probing it. + +"Jest as I sayed. Hain't entered the hul o' an inch. I kin feel the +lead ludged thar'." + +"Suppose you cut it out, Sime?" + +"Precisely what I intend doin'. But not in a careless way. I want the +surroundin' wood along wi' it. The two thegither will best answer our +purpiss. So hyar goes to git 'em thegither." + +Saying this, he inserts his knife-blade into the bark, and first makes a +circular incision around the bullet-hole. Then deepens it, taking care +not to touch the ensanguined edge of the orifice, or come near it. + +The soft vegetable substance yields to his keen steel, almost as easily +as if he were slicing a Swedish turnip; and soon he detaches a +pear-shaped piece, but bigger than the largest prize "Jargonelle." + +Holding it in his hand, and apparently testing its ponderosity, he says: + +"Ned; this chunk o' timmer encloses a bit o' lead as niver kim out o' a +rifle. Thar's big eends o' an ounce weight o' metal inside. Only a +smooth-bore barrel ked a tuk it; an' from sech it's been dischurged." + +"You're right about that," responds Heywood, taking hold of the piece of +wood, and also trying its weight. "It's a smooth-bore ball--no doubt of +it." + +"Well, then, who carries a smooth-bore through these hyar woods? Who, +Ned Heywood?" + +"I know only one man that does." + +"Name him! Name the damned rascal!" + +"Dick Darke." + +"Ye kin drink afore me, Ned. That's the skunk I war a-thinkin' 'bout, +an' hev been all the day. I've seed other sign beside this--the which +escaped the eyes o' the others. An' I'm gled it did: for I didn't want +Dick Darke to be about when I war follerin' it up. For that reezun I +drawed the rest aside--so as none o' 'em shed notice it. By good luck +they didn't." + +"You saw other sign! What, Sime?" + +"Tracks in the mud, clost in by the edge o' the swamp. They're a good +bit from the place whar the poor young fellur's blood's been spilt, an' +makin' away from it. I got only a glimp at 'em, but ked see they'd been +made by a man runnin'. You bet yur life on't they war made by a pair o' +boots I've seen on Dick Darke's feet. It's too gloomsome now to make +any thin' out o' them. So let's you an' me come back here by ourselves, +at the earliest o' daybreak, afore the people git about. Then we kin +gie them tracks a thorrer scrutination. If they don't prove to be Dick +Darke's, ye may call Sime Woodley a thick-headed woodchuck." + +"If we only had one of his boots, so that we might compare it with the +tracks." + +"_If_! Thar's no if. We _shall_ hev one o' his boots--ay, both--I'm +boun' to hev 'em." + +"But how?" + +"Leave that to me. I've thought o' a plan to git purssession o' the +scoundrel's futwear, an' everythin' else belongin' to him that kin throw +a ray o' daylight unto this darksome bizness. Come, Ned! Le's go to +the widder's house, an' see if we kin say a word to comfort the poor +lady--for a lady she air. Belike enough this thing'll be the death o' +her. She warn't strong at best, an' she's been a deal weaker since the +husban' died. Now the son's goed too--ah! Come along, an' le's show +her, she ain't forsook by everybody." + +With the alacrity of a loyal heart, alike leaning to pity, the young +hunter promptly responds to the appeal, saying:-- + +"I'm with you, Woodley!" + +The Death Shot--by Captain Mayne Reid + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. + +"TO THE SHERIFF!" + +A day of dread, pitiless suspense to the mother of Charles Clancy, while +they are abroad searching for her son. + +Still more terrible the night after their return--not without tidings of +the missing man. Such tidings! The too certain assurance of his +death--of his murder--with the added mystery of their not having been +able to find his body. Only his hat, his gun, his blood! + +Her grief, hitherto held in check by a still lingering hope, now escapes +all trammels, and becomes truly agonising. Her heart seems broken, or +breaking. + +Although without wealth, and therefore with but few friends, in her hour +of lamentation she is not left alone. It is never so in the backwoods +of the Far West; where, under rough home-wove coats, throb hearts gentle +and sympathetic, as ever beat under the finest broadcloth. + +Among Mrs Clancy's neighbours are many of this kind; chiefly "poor +whites,"--as scornfully styled by the prouder planters. Some half-score +of them determine to stay by her throughout the night; with a belief +their presence may do something to solace her, and a presentiment that +ere morning they may be needed for a service yet more solemn. She has +retired to her chamber--taken to her bed; she may never leave either +alive. + +As the night chances to be a warm one--indeed stifling hot, the men stay +outside, smoking their pipes in the porch, or reclining upon the little +grass plot in front of the dwelling, while within, by the bedside of the +bereaved widow, are their wives, sisters, and daughters. + +Needless to say, that the conversation of those without relates +exclusively to the occurrences of the day, and the mystery of the +murder. For this, they all believe it to have been; though utterly +unable to make out, or conjecture a motive. + +They are equally perplexed about the disappearance of the body; though +this adds not much to the mystery. + +They deem it simply a corollary, and consequence, of the other. He, who +did the foul deed, has taken steps to conceal it, and so far succeeded. +It remains to be seen whether his astuteness will serve against the +search to be resumed on the morrow. + +Two questions in chief, correlative, occupy them: "Who killed Clancy?" +and "What has been the motive for killing him?" + +To the former, none of them would have thought of answering "Dick +Darke,"--that is when starting out on the search near noon. + +Now that night is on, and they have returned from it, his name is on +every lip. At first only in whispers, and guarded insinuations; but +gradually pronounced in louder tone, and bolder speech--this approaching +accusation. + +Still the second question remains unanswered:-- + +"Why should Dick Darke have killed Charley Clancy?" + +Even put in this familiar form it receives no reply. It is an enigma to +which no one present holds the key. For none know aught of a rivalry +having existed between the two men--much less a love-jealousy, than +which no motive more inciting to murder ever beat in human breast. + +Darke's partiality for Colonel Armstrong's eldest daughter has been no +secret throughout the settlement. He himself, childishly, in his cups, +long since made all scandal-mongers acquainted with that. But Clancy, +of higher tone, if not more secretive habit, has kept his love-affair to +himself; influenced by the additional reason of its being clandestine. + +Therefore, those, sitting up as company to his afflicted parent, have no +knowledge of the tender relations that existed between him and Helen +Armstrong, any more than of their being the cause of that disaster for +which the widow now weeps. + +She herself alone knows of them; but, in the first moment of her +misfortune, completely prostrated by it, she has not yet communicated +aught of this to the sympathetic ears around her. It is a family +secret, too sacred for their sympathy; and, with some last lingering +pride of superior birth, she keeps it to herself. The time has not come +for disclosing it. + +But it soon will--she knows that. All must needs be told. For, after +the first throes of the overwhelming calamity, in which her thoughts +alone dwelt on the slain son, they turned towards him suspected as the +slayer. In her case with something stronger than suspicion--indeed +almost belief, based on her foreknowledge of the circumstances; these +not only accounting for the crime, but pointing to the man who must have +committed it. + +As she lies upon her couch, with tears streaming down her cheeks, and +sighs heaved from the very bottom of her breast--as she listens to the +kind voices vainly essaying to console her--she herself says not a word. +Her sorrow is too deep, too absorbing, to find expression in speech. +But in her thoughts are two men--before, her distracted fancy two +faces--one of a murdered man, the other his murderer--the first her own +son, the second that of Ephraim Darke. + +Notwithstanding ignorance of all these circumstances, the thoughts of +her sympathising neighbours--those in council outside--dwell upon Dick +Darke; while his name is continuously upon their tongues. His +unaccountable conduct during the day--as also the strange behaviour of +the hound--is now called up, and commented upon. + +Why should the dog have made such demonstration? Why bark at him above +all the others--selecting him out of the crowd--so resolutely and +angrily assailing him? + +His own explanation, given at the time, appeared lame and +unsatisfactory. + +It looks lamer now, as they sit smoking their pipes, more coolly and +closely considering it. + +While they are thus occupied, the wicket-gate, in front of the cottage, +is heard turning upon its hinges, and two men are seen entering the +enclosure. + +As these draw near to the porch, where a tallow dip dimly burns, its +light is reflected from the features of Simeon Woodley and Edward +Heywood. + +The hunters are both well-known to all upon the ground; and welcomed, as +men likely to make a little less irksome that melancholy midnight watch. + +If the new-comers cannot contribute cheerfulness, they may something +else, as predicted by the expression observed upon their faces, at +stepping into the porch. Their demeanour shows them possessed of some +knowledge pertinent to the subject under discussion, as also important. + +Going close to the candle, and summoning the rest around, Woodley draws +from the ample pocket of his large, loose coat a bit of wood, bearing +resemblance to a pine-apple, or turnip roughly peeled. + +Holding it to the light, he says: "Come hyar, fellurs! fix yar eyes on +this." + +All do as desired. + +"Kin any o' ye tell what it air?" the hunter asks. + +"A bit of tree timber, I take it," answers one. + +"Looks like a chunk carved out of a cypress knee," adds a second. + +"It ought," assents Sime, "since that's jest what it air; an' this child +air he who curved it out. Ye kin see thar's a hole in the skin-front; +which any greenhorn may tell's been made by a bullet: an' he'd be still +greener in the horn as kedn't obsarve a tinge o' red roun' thet hole, +the which air nothin' more nor less than blood. Now, boys! the bullet's +yit inside the wud, for me an' Heywood here tuk care not to extract it +till the proper time shed come." + +"It's come now; let's hev it out!" exclaims Heywood; the others +endorsing the demand. + +"Thet ye shall. Now, fellurs; take partikler notice o' what sort o' +_egg_ hez been hatchin' in this nest o' cypress knee." + +While speaking, Sime draws his large-bladed knife from its sheath; and, +resting the piece of wood on the porch bench, splits it open. When +cleft, it discloses a thing of rounded form and metallic lustre, dull +leaden--a gun-bullet, as all expected. + +There is not any blood upon it, this having been brushed off in its +passage through the fibrous texture of the wood. But it still preserves +its spherical shape, perfect as when it issued from the barrel of the +gun that discharged, or the mould that made it. + +Soon as seeing it they all cry out, "A bullet!" several adding, "The +ball of a smooth-bore." + +Then one asks, suggestingly: + +"Who is there in this neighbourhood that's got a shooting-iron of such +sort?" + +The question is instantly answered by another, though not +satisfactorily. + +"Plenty of smooth-bores about, though nobody as I knows of hunts with +them." + +A third speaks more to the point, saying:-- + +"Yes; there's one does." + +"Name him!" is the demand of many voices. + +"_Dick Darke_!" + +The statement is confirmed by several others, in succession repeating +it. + +After this succeeds silence--a pause in the proceedings--a lull ominous, +not of further speech but, action. + +Daring its continuance, Woodley replaces the piece of lead in the wood, +just as it was before; then laying the two cleft pieces together, and +tying them with a string, he returns the chunk to his pocket. + +This done, he makes a sign to the chiefs of the conclave to follow him +as if for further communication. + +Which they do, drawing off out of the porch, and taking stand upon grass +plot below at some paces distant from the dwelling. + +With heads close together, they converse for a while, _sotto voce_. + +Not so low, but that a title, the terror of all malefactors, can be +heard repeatedly pronounced. + +And also a name; the same, which, throughout all the evening has been +upon their lips, bandied about, spoken of with gritting teeth and brows +contracted. + +Not all of those, who watch with the widow are admitted to this +muttering council. Simon Woodley, who presides over it, has his reasons +for excluding some. Only men take part in it who can be relied on for +an emergency, such as that the hunter has before him. + +Their conference closed, four of them, as if by agreement with the +others, separate from the group, glide out through the wicket-gate, and +on to their horses left tied to the roadside rail fence. + +"Unhitching" these, they climb silently into their saddles, and as +silently slip away; only some muttered words passing between them, as +they ride along the road. + +Among these may be heard the name of a man, conjoined to a speech, under +the circumstances significant:-- + +"_Let's straight to the Sheriff_!" + + + +CHAPTER NINETEEN. + +THE "BELLE OF NATCHEZ." + +While search is still being made for the body of the murdered man, and +he suspected of the crime is threatened with a prison cell, she, the +innocent cause of it, is being borne far away from the scene of its +committal. + +The steamboat, carrying Colonel Armstrong and his belongings, having +left port punctually at the hour advertised, has forsaken the "Father of +Waters," entered the Red River of Louisiana, and now, on the second day +after, is cleaving the current of this ochre-tinted stream, some fifty +miles from its mouth. + +The boat is the "Belle of Natchez." Singular coincidence of name; since +one aboard bears also the distinctive sobriquet. + +Oft have the young "bloods" of the "City of the Bluffs," while quaffing +their sherry cobblers, or champagne, toasted Helen Armstrong, with this +appellation added. + +Taking quality into account, she has a better right to it than the boat. +For this, notwithstanding the proud title bestowed upon it, is but a +sorry craft; a little "stern-wheel" steamer, such as, in those early +days, were oft seen ploughing the bosom of the mighty Mississippi, more +often threading the intricate and shallower channels of its tributaries. +A single set of paddles, placed where the rudder acts in other vessels, +and looking very much like an old-fashioned mill-wheel, supplies the +impulsive power--at best giving but poor speed. + +Nevertheless, a sort of craft with correct excuse, and fair _raison +d'etre_; as all know, who navigate narrow rivers, and their still +narrower reaches, with trees from each side outstretching, as is the +case with many of the streams of Louisiana. + +Not that the noble Red River can be thus classified; nor in any sense +spoken of as a narrow stream. Broad, and deep enough, for the biggest +boats to navigate to Natchitoches--the butt of Colonel Armstrong's +journey by water. + +Why the broken planter has taken passage on the little "stern-wheeler" +is due to two distinct causes. It suited him as to time, and also +expense. + +On the Mississippi, and its tributaries, a passage in "crack" boats is +costly, in proportion to their character for "crackness." The "Belle of +Natchez," being without reputation of this kind, carries her passengers +at a reasonable rate. + +But, indeed, something beyond ideas of opportune time, or economy, +influenced Colonel Armstrong in selecting her. The same thought which +hurried him away from his old home under the shadows of night, has taken +him aboard a third-rate river steamboat. Travelling thus obscurely, he +hopes to shun encounter with men of his own class; to escape not only +observation, but the sympathy he shrinks from. + +In this hope he is disappointed, and on both horns of his fancied, not +to say ridiculous, dilemma. For it so chances, that the "bully" boat, +which was to leave Natchez for Natchitoches on the same day with the +"Belle," has burst one of her boilers. As a consequence, the smaller +steamer has started on her trip, loaded down to the water-line with +freight, her state-rooms and cabins crowded with passengers--many of +these the best, bluest blood of Mississippi and Louisiana. + +Whatever of chagrin this _contretemps_ has caused Colonel Armstrong-- +and, it may be, the older of his daughters--to the younger it gives +gladness. For among the supernumeraries forced to take passage in the +stern-wheel steamer, is a man she has met before. Not only met, but +danced with; and not only danced but been delighted with; so much, that +souvenirs of that night, with its saltative enjoyment, have since oft +occupied her thoughts, thrilling her with sweetest reminiscence. + +He, who has produced this pleasant impression, is a young planter, by +name Luis Dupre. A Louisianian by birth, therefore a "Creole." And +without any taint of the African; else he would not be a Creole _pur +sang_. + +The English reader seems to need undeceiving about this, constantly, +repeatedly. In the Creole, simply so-called, there is no admixture of +negro blood. + +Not a drop of it in the veins of Luis Dupre; else Jessie Armstrong could +not have danced with him at a Natchez ball; nor would her father, fallen +as he is, permit her to keep company with him on a Red River steamboat. + +In this case, there is no condescension on the part of the +ex-Mississippian planter. He of Louisiana is his equal in social rank, +and now his superior in point of wealth, by hundreds, thousands. For +Luis Dupre is one of the largest landowners along the line of Red River +plantations, while his slaves number several hundred field-hands, and +house domestics: the able-bodied of both, without enumerating the aged, +the imbecile, and piccaninnies, more costly than profitable. + +If, in the presence of such a prosperous man, Colonel Armstrong reflects +painfully upon his own reduced state, it is different with his daughter +Jessie. + +Into her ear Luis Dupre has whispered sweet words--a speech telling her, +that not only are his lands, houses, and slaves at her disposal, but +along with them his heart and hand. + +It is but repeating what he said on the night of the Natchez ball; his +impulsive Creole nature having then influenced him to speak as he felt. + +Now, on the gliding steamboat, he reiterates the proposal, more +earnestly pressing for an answer. + +And he gets it in the affirmative. Before the "Belle of Natchez" has +reached fifty miles from the Red River's mouth, Luis Dupre and Jessie +Armstrong have mutually confessed affection, clasped hands, let lips +meet, and tongues swear, never more to live asunder. That journey +commenced upon the Mississippi is to continue throughout life. + +In their case, there is no fear of aught arising to hinder the +consummation of their hopes; no stern parent to stand in the way of +their life's happiness. By the death of both father and mother, Luis +Dupre has long since been emancipated from parental authority, and is as +much his own master as he is of his many slaves. + +On the other side, Jessie Armstrong is left free to her choice; because +she has chosen well. Her father has given ready consent; or at all +events said enough to ensure his doing so. + +The huge "high-pressure" steam craft which ply upon the western rivers +of America bear but a very slight resemblance to the black, long, low-- +hulled leviathans that plough the briny waste of ocean. The steamboat +of the Mississippi more resembles a house, two stories in height, and, +not unfrequently, something of a third--abode of mates and pilots. +Rounded off at stern, the structure, of oblong oval shape, is +universally painted chalk-white; the second, or cabin story, having on +each face a row of casement windows, with Venetian shutters, of emerald +green. These also serve as outside doors to the state-rooms--each +having its own. Inside ones, opposite them, give admission to the main +cabin, or "saloon;" which extends longitudinally nearly the whole length +of the vessel. Figured glass folding-doors cut it into three +compartments; the ladies' cabin aft, the dining saloon amidships, with a +third division forward, containing clerk's office and "bar," the last +devoted to male passengers for smoking, drinking, and, too often, +gambling. A gangway, some three feet in width, runs along the outside +facade, forming a balcony to the windows of the state-rooms. It is +furnished with a balustrade, called "guard-rail," to prevent careless +passengers from stepping overboard. A projection of the roof, yclept +"hurricane-deck," serves as an awning to this continuous terrace, +shading it from the sun. + +Two immense twin chimneys--"funnels" as called--tower above all, pouring +forth a continuous volume of whitish wood-smoke; while a smaller +cylinder--the "scape-pipe"--intermittently vomits a vapour yet whiter, +the steam; at each emission with a hoarse belching bark, that can be +heard reverberating for leagues along the river. + +Seen from the bank, as it passes, the Mississippi steamboat looks like a +large hotel, or mansion of many windows, set adrift and moving +majestically--"walking the water like a thing of life," as it has been +poetically described. Some of the larger ones, taking into account +their splendid interior decoration, and, along with it their sumptuous +table fare, may well merit the name oft bestowed upon them, of "floating +palaces." + +Only in point of size, some inferiority in splendour, and having a +stern-wheel instead of side-paddles, does the "Belle of Natchez" differ +from other boats seen upon the same waters. As them, she has her large +central saloon, with ladies' cabin astern; the flanking rows of +state-rooms; the casements with green jalousies; the gangway and +guard-rail; the twin funnels, pouring forth their fleecy cloud, and the +scape-pipe, coughing in regular repetition. + +In the evening hour, after the day has cooled down, the balcony outside +the state-room windows is a pleasant place to stand, saunter, or sit in. +More especially that portion of it contiguous to the stern, and +exclusively devoted to lady passengers--with only such of the male sex +admitted as can claim relationship, or liens of a like intimate order. + +On this evening--the first after leaving port--the poop deck of the +little steamer is so occupied by several individuals; who stand gazing +at the scene that passes like a panorama before their eyes. The hot +southern sun has disappeared behind the dark belt of cypress forest, +which forms, far and near, the horizon line of Louisiana; while the soft +evening breeze, laden with the mixed perfumes of the _liquid ambar_, and +_magnolia grandiflora_, is wafted around them, like incense scattered +from a censer. + +Notwithstanding its delights, and loveliness, Nature does not long +detain the saunterers outside. Within is a spell more powerful, and to +many of them more attractive. It is after dinner hour; the cabin tables +have been cleared, and its lamps lit. Under the sheen of brilliant +chandeliers the passengers are drawing together in groups, and coteries; +some to converse, others to play _ecarte_ or _vingt-un_; here and there +a solitary individual burying himself in a book; or a pair, almost as +unsocial, engaging in the selfish duality of chess. + +Three alone linger outside; and of these only two appear to do so with +enjoyment. They are some paces apart from the third, who is now left to +herself: for it is a woman. Not that they are unacquainted with her, or +in any way wishing to be churlish. But, simply, because neither can +spare word or thought for any one, save their two sweet selves. + +It scarce needs telling who is the couple thus mutually engrossed. An +easy guess gives Jessie Armstrong and Luis Dupre. The young Creole's +handsome features, black eyes, brunette complexion, and dark curly hair +have made havoc with the heart of Armstrong's youngest daughter; while, +_en revanche_, her contrasting colours of red, blue, and gold have held +their own in the amorous encounter. They are in love with one another +to their finger tips. + +As they stand conversing in soft whispers, the eyes of the third +individual are turned towards them. This only at intervals, and with +nought of jealousy in the glance. For it is Jessie's own sister who +gives it. Whatever of that burn in Helen's breast, not these, nor by +them, has its torch been kindled. The love that late occupied her heart +has been plucked therefrom, leaving it lacerated, and lorn. It was the +one love of her life, and now crushed out, can never be rekindled. If +she have a thought about her sister's new-sprung happiness, it is only +to measure it against her own misery--to contrast its light of joy, with +the shadow surrounding herself. + +But for a short moment, and with transient glance, does she regard them. +Aside from any sentiment of envy, their happy communion calls up a +reminiscence too painful to be dwelt upon. She remembers how she +herself stood talking in that same way, with one she cannot, must not, +know more. To escape recalling the painful souvenir, she turns her eyes +from the love episode, and lowers them to look upon the river. + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY. + +SAVED BY A SISTER. + +The boat is slowly forging its course up-stream, its wheel in constant +revolution, churning the ochre-coloured water into foam. This, floating +behind, dances and simmers upon the surface, forming a wake-way of white +tinted with red. In Helen Armstrong's eyes it has the appearance of +blood-froth--such being the hue of her thoughts. + +Contemplating it for a time, not pleasantly, and then, turning round, +she perceives that she is alone. The lovers have stepped inside a +state-room, or the ladies' cabin, or perhaps gone on to the general +saloon, to take part in the sports of the evening. She sees the lights +shimmering through the latticed windows, and can hear the hum of voices, +all merry. She has no desire to join in that merriment, though many may +be wishing her. Inside she would assuredly become the centre of an +admiring circle; be addressed in courtly speeches, with phrases of soft +flattery. She is aware of this, and keeps away from it. Strange woman! + +In her present mood the speeches would but weary, the flattery fash her. +She prefers solitude; likes better the noise made by the ever-turning +wheel. In the tumult of the water there is consonance with that +agitating her own bosom. + +Night is now down; darkness has descended upon forest and river, holding +both in its black embrace. Along with it a kindred feeling creeps over +her--a thought darker than night, more sombre than forest shadows. It +is that which oft prompts to annihilation; a memory of the past, which, +making the future unendurable, calls for life to come to an end. The +man to whom she has given her heart--its firstlings, as its fulness--a +heart from which there can be no second gleanings, and she knows it--he +has made light of the offering. A sacrifice grand, as complete; glowing +with all the interests of her life. The life, too, of one rarely +endowed; a woman of proud spirit, queenly and commanding, beyond air +beautiful. + +She does not think thus of herself, as, leaning over the guard-rail, +with eyes mechanically bent upon the wheel, she watches it whipping the +water into spray. Her thoughts are not of lofty pride, but low +humiliation. Spurned by him at whose feet she has flung herself, so +fondly, so rashly--ay, recklessly--surrendering even that which woman +deems most dear, and holds back to the ultimate moment of rendition--the +word which speaks it! + +To Charles Clancy she has spoken it. True, only in writing; but still +in terms unmistakeable, and with nothing reserved. And how has he +treated them? No response--not even denial! Only contemptuous silence, +worse than outspoken scorn! + +No wonder her breast is filled with chagrin, and her brow burning with +shame! + +Both may be ended in an instant. A step over the low rail--a plunge +into the red rolling river--a momentary struggle amidst its seething +waters--not to preserve life, but destroy it--this, and all will be +over! Sadness, jealousy, the pangs of disappointed love--these baleful +passions, and all others alike, can be soothed, and set at rest, by one +little effort--a leap into oblivion! + +Her nerves are fast becoming strung to the taking it. The past seems +all dark, the future yet darker. For her, life has lost its +fascinations, while death is divested of its terrors. + +Suicide in one so young, so fair, so incomparably lovely; one capable of +charming others, no longer to be charmed herself! A thing fearful to +reflect upon. + +And yet is she contemplating it! + +She stands close to the rail, wavering, irresolute. It is no lingering +love of life which causes her to hesitate. Nor yet fear of death, even +in the horrid form, she cannot fail to see before her, spring she but +over that slight railing. + +The moon has arisen, and now courses across the blue canopy of sky, in +full effulgence, her beams falling bright upon the bosom of the river. +At intervals the boat, keeping the deeper channel, is forced close to +either bank. Then, as the surging eddies set the floating but +stationary logs in motion, the huge saurian asleep on them can be heard +giving a grunt of anger for the rude arousing, and pitching over into +the current with dull sullen plash. + +She sees, and hears all this. It should shake her nerves, and cause +shivering throughout her frame. + +It does neither. The despair of life has deadened the dread of death-- +even of being devoured by an alligator! + +Fortunately, at this moment, a gentle hand is laid on her shoulder, and +a soft voice sounds in her ear. They are the hand and voice of her +sister. + +Jessie, coming out of her state-room, has glided silently up. She sees +Helen prepossessed, sad, and can somewhat divine the cause. But she +little suspects, how near things have been to a fatal climax, and dreams +not of the diversion her coming has caused. + +"Sister!" she says, in soothing tone, her arms extended caressingly, +"why do you stay out here? The night is chilly; and they say the +atmosphere of this Red River country is full of miasma, with fevers and +ague to shake the comb out of one's hair! Come with me inside! There's +pleasant people in the saloon, and we're going to have a round game at +cards--_vingt-un_, or something of the sort. Come!" + +Helen turns round trembling at the touch, as if she felt herself a +criminal, and it was the sheriff's hand laid upon her shoulder! + +Jessie notices the strange, strong emotion. She could not fail to do +so. Attributing it to its remotest cause, long since confided to her, +she says:-- + +"Be a woman, Helen! Be true to yourself, as I know you will; and don't +think of him any more. There's a new world, a new life, opening to both +of us. Forget the sorrows of the old, as I shall. Pluck Charles Clancy +from your heart, and fling every memory, every thought of him, to the +winds! I say again, be a woman--be yourself! Bury the past, and think +only of the future--_of our father_!" + +The last words act like a galvanic shock, at the same time soothing as +balm. For in the heart of Helen Armstrong they touch a tender chord-- +that of filial affection. + +And it vibrates true to the touch. Flinging her arms around Jessie's +neck, she cries:-- + +"Sister; you have saved me!" + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. + +SEIZED BY SPECTRAL ARMS. + +"Sister, you have saved me!" + +On giving utterance to the ill-understood speech, Helen Armstrong +imprints a kiss upon her sister's cheek, at the same time bedewing it +with her tears. For she is now weeping--convulsively sobbing. + +Returning the kiss, Jessie looks not a little perplexed. She can +neither comprehend the meaning of the words, nor the strange tone of +their utterance. Equally is she at a loss to account for the trembling +throughout her sister's frame, continued while their bosoms stay in +contact. + +Helen gives her no time to ask questions. + +"Go in!" she says, spinning the other round, and pushing her towards the +door of the state-room. Then, attuning her voice to cheerfulness, she +adds:-- + +"In, and set the game of _vingt-un_ going. I'll join you by the time +you've got the cards shuffled." + +Jessie, glad to see her sister in spirits unusually gleeful, makes no +protest, but glides towards the cabin door. + +Soon as her back is turned, Helen once more faces round to the river, +again taking stand by the guard-rail. The wheel still goes round, its +paddles beating the water into bubbles, and casting the crimson-white +spray afar over the surface of the stream. + +But now, she has no thought of flinging herself into the seething swirl, +though she means to do so with something else. + +"Before the game of _vingt-un_ begins," she says in soliloquy, "I've got +a pack of cards to be dealt out here--among them a knave." + +While speaking, she draws forth a bundle of letters--evidently old +ones--tied in a bit of blue ribbon. One after another, she drags them +free of the fastening--just as if dealing out cards. Each, as it comes +clear, is rent right across the middle, and tossed disdainfully into the +stream. + +At the bottom of the packet, after the letters have been all disposed +of, is something seeming different. A piece of cardboard--a portrait-- +in short, a _carte de visite_. It is the likeness of Charles Clancy, +given her on one of those days when he flung himself affectionately at +her feet. + +She does not tear it in twain, as she has the letters; though at first +this is nearest her intent. Some thought restraining her, she holds it +up in the moon's light, her eyes for a time resting on, and closely +scanning it. Painful memories, winters of them, pass through her soul, +shown upon her countenance, while she makes scrutiny of the features so +indelibly graven upon her heart. She is looking her last upon them--not +with a wish to remember, but the hope to forget--of being able to erase +that image of him long-loved, wildly worshipped, from the tablets of her +memory, at once and for ever. + +Who can tell what passed through her mind at that impending moment? Who +could describe her heart's desolation? Certainly, no writer of romance. + +Whatever resolve she has arrived at, for a while she appears to hesitate +about executing it.-- + +Then, like an echo heard amidst the rippling waves, return to her ear +the words late spoken by her sister-- + +"Let us think only of the future--_of our father_." + +The thought decides her; and, stepping out to the extremest limit the +guard-rail allows, she flings the photograph upon the paddles of the +revolving wheel, as she does so, saying-- + +"Away, image of one once loved--picture of a man who has proved false! +Be crushed, and broken, as he has broken my heart!" + +The sigh that escapes her, on letting drop the bit of cardboard, more +resembles a subdued scream--a stifled cry of anguish, such as could only +come from what she has just spoken of--a broken heart. + +As she turns to re-enter the cabin, she appears ill-prepared for taking +part, or pleasure, in a game of cards. + +And she takes not either. That round of _vingt-un_ is never to be +played--at least not with her as one of the players. + +Still half distraught with the agony through which her soul has passed-- +the traces of which she fancies must be observable on her face--before +making appearance in the brilliantly-lighted saloon, she passes around +the corner of the ladies' cabin, intending to enter her own state-room +by the outside door. + +It is but to spend a moment before her mirror, there to arrange her +dress, the plaiting of her hair--perhaps the expression of her face--all +things that to men may appear trivial, but to women important--even in +the hour of sadness and despair. No blame to them for this. It is but +an instinct--the primary care of their lives--the secret spring of their +power. + +In repairing to her toilette, Helen Armstrong is but following the +example of her sex. + +She does not follow it far--not even so far as to get to her +looking-glass, or even inside her state-room. Before entering it, she +makes stop by the door, and tarries with face turned towards the river's +bank. + +The boat, tacking across stream, has sheered close in shore; so close +that the tall forest trees shadow her track--the tips of their branches +almost touching the hurricane-deck. They are cypresses, festooned with +grey-beard moss, that hangs down like the drapery of a death-bed. She +sees one blighted, stretching forth bare limbs, blanched white by the +weather, desiccated and jointed like the arms of a skeleton. + +'Tis a ghostly sight, and causes her weird thoughts, as under the clear +moonbeams the steamer sweeps past the place. + +It is a relief to her, when the boat, gliding on, gets back into +darkness. + +Only momentary; for there under the shadow of the cypresses, lit up by +the flash of the fire-flies, she sees, or fancies it, a face! It is +that of a man--him latest in her thoughts--Charles Clancy! + +It is among the trees high up, on a level with the hurricane-deck. + +Of course it can be but a fancy? Clancy could not be there, either in +the trees, or on the earth. She knows it is but a deception of her +senses--an illusive vision--such as occur to clairvoyantes, at times +deceiving themselves. + +Illusion or not, Helen Armstrong has no time to reflect upon it. Ere +the face of her false lover fades from view; a pair of arms, black, +sinewy, and stiff, seem reaching towards her! + +More than seem; it is a reality. Before she can stir from the spot, or +make effort to avoid them, she feels herself roughly grasped around the +waist, and lifted aloft into the air. + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. + +UP AND DOWN. + +Whatever has lifted Helen Armstrong aloft, for time holds her suspended. +Only for a few seconds, during which she sees the boat pass on beneath, +and her sister rush out to the stern rail, sending forth a scream +responsive to her own. + +Before she can repeat the piercing cry, the thing grasping her relaxes +its hold, letting her go altogether, and she feels herself falling, as +from a great height. The sensation of giddiness is succeeded by a +shock, which almost deprives her of consciousness. It is but the fall, +broken by a plunge into water. Then there is a drumming in her ears, a +choking in the throat; in short, the sensation that precedes drowning. + +Notwithstanding her late suicidal thoughts, the instinctive aversion to +death is stronger than her weariness of life, and instinctively does she +strive to avert it. + +No longer crying out; she cannot; her throat is filled with the water of +the turbid stream. It stifles, as if a noose were being drawn around +her neck, tighter and tighter. She can neither speak nor shout, only +plunge and struggle. + +Fortunately, while falling, the skirt of her dress, spreading as a +parachute, lessened the velocity of the descent. This still extended, +hinders her from sinking. As she knows not how to swim, it will not +sustain her long; itself becoming weighted with the water. + +Her wild shriek, with that of her sister responding--the latter still +continued in terrified repetition--has summoned the passengers from the +saloon, a crowd collecting on the stern-guards. + +"Some one overboard!" is the cry sent all over the vessel. + +It reaches the ear of the pilot; who instantly rings the stop-bell, +causing the paddles to suspend revolution, and bringing the boat to an +almost instantaneous stop. The strong current, against which they are +contending, makes the movement easy of execution. + +The shout of, "some one overboard!" is quickly followed by another of +more particular significance. "It's a lady!" + +This announcement intensifies the feeling of regret and alarm. Nowhere +in the world more likely to do so, than among the chivalric spirits sure +to be passengers on a Mississippian steamboat. Half a dozen voices are +heard simultaneously asking, not "who is the lady?" but "where?" while +several are seen pulling off their coats, as if preparing to take to the +water. + +Foremost among them is the young Creole, Dupre. He knows who the lady +is. Another lady has met him frantically, exclaiming-- + +"'Tis Helen! She has fallen, or _leaped_ overboard." + +The ambiguity of expression appears strange; indeed incomprehensible, to +Dupre, as to others who overhear it. They attributed it to incoherence, +arising from the shock of the unexpected catastrophe. + +This is its cause, only partially: there is something besides. + +Confused, half-frenzied, Jessie continues to cry out: + +"My sister! Save her! save her!" + +"We'll try; show us where she is," respond several. + +"Yonder--there--under that tree. She was in its branches above, then +dropped down upon the water. I heard the plunge, but did not see her +after. She has gone to the bottom. Merciful heavens! O Helen! where +are you?" + +The people are puzzled by these incoherent speeches--both the passengers +above, and the boatmen on the under-deck. They stand as if spell-bound. + +Fortunately, one of the former has retained presence of mind, and along +with it coolness. It is the young planter, Dupre. He stays not for the +end of her speech, but springing over the guards, swims towards the spot +pointed out. + +"Brave fellow!" is the thought of Jessie Armstrong, admiration for her +lover almost making her forget her sister's peril. + +She stands, as every one else upon the steamer, watching with earnest +eyes. Hers are more; they are flashing with feverish excitement, with +glances of anxiety--at times the fixed gaze of fear. + +No wonder at its being so. The moon has sunk to the level of the +tree-tops, and the bosom of the river is in dark shadow; darker by the +bank where the boat is now drifting. But little chance to distinguish +an object in the water--less for one swimming upon its surface. And the +river is deep, its current rapid, the "reach" they are in, full of +dangerous eddies. In addition, it is a spot infested, as all know--the +favourite haunt of that hideous reptile the alligator, with the +equally-dreaded gar-fish--the shark of the South-western rivers. All +these things are in Jessie Armstrong's thoughts. + +Amidst these dangers are the two dearest to her on earth; her sister, +her lover. Not strange that her apprehension is almost an agony! + +Meanwhile the steamer's boat has been manned, and set loose as quickly +as could be done. It is rowed towards the spot, where the swimmer was +last seen; and all eyes are strained upon it--all ears listening to +catch any word of cheer. + +Not long have they to listen. From the shadowed surface comes the +shout, "_Saved_!" + +Then, a rough boatman's voice, saying: + +"All right! We've got 'em both. Throw us a rope." + +It is thrown by ready hands, after which is heard the command, "Haul +in!" + +A light, held high upon the steamer, flashes its beams down into, the +boat. Lying along its thwarts can be perceived a female form, in a +dress once white, now discoloured and dripping. Her head is held up by +a man, whose scant garments show similarly stained. + +It is Helen Armstrong, supported by Dupre. + +She appears lifeless, and the first sight of her draws anxious +exclamations from those standing on the steamer. Her sister gives out +an agonised cry; while her father trembles on taking her into his arms, +and totters as he carries her to her state-room--believing he bears but +a corpse! + +But no! She breathes; her pulse beats; her lips move in low murmur; her +bosom's swell shows sign of returning animation. + +By good fortune there chances to be a medical man among the passengers; +who, after administering restoratives, pronounces her out of danger. + +The announcement causes universal joy on board the boat--crew and +passengers alike sharing it. + +With one alone remains a thought to sadden. It is Jessie: her heart is +sore with the suspicion, that _her sister has attempted suicide_! + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. + +THE SLEEP OF THE ASSASSIN. + +On the night after killing Clancy, Richard Darke does not sleep +soundly--indeed scarce at all. + +His wakefulness is not due to remorse; there is no such sentiment in his +soul. It comes from two other causes, in themselves totally, +diametrically distinct; for the one is fear, the other love. + +While dwelling on the crime he has committed, he only dreads its +consequences to himself; but, reflecting on what led him to commit it, +his dread gives place to dire jealousy; and, instead of repentance, +spite holds possession of his heart. Not the less bitter, that the man +and woman who made him jealous can never meet more. For, at that hour, +he knows Charles Clancy to be lying dead in the dank swamp; while, ere +dawn of the following day, Helen Armstrong will be starting upon a +journey which must take her away from the place, far, and for ever. + +The only consolation he draws from her departure is, that she, too, will +be reflecting spitefully and bitterly as himself. Because of Clancy not +having kept his appointment with her; deeming the failure due to the +falsehood by himself fabricated--the story of the Creole girl. + +Withal, it affords him but scant solace. She will be alike gone from +him, and he may never behold her again. Her beauty will never belong to +his rival; but neither can it be his, even though chance might take him +to Texas, or by design he should proceed thither. To what end should +he? No more now can he build castles in the air, basing them on the +power of creditor over debtor. That bubble has burst, leaving him only +the reflection, how illusory it has been. Although, for his nefarious +purpose, it has proved weak as a spider's web, it is not likely Colonel +Armstrong will ever again submit himself to be so ensnared. Broken men +become cautious, and shun taking credit a second time. + +And yet Richard Darke does not comprehend this. Blinded by passion, he +cannot see any impossibility, and already thoughts of future proceedings +begin to flit vaguely through his mind. They are too distant to be +dwelt upon now. For this night he has enough to occupy heart and +brain--keeping both on the rack and stretch, so tensely as to render +prolonged sleep impossible. Only for a few seconds at a time does he +know the sweet unconsciousness of slumber; then, suddenly starting +awake, to be again the prey of galling reflections. + +Turn to which side he will, rest his head on the pillow as he may, two +sounds seem ever ringing in his ears--one, a woman's voice, that speaks +the denying word, "Never!"--the other, a dog's bark, which seems +persistently to say, "I demand vengeance for my murdered master!" + +If, in the first night after his nefarious deed, fears and jealous +fancies chase one another through the assassin's soul, on the second it +is different. Jealousy has no longer a share in his thoughts, fear +having full possession of them. And no trifling fear of some far off +danger, depending on chances and contingencies, but one real and near, +seeming almost certain. The day's doings have gone all against him. +The behaviour of Clancy's hound has not only directed suspicion towards +him, but given evidence, almost conclusive, of his guilt; as though the +barking of the dumb brute were words of truthful testimony, spoken in a +witness-box! + +The affair cannot, will not, be allowed to rest thus. The suspicions of +the searchers will take a more definite shape, ending in accusation, if +not in the actual deed of his arrest. He feels convinced of this. + +Therefore, on this second night, it is no common apprehension which +keeps him awake, but one of the intensest kind, akin to stark terror. +For, added to the fear of his fellow man, there is something besides--a +fear of God; or, rather of the Devil. His soul is now disturbed by a +dread of the supernatural. He saw Charles Clancy stretched dead, under +the cypress--was sure of it, before parting from the spot. Returning to +it, what beheld he? + +To him, more than any other, is the missing body a mystery. It has been +perplexing, troubling him, throughout all the afternoon, even when his +blood was up, and nerves strung with excitement. Now, at night, in the +dark, silent hours, as he dwells ponderingly upon it, it more than +perplexes, more than troubles--it awes, horrifies him. + +In vain he tries to compose himself, by shaping conjectures based on +natural causes. Even these could not much benefit him; for, whether +Clancy be dead or still living--whether he has walked away from the +ground, or been carried from it a corpse--to him, Darke, the danger will +be almost equal. Not quite. Better, of course, if Clancy be dead, for +then there will be but circumstantial evidence against, and, surely, not +sufficient to convict him? + +Little suspects he, that in the same hour, while he is thus distractedly +cogitating, men are weighing evidence he knows not of; or that, in +another hour, they will be on the march to make him their prisoner. + +For all his ignorance of it, he has a presentiment of danger, sprung +from the consciousness of his crime. This, and no sentiment of remorse, +or repentance, wrings from him the self-interrogation, several times +repeated:-- + +"Why the devil did I do it?" + +He regrets the deed, not because grieving at its guilt, but the position +it has placed him in--one of dread danger, with no advantage derived, +nothing to compensate him for the crime. No wonder at his asking, in +the name of the Devil, why he has done it! + +He is being punished for it now; if not through remorse of conscience, +by coward craven fear. He feels what other criminals have felt before-- +what, be it hoped, they will ever feel--how hard it is to sleep the +sleep of the assassin, or lie awake on a murderer's bed. + +On the last Richard Darke lies; since this night he sleeps not at all. +From the hour of retiring to his chamber, till morning's dawn comes +creeping through the window, he has never closed eye; or, if so, not in +the sweet oblivion of slumber. + +He is still turning upon his couch, chafing in fretful apprehension, +when daylight breaks into his bedroom, and shows its shine upon the +floor. It is the soft blue light of a southern morn, which usually +enters accompanied by bird music--the songs of the wild forest warblers +mingling with domestic voices not so melodious. Among these the harsh +"screek" of the guinea-fowl; the more sonorous call of the turkey +"gobbler;" the scream of the goose, always as in agony; the merrier +cackle of the laying hen, with the still more cheerful note of her +lord--Chanticleer. + +All these sounds hears Dick Darke, the agreeable as the disagreeable. +Both are alike to him on this morning, the second after the murder. + +Far more unpleasant than the last are some other sounds which salute his +ear, as he lies listening. Noises which, breaking out abruptly, at once +put an end to the singing of the forest birds, and the calling of the +farm-yard fowls. + +They are of two kinds; one, the clattering of horses' hoofs, the other, +the clack and clangour of men's voices. Evidently there are several, +speaking at the same time, and all in like tone--this of anger, of +vengeance! + +At first they seem at some distance off, but evidently drawing nigh. + +Soon they are close up to the dwelling, their voices loudly +reverberating from its walls. + +The assassin cannot any longer keep to his couch. Too well knows he +what the noise is, his guilty heart guessing it. + +Springing to his feet, he glides across the room, and approaches the +window--cautiously, because in fear. + +His limbs tremble, as he draws the curtain and looks out. Then almost +refusing to support him: for, in the courtyard he sees a half-score of +armed horsemen, and hears them angrily discoursing. One at their head +he knows to be the Sheriff of the county; beside him his Deputy, and +behind a brace of constables. In rear of these, two men he has reason +to believe will be his most resolute accusers. + +He has no time to discriminate; for, soon as entering the enclosure, the +horsemen dismount, and make towards the door of the dwelling. + +In less than sixty seconds after, they knock against that of his +sleeping chamber, demanding admission. + +No use denying them, as its occupant is well aware--not even to ask-- + +"Who's there?" + +Instead, he says, in accent tremulous-- + +"Come in." + +Instantly after, he sees the door thrown open, and a form filling up its +outlines--the stalwart figure of a Mississippi sheriff; who, as he +stands upon the threshold, says, in firm voice, with tone of legal +authority: + +"Richard Darke, I arrest you!" + +"For what?" mechanically demands the culprit, shivering in his shirt. + +"_For the murder of Charles Clancy_!" + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. + +THE COON-HUNTER CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN. + +On the night preceding Richard Darke's arrest, another man, not many +rods distant, lies awake, or, at least, loses more than half his +customary measure of sleep. + +This is the coon-hunter. In his case the disturbing cause _is_ +conscience; though his crime is comparatively a light one, and should +scarce rob him of his rest. It would not, were he a hardened sinner; +but Blue Bill is the very reverse; and though, at times, cruel to +"coony," he is, in the main, merciful, his breast overflowing with the +milk of human kindness. + +On the night succeeding his spoilt coon-chase, he has slept sound +enough, his mind being unburdened by the confession to Phoebe. Besides, +he had then no certain knowledge that a murder had been committed, or of +any one being even killed. He only knew there were shots, and angry +words, resembling a fight between two men; one his young master; the +other, as he supposed, Charles Clancy. True, the former, rushing past +in such headlong pace, seemed to prove that the affair had a tragical +termination. + +But of this, he, Blue Bill, could only have conjecture; and, hoping the +_denouement_ might not be so bad as at first deemed, neither was he so +alarmed as to let it interfere with his night's slumbers. + +In the morning, when, as usual, hoe in hand, he goes abroad to his day's +work, no one would suspect him of being the depository of a secret so +momentous. He was always noted as the gayest of the working gang--his +laugh, the loudest, longest, and merriest, carried across the plantation +fields; and on this particular day, it rings with its wonted +cheerfulness. + +Only during the earlier hours. When, at mid-day, a report reaches the +place where the slaves are at work, that a man has been murdered--this, +Charles Clancy--the coon-hunter, in common with the rest of the gang, +throws down his hoe; all uniting in a cry of sympathetic sorrow. For +all of them know young "Massr Clancy;" respecting, many of them loving +him. He has been accustomed to meet them with pleasant looks, and +accost them in kindly words. + +The tidings produce a painful impression upon them; and from that +moment, though their task has to be continued, there is no more +cheerfulness in the cotton field. Even their conversation is hushed, or +carried on in a subdued tone; the hoes being alone heard, as their steel +blades clink against an occasional "donick." + +But while his fellow-labourers are silent through sorrow, Blue Bill is +speechless from another and different cause. They only hear that young +Massr Clancy has been killed--murdered, as the report says--while he +knows how, when, where, and _by whom_. The knowledge gives him double +uneasiness; for while sorrowing as much, perhaps more than any, for +Charles Clancy's death, he has fears for his own life, with good reasons +for having them. + +If by any sinister chance Massr Dick should get acquainted with the fact +of his having been witness to that rapid retreat among the trees, he, +Blue Bill, would be speedily put where his tongue could never give +testimony. + +In full consciousness of his danger, he determines not to commit himself +by any voluntary avowal of what he has seen and heard; but to bury the +secret in his own breast, as also insist on its being so interred within +the bosom of his better half. + +This day, Phoebe is not in the field along with the working gang; which +causes him some anxiety. The coon-hunter can trust his wife's +affections, but is not so confident as to her prudence. She may say +something in the "quarter" to compromise him. A word--the slightest +hint of what has happened--may lead to his being questioned, and +confessed; with torture, if the truth be suspected. + +No wonder that during the rest of the day Blue Bill wears an air of +abstraction, and hoes the tobacco plants with a careless hand, often +chopping off the leaves. Fortunately for him, his fellow-workers are +not in a mood to observe these vagaries, or make inquiry as to the +cause. + +He is rejoiced, when the boom of the evening bell summons them back to +the "big house." + +Once more in the midst of his piccaninnies, with Phoebe by his side, he +imparts to her a renewed caution, to "keep dark on dat ere seerous +subjeck." + +At supper, the two talk over the events of the day--Phoebe being the +narrator. She tells him of all that has happened--of the search, and +such incidents connected with it as have reached the plantation of the +Darkes; how both the old and young master took part in it, since having +returned home. She adds, of her own observation, that Massr Dick looked +"berry scared-like, an' white in de cheeks as a ole she-possum." + +"Dats jess de way he oughter look," is the husband's response. + +After which they finish their frugal meal, and once more retire to rest. + +But on this second night, the terrible secret shared by them, keeps both +from sleeping. Neither gets so much as a wink. + +As morning dawns, they are startled by strange noises in the negro +quarter. These are not the usual sounds consequent on the uprising of +their fellow-slaves--a chorus of voices, in jest and jocund laughter. +On the contrary, it is a din of serious tone, with cries that tell of +calamity. + +When the coon-hunter draws--back his door, and looks forth, he sees +there is commotion outside; and is soon told its cause. One of his +fellow-bondsmen, coming forward, says:-- + +"Massr Dick am arrested by de sheriff. Dey've tuk 'im for de murder ob +Massr Charl Clancy." + +The coon-hunter rushes out, and up to the big house. + +He reaches it in time to see Richard Darke set upon a horse, and +conducted away from the place, with a man on each side, guarding him. +All know that he goes a prisoner. + +With a sense of relief, Blue Bill hastens back to his own domicile, +where lie communicates what has happened to the wife anxiously waiting. + +"Phoebe, gal," he adds, in a congratulatory whisper, "dar ain't no +longer so much reezun for us to hab fear. I see Sime Woodley mong de +men; and dis nigger know dat he'll gub me his purtecshun, whatsomever I +do. So I'se jess made up my mind to make a clean bress ob de hul ting, +and tell what I heern an' see, besides deliverin' up boaf dat letter an' +picter. What's yar view ob de matter? Peak plain, and doan be noways +mealy-moufed 'bout it." + +"My views is den, for de tellin' ob de troof. Ole Eph Darke may flog us +till dar ain't a bit o' skin left upon our bare backs. I'll take my +share ob de 'sponsibility, an a full half ob de noggin'. Yes, Bill, +I'se willin' to do dat. But let de troof be tole--de whole troof, an' +nuffin but de troof." + +"Den it shall be did. Phoebe, you's a darlin'. Kiss me, ole gal. If +need be, we'll boaf die togedder." + +And their two black faces come in contact, as also their bosoms; both +beating with a humanity that might shame whiter skins. + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. + +AN UNCEREMONIOUS SEARCH. + +Arrested, Richard Darke is taken to jail. This not in Natchez, but a +place of less note; the Court-house town of the county, within the +limits of which lie the Darke and Armstrong plantations. He is there +consigned to the custody of Joe Harkness, jailer. + +But few, who assisted at the arrest, accompany him to the place of +imprisonment; only the Deputy, and the brace of constables. + +The sheriff himself, with the others, does not leave Ephraim Darke's +premises, till after having given them a thorough examination, in quest +of evidence against the accused. + +This duty done, without regard to the sensibilities of the owner, who +follows them from room to room, now childishly crying--now frantically +cursing. + +Alike disregarded are his tears and oaths. + +The searchers have no sympathy for him in his hour of affliction. Some +even secretly rejoice at it. + +Ephraim Darke is not a Southerner, _pur sang_; and, though without the +slightest taint of abolitionism--indeed the very opposite--he has always +been unpopular in the neighbourhood; alike detested by planter and "poor +white." Many of both have been his debtors, and felt his iron hand over +them, just as Archibald Armstrong. + +Besides, some of these now around his house were present two days before +upon Armstrong's plantation; saw his establishment broken up, his goods +and chattels confiscated, his home made desolate. + +Knowing by whom all this was done, with ill-concealed satisfaction, they +now behold the _arcana_ of Ephraim Darke's dwelling exposed to public +gaze; himself humiliated, far more than the man he made homeless. + +With no more ceremony than was shown in making the arrest, do the +sheriff and party explore the paternal mansion of him arrested, rudely +ransacking it from cellar to garret; the outbuildings as well, even to +the grounds and garden. + +Their search is but poorly rewarded. All they get, likely to throw +light on the matter of inquiry, is Richard Darke's double-barrelled gun, +with the clothes he wore on the day fatal to Clancy. On these there is +no blood; but while they are looking for it, something comes under their +eyes, almost equally significant of strife. + +Through the coat-skirt is a hole, ragged, and recently made. Several +pronounce it a bullet-hole; further declaring the ball to have been +discharged from a rifle. + +For certain, a singular discovery! + +But like all the others that have been made, only serving to perplex +them. It is rather in favour of the accused; giving colour to the idea, +that between him and Clancy there has been a fight, with shots fired +from both sides. The question is, "has it been a fair one?" + +To negative this, a bit of adjunct evidence is adduced, which goes +against the accused. The coat, with the perforated skirt, is _not_ the +one worn by him on the day before, when out assisting in the search; +while it is that he had on, the day preceding, when Clancy came not +home. Ephraim Darke's domestics, on being sternly interrogated, and +aside, disclose this fact; unaware how greatly their master may desire +them to keep it concealed. + +Still, it is not much. A man might have many reasons for changing his +coat, especially for the dress of two different days. It would be +nothing, but for the conjoint circumstance of the shot through the +skirt. This makes it significant. + +Another item of intelligence, of still more suspicious nature, is got +out of the domestics, whose stern questioners give them no chance to +prevaricate. Indeed, terrified, they do not try. + +Their young "Massr Dick" had on a different pair of boots the day he +went out hunting, from those worn by him, when, yesterday, he went +searching. + +The latter are in the hands of the sheriff, but the former are missing-- +cannot be found anywhere, in or about the house! + +All search for them proves idle. And not strange it should; since one +is in the side-pocket of Sime Woodley's surtout, the other having a like +lodgment in that of Ned Heywood. + +The two hunters, "prospecting" apart, found the boots thickly coated +with mud, concealed under a brush pile, at the bottom of the peach +orchard. Even the sheriff does not know what bulges out the coat-skirts +of the two backwoodsmen. + +Nor is he told there or then. Sime has an object in keeping that secret +to himself and his companion; he will only reveal it, when the time +comes to make it more available. + +The affair of the arrest and subsequent action over, the sheriff and his +party retire from the plantation of Ephraim Darke, leaving its owner in +a state of frenzied bewilderment. + +They go direct to Mrs Clancy's cottage; not to stay there, but as a +starting point, to resume the search for the body of her son, adjourned +since yester-eve. + +They do not tell her of Dick Darke's arrest. She is inside her +chamber--on her couch--so prostrated by the calamity already known to +her, they fear referring to it. + +The doctor in attendance tells them, that any further revelation +concerning the sad event may prove fatal to her. + +Again her neighbours, now in greater number, go off to the woods, some +afoot, others on horseback. As on the day preceding, they divide into +different parties, and scatter in diverse directions. Though not till +after all have revisited the ensanguined spot under the cypress, and +renewed their scrutiny of the stains. Darker than on the day before, +they now look more like ink than blood! + +The cypress knee, out of which Woodley and Heywood "gouged" the +smooth-bore bullet, is also examined, its position noted. Attempts are +made to draw inferences therefrom, though with but indifferent success. +True, it tells a tale; and, judging by the blood around the bullet-hole, +which all of them have seen, a tragic one, though it cannot of itself +give the interpretation. + +A few linger around the place, now tracked and trodden hard by their +going and coming feet. The larger number proceeds upon the search, in +scattered parties of six or eight each, carrying it for as many miles +around. + +They pole and drag the creek near by, as others at a greater distance; +penetrate the swamp as far as possible, or likely that a dead body might +be carried for concealment. In its dim recesses they discover no body, +living or dead, no trace of human being, nought save the solitude-loving +heron, the snake-bird, and scaly alligator. + +On this second day's quest they observe nothing new, either to throw +additional light on the commission of the crime, or assist them in +recovering the corpse. + +It is but an unsatisfactory report to take back to the mother of the +missing man. Perhaps better for her she should never receive it? + +And she never does. Before it can reach her ear, this is beyond hearing +sound. The thunder of heaven could not awake Mrs Clancy from the sleep +into which she has fallen. For it is no momentary unconsciousness, but +the cold insensible slumber of Death. + +The long-endured agony of ill fortune, the more recent one of widowhood, +and, now, this new bereavement of a lost, only son--these accumulated +trials have proved too much for her woman's strength, of late fast +failing. + +When, at evening hour, the searchers, on their return, approach the +desolated dwelling, they hear sounds within that speak of some terrible +disaster. + +On the night before their ears were saluted by the same, though in tones +somewhat different. Then the widow's voice was lifted in lamentation; +now it is not heard at all. + +Whatever of mystery there may be is soon removed. A woman, stepping out +upon the porch, and, raising her hand in token of attention, says, in +sad solemn voice,-- + +"_Mrs Clancy is dead_!" + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. + +TELL-TALE TRACKS. + +"Mrs Clancy is dead!" + +The simple, but solemn speech, makes an impression on the assembled +backwoodsmen difficult to be described. All deem it a double-murder; +her death caused by that of her son. The same blow has killed both. + +It makes them all the more eager to discover the author of this crime, +by its consequence twofold; and now, more than ever, do their thoughts +turn towards Dick Darke, and become fixed upon him. + +As the announcement of Mrs Clancy's death makes complete the events of +the day, one might suppose, that after this climax, her neighbours, +satisfied nothing more could be done, would return to their own homes. + +This is not the custom in the backwoods of America, or with any people +whose hearts beat true to the better instincts of humanity. It is only +in Old world countries, under tyrannical rule, where these have been +crushed out, that such selfishness can prevail. + +Nothing of this around Natchez--not a spark of it in the breasts of +those collected about that cottage, in which lies the corpse of a woman. + +The widow will be waked by men ready to avenge her wrongs. + +If friendless and forlorn while living, it is different now she is dead. +There is not a man among them but would give his horse, his gun, ay, a +slice of his land, to restore her to life, or bring back that of her +son. + +Neither being now possible, they can only show their sympathy by the +punishment of him who has caused the double desolation. + +It still needs to know who. After all, it may not be the man arrested +and arraigned, though most think it is. But, to be fully convinced, +further evidence is wanted; as also a more careful sifting of that +already obtained. + +As on the night before, a council is convened, the place being the bit +of green sward, that, lawn-like, extends from the cottage front to the +rail fence of the road. But now the number taking part in it is +different. Instead of a half-score, there is nearer a half hundred. +The news of the second death has been spreading meanwhile, and the added +sympathy causes the crowd to increase. + +In its centre soon forms a ring, an open space, surrounded by men, +acknowledged as chief on such occasions. They discuss the points of the +case; state such incidents and events as are known; recall all +circumstances that can be remembered; and inquire into their connection +with motives. + +It is, in short, a jury, _standing_, not _sitting_, on the trial of a +criminal case; and, with still greater difference between them and the +ordinary "twelve good men and true," in that, unlike these, they are not +mere dummies, with a strong inclination to accept the blandishments of +the barrister, or give way to the rulings of the judge, too often wrong. +On the contrary, men who, in themselves, combine the functions of all +three--judge, jury, and counsel--with this triple power, inspired by a +corresponding determination to arrive at the truth. + +In short it is the court of "Justice Lynch" in session. Every +circumstance which has a possible bearing on the case, or can throw +light into its dark ambiguity, is called up and considered. The +behaviour of the accused himself, coupled with that of the hound, are +the strongest points yet appearing against him. Though not the only +ones. The bullet extracted from the cypress knee, has been tried in the +barrel of his gun, and found to fit exactly. About the other ball, +which made the hole through the skirt of his coat, no one can say more +than that it came out of a rifle. Every backwoodsman among them can +testify to this. + +A minor point against the accused man is, his having changed his clothes +on the two succeeding days; though one stronger and more significant, is +the fact that the boots, known to have been worn by him on the former, +are still missing and cannot anywhere be found. + +"Can't they, indeed?" asks Sime Woodley, in response to one, who has +just expressed surprise at this. + +The old hunter has been hitherto holding back; not from any want of will +to assist the lynch jury in their investigation, but because, only +lately arrived, he has scarce yet entered into the spirit of their +proceedings. + +His grief, on getting the news of Mrs Clancy's death, for a time holds +him in restraint. It is a fresh sorrow; since, not only had her son +been long his friend, but in like manner her husband and herself. + +In loyal memory of this friendship, he has been making every effort to +bring the murderer to justice; and one just ended accounts for his late +arrival at the cottage. As on the day before, he and Heywood have +remained behind the other searchers; staying in the woods till all these +returned home. Yesterday they were detained by an affair of _bullets_-- +to-day it is _boots_. The same that are missing, and about which +questions have just been asked, the last by Sime Woodley himself. + +In answer to it he continues:-- + +"They not only kin be foun', but hev been. Hyar they air!" + +Saying this, the hunter pulls a boot out of his pocket, and holds it up +before their eyes; Heywood simultaneously exposing another--its fellow! + +"That's the fut wear ye're in sarch o', I reck'n," pursues Woodley. "'T +all eevents it's a pair o' boots belongin' to Dick Darke, an' war worn +by him the day afore yesterday. What's more, they left thar marks down +on the swamp mud, not a hunderd mile from the spot whar poor Charley +Clancy hez got his death shot; an' them tracks war made not a hundred +minnits from the time he got it. Now boys! what d'ye think o' the +thing?" + +"Where did you get the boots?" ask several, speaking at the same time. + +"No matter whar. Ye kin all see we've got 'em. Time enuf to tell o' +the whar an' the wharf or when it kums to a trial. Tho lookin' in yur +faces, fellurs, I shed say it's kim to somethin' o' that sort now." + +"_It has_!" responds one of the jury, in a tone of emphatic affirmation. + +"In that case," pursues the hunter, "me an' Ned Heywood are ready to +_gie_ sech evidince as we've got. Both o' us has spent good part o' +this arternoon collectin' it; an' now it's at the sarvice o' the court +o' Judge Lynch, or any other." + +"Well then, Woodley!" says a planter of respectability, who by tacit +consent is representing the stern terrible judge spoken of. "Suppose +the Court to be in session. Tell us all you know." + +With alacrity Woodley responds to the appeal; giving his experience, +along with it his suspicions and conjectures; not simply as a witness, +but more like a counsel in the case. It needs not to say, he is against +the accused, in his statement of facts, as the deductions he draws from +them. For the hunter has long since decided within himself, as to who +killed Clancy. + +Heywood follows him in like manner, though with no new matter. His +testimony but corroborates that of his elder confrere. + +Taken together, or separately, it makes profound impression on the +jurors of Judge Lynch; almost influencing them to pronounce an instant +verdict, condemnatory of the accused. + +If so, it will soon be followed by the sentence; this by execution, +short and quick, but sternly terrible! + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. + +ADDITIONAL EVIDENCE. + +While the Lynchers are still in deliberation, the little clock on the +mantel strikes twelve, midnight; of late, not oft a merry hour in the +cottage of the Clancys; but this night more than ever sad. + +Its striking seems the announcement of a crisis. For a time it silences +the voices of those conversing. + +Scarce has the last stroke ceased to vibrate on the still night air, +when a voice is heard; one that has not hitherto taken part in the +deliberations. It sounds as though coming up from the road gate. + +"Mass Woodley in da?" are the words spoken interrogatively; the question +addressed generally to the group gathered in front of the house. "Yes: +he's here," simultaneously answer several. + +"Kin I peak a wud wif you, Mass Woodley?" again asks the inquirer at the +wicket. + +"Sartinly," says the hunter, separating from the others, and striding +off towards the entrance. + +"I reck'n I know that voice," he adds, on drawing near the gate. "It's +Blue Bill, ain't it?" + +"Hush, Mass' Woodley! For Goramity's sake doan peak out ma name. Not +fo' all de worl let dem people hear it. Ef dey do, dis nigger am a dead +man, shoo." + +"Darn it, Bill; what's the matter? Why d'ye talk so mysteerous? Is +thar anythin' wrong? Oh! now I think o't, you're out arter time. Never +mind 'bout that; I'll not betray you. Say; what hev ye kim for?" + +"Foller me, Mass Woodley; I tell yer all. I dasent tay hya, less some +ob dem folk see me. Les' go little way from de house, into de wood +groun' ober yonner; den I tell you wha fotch me out. Dis nigger hab +someting say to you, someting berry patickler. Yes, Mass Woodley, berry +patickler. 'Tarn a matter ob life an' def." + +Sime does not stay to hear more; but, lifting the latch, quietly pushes +open the gate, and passes out into the road. Then following the negro, +who flits like a shadow before him, the two are soon standing among some +bushes that form a strip of thicket running along the roadside. + +"Now, what air it?" asks Woodley of the coon-hunter, with whom he is +well acquainted--having often met him in his midnight rambles. + +"Mass Woodley, you want know who kill Mass Charl Clancy?" + +"Why, Bill, that's the very thing we're all talkin' 'bout, an' tryin' to +find out. In coorse we want to know. But who's to tell us?" + +"Dis nigger do dat." + +"Air ye in airnest, Bill?" + +"So much in earness I ha'n't got no chance get sleep, till I make clean +bress ob de seecret. De ole ooman neider. No, Mass Woodley, Phoebe she +no let me ress till I do dat same. She say it am de duty ob a Christyun +man, an', as ye know, we boaf b'long to de Methodies. Darfore, I now +tell ye, de man who kill Charl Clancy was my own massr--de young un-- +Dick." + +"Bill! are you sure o' what ye say?" + +"So shoo I kin swa it as de troof, de whole troof, an' nuffin but de +troof." + +"But what proof have ye?" + +"Proof! I moas seed it wif ma own eyes. If I didn't see, I heerd it +wif ma ears." + +"By the 'tarnal! this looks like clar evydince at last. Tell me, Bill, +o' all that you seed an' what you heern?" + +"Ya, Mass Woodley, I tell you ebberyting; all de sarkunistances c'nected +wif de case." + +In ten minutes after, Simeon Woodley is made acquainted with everything +the coon-hunter knows; the latter having given him full details of all +that occurred on that occasion when his coon-chase was brought to such +an unsatisfactory termination. + +To the backwoodsman it brings no surprise. He has already arrived at a +fixed conclusion, and Bill's revelation is in correspondence with it. + +On hearing it, he but says:-- + +"While runnin' off, yur master let fall a letter, did he? You picked it +up, Bill? Ye've gob it?" + +"Hya's dat eyedentikil dockyment." + +The negro hands over the epistle, the photograph inside. + +"All right, Bill! I reck'n this oughter make things tol'ably clur. +Now, what d'ye want me to do for yurself?" + +"Lor, Mass Woodley, you knows bess. I'se needn't tell ye, dat ef ole +Eph'm Darke hear wha dis nigger's been, an' gone, an' dud, de life ob +Blue Bill wuldn't be wuth a ole coon-skin--no; not so much as a +corn-shuck. I'se get de cowhide ebbery hour ob de day, and de night +too. I'se get flog to def, sa'tin shoo." + +"Yur right thar, I reck'n," rejoins the hunter; then continues, +reflectingly, "Yes; you'd be sarved putty saveer, if they war to know +on't. Wal, that mustn't be, and won't. So much I kin promise ye, Bill. +Yur evydince wouldn't count for nuthin' in a law court, nohow. +Tharfor, we won't bring ye forrad; so don't you be skeeart. I guess we +shan't wan't no more testymony, as thar ain't like to be any +crosskwestenin' lawyers in this case. Now; d'you slip back to yur +quarters, and gi'e yurself no furrer consarn. I'll see you don't git +into any trouble. May I be damned ef ye do!" + +With this emphatic promise, the old bear-hunter separates from the less +pretentious votary of the chase; as he does so giving the latter a +squeeze of the hand, which tells him he may go back in confidence to the +negro quarter, and sit, or sleep, by the side of his Phoebe, without +fear. + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. + +"TO THE JAIL!" + +With impatience Judge Lynch and his jurors await the hunter's return. +Before his leaving them, they had well-nigh made up their minds to the +verdict. All know it will be "Guilty," given unanimously. Woodley's +temporary absence will not affect it. Neither the longer time allowed +them for deliberation. If this cause change, it will not be to modify, +but make more fixed their determination. Still others keep coming up. +Like wildfire the news has spread that the mother of the murdered man is +herself stricken down. This, acting as a fresh stimulus to sympathy, +brings back such of the searchers as had gone home; many starting from +beds to which they had betaken themselves after the day's fatigue. + +It is past midnight, and the crowd collected around the cottage is +greater than ever. As one after another arrives upon the ground they +step across the threshold, enter the chamber of death, and look upon the +corpse, whose pale face seems to make mute appeal to them for justice. +After gazing on it for an instant, their anger with difficulty subdued +in the solemn presence of death, each comes out muttering a resolve +there shall be both justice and vengeance, many loudly vociferating it +with the added emphasis of an oath. + +It does not need what Simeon Woodley has in store to incite them to +action. Already are they sufficiently inflamed. The furor of the mob, +with its mutually maddening effect, gradually growing upon them, +permeating their spirits, has reached the culminating point. + +Still do they preserve sufficient calmness to wait a little longer, and +hear what the hunter may have to say. They take it, he has been called +from them on some matter connected with the subject under consideration. +At such a time who would dare interrupt their deliberations for any +trivial purpose? Although none of them has recognised Blue Bill's +voice, they know it to have been that of a negro. This, however, is no +reason why he should not have made some communication likely to throw +new light on the affair. So, on Woodley's return, once more gathering +around him, they demand to hear what it is. + +He tells all that has been imparted to him; but without making known the +name of his informant, or in any way compromising the brave fellow with +a black skin, who has risked life itself by making disclosure of the +truth. + +To him the old hunter refers in a slight but significant manner. +Comprehending, no one presses for more minute explanation. + +"He as says all that," Woodley continues, after stating the +circumstances communicated by the coon-hunter, "has guv me the letter +dropped by Dick Darke; which, as I've tolt, ye, he picked up. Here air +the thing itself. Preehaps it may let some new light into the matter; +though I guess you'll all agree wi' me, it's clar enough a'ready." + +They all do agree. A dozen voices have declared, are still declaring +that. One now cries out-- + +"What need to talk any more? Charley Clancy's been killed--he's been +murdered. An' Dick Darke's the man that did it!" + +It is not from any lack of convincing evidence, but rather a feeling of +curiosity, that prompts them to call for the reading of the letter, +which the hunter now holds conspicuously in his hand. Its contents may +have no bearing upon the case. Still it can be no harm to know what +they are. + +"You read it, Henry Spence! You're a scholart, an' I ain't," says +Woodley, handing the letter over to a young fellow of learned look--the +schoolmaster of the settlement. + +Spence, stepping close up to the porch--into which some one has carried +a candle--and holding the letter before the light, first reads the +superscription, which, as he informs them, is in a lady's handwriting. + +"_To Charley Clancy_" it is. + +"Charles Clancy!" + +Half a score voices pronounce the name, all in a similar tone--that of +surprise. One interrogates,-- + +"Was that letter dropped by Dick Darke?" + +"It was," responds Woodley, to whom the question is addressed. + +"Have patience, boys!" puts in the planter, who represents Justice +Lynch; "don't interrupt till we hear what's in it." + +They take the hint, and remain silent. + +But when the envelope is laid open, and a photograph drawn out, showing +the portrait of a young lady, recognised by all as a likeness of Helen +Armstrong, there is a fresh outburst of exclamations which betoken +increased surprise; this stronger still, after Spence reads out the +inscript upon the picture: + +"Helen Armstrong--for him she loves." + +The letter is addressed to Charles Clancy; to him the photograph must +have been sent. A love-affair between Miss Armstrong and the man who +has been murdered! A new revelation to all--startling, as pertinent to +the case.-- + +"Go on, Spence! Give us the contents of the letter!" demands an +impatient voice. + +"Yes, give them!" adds another. "I reckon we're on the right track +now." + +The epistle is taken out of the envelope. The schoolmaster, unfolding +it, reads aloud:-- + +"Dear Charles,-- + +"When we last met under the magnolia, you asked me a question. I told +you I would answer it in writing. I now keep my promise, and you will +find the answer underneath my own very imperfect image, which I herewith +send in closed. Papa has finally fixed the day of our departure from +the old home. On Tuesday next we are to set out in search of a new one. +Will it ever be as dear as that we are leaving behind? The answer will +depend upon--need I say whom? After reading what I have written upon +the _carte_, surely you can guess. There, I have confessed all--all +woman can, could, or should. In six little words I have made over to +you my heart. Accept them as its surrender! + +"And now, Charles, to speak of things prosaic, as in this hard world we +are too oft constrained to do. On Tuesday morning--at a very early +hour, I believe--a boat will leave Natchez, bound up the Red River. +Upon it we travel, as far as Natchitoches. There to remain for some +time, while papa is completing preparations for our farther transport +into Texas, I am not certain what part of the `Lone Star' State he will +select for our future home. He speaks of a place upon some branch of +the Colorado River, said to be a beautiful country; which, you, having +been out there, will know all about. In any case, we are to remain for +a time, a month or more, in Nachitoches; and there, _Carlos mio_, I need +not tell you, there is a post-office for receiving letters, as also for +delivering them. Mind, I say for _delivering_ them! Before we leave +for the far frontier, where there may be neither post-office nor post, I +shall write you full particulars about our intended `location'--with +directions how to reach it. Need I be very minute? Or can I promise +myself, that your wonderful skill as a `tracker,' of which we've heard, +will enable you to discover it? They say Love is blind. I hope, yours +will not be so: else you may fail in finding the way to your sweetheart +in the wilderness. + +"How I go on talking, or rather writing, things I intended to say to you +at our next meeting tinder the magnolia--our magnolia! Sad thought +this, tagged to a pleasant expectation: for it must be our last +interview under the dear old tree. Our last anywhere, until we come +together again in Texas--perhaps on some prairie where there are no +trees. Well; we shall then meet, I hope, never more to part; and in the +open daylight, with no need either of night, or tree-shadows to conceal +us. I'm sure father, humbled as he now is, will no longer object. Dear +Charles, I don't think he would have done so at any time, but for his +reverses. They made him think of--never mind what. I shall tell you +all under the magnolia. + +"And now, master mine--this makes you so--be punctual! Monday night, +and ten o'clock--the old hour. Remember that the morning after? I +shall be gone--long before the wild-wood songsters are singing their +`_reveille_' to awake you. Jule will drop this into our tree +post-office this evening--Saturday. As you've told me you go there +every day, you'll be sure of getting it in time; and once more I may +listen to your flattery, as when you quoted the words of the old song, +making me promise to come, saying you would `show the night flowers +their queen.' + +"Ah! Charles, how easy to keep that promise! How sweet the flattery +was, is, and ever will be, to yours,-- + +"Helen Armstrong." + +"And that letter was found on Dick Darke?" questions a voice, as soon as +the reading has come to an end. + +"It war dropped by him," answers Woodley; "and tharfor ye may say it war +found on him." + +"You're sure of that, Simeon Woodley?" + +"Wal, a man can't be sure o' a thing unless he sees it. I didn't see it +myself wi' my own eyes. For all that, I've had proof clar enough to +convince me; an' I'm reddy to stan' at the back o' it." + +"Damn the letter!" exclaims one of the impatient ones, who has already +spoken in similar strain; "the picture, too! Don't mistake me, boys. I +ain't referrin' eyther to the young lady as wrote it, nor him she wrote +to. I only mean that neither letter nor picture are needed to prove +what we're all wantin' to know, an' do know. They arn't nor warn't +reequired. To my mind, from the fust go off, nothin' ked be clarer than +that Charley Clancy has been killed, cepting as to who killed him-- +murdered him, if ye will; for that's what's been done. Is there a man +on the ground who can't call out the murderer?" + +The interrogatory is answered by a unanimous negative, followed by the +name, "Dick Darke." + +And along with the answer commences a movement throughout the crowd. A +scattering with threats heard--some muttered, some spoken aloud--while +men are observed looking to their guns, and striding towards their +horses; as they do so, saying sternly,-- + +"To the jail!" + +In ten minutes after both men and horses are in motion moving along the +road between Clancy's cottage and the county town. They form a phalanx, +if not regular in line of march, terribly imposing in aspect. + +Could Richard Darke, from inside the cell where he is confined, but see +that approaching cavalcade, hear the conversation of those who compose +it, and witness their angry gesticulations, he would shake in his shoes, +with trembling worse than any ague that ever followed fever. + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. + +A SCHEME OF COLONISATION. + +About two hundred miles from the mouth of Red River--the Red of +Louisiana--stands the town of Natchitoches. The name is Indian, and +pronounced as if written "Nak-e-tosh." Though never a populous place, +it is one of peculiar interest, historically and ethnologically. Dating +from the earliest days of French and Spanish colonisation, on the Lower +Mississippi, it has at different periods been in possession of both +these nations; finally falling to the United States, at the transfer of +the Louisiana territory by Napoleon Bonaparte. Hence, around its +history is woven much of romantic interest; while from the same cause +its population, composed of many various nationalities, with their +distinctive physical types and idiosyncracies of custom, offers to the +eye of the stranger a picturesqueness unknown to northern towns. Placed +on a projecting bluff of the river's bank, its painted wooden houses, of +French Creole fashion, with "piazzas" and high-pitched roofs, its +trottoirs brick-paved, and shaded by trees of sub-tropical foliage-- +among them the odoriferous magnolia, and _melia azedarach_, or "Pride of +China,"--these, in places, completely arcading the street--Natchitoches +has the orthodox aspect of a _rus in urbe_, or _urbs in rure_, whichever +way you wish it. + +Its porticoes, entwined with parasites, here and there show stretches of +trellis, along which meander the cord-like tendrils of bignonias, +aristolochias, and orchids, the flowers of which, drooping over windows +and doorways, shut out the too garish sunlight, while filling the air +with fragrance. Among these whirr tiny humming birds, buzz humble bees +almost as big, while butterflies bigger than either lazily flout and +flap about on soft, silent wing. + +Such sights greet you at every turning as you make promenade through the +streets of Natchitoches. + +And there are others equally gratifying. Within these same trellised +verandahs, you may observe young girls of graceful mien, elegantly +apparelled, lounging on cane rocking-chairs, or perhaps peering coyly +through the half-closed jalousies, their eyes invariably dark brown or +coal black, the marble forehead above surmounted with a chevelure in hue +resembling the plumage of the raven. For most of these demoiselles are +descended from the old colonists of the two Latinic races; not a few +with some admixture of African, or Indian. The flaxen hair, blue eyes, +and blonde complexion of the Northland are only exceptional appearances +in the town of Natchitoches. + +Meet these same young ladies in the street, it is the custom, and _comme +il faut_, to take off your hat, and make a bow. Every man who claims to +be a gentleman does this deference; while every woman, with a white +skin, expects it. On whichever side the privilege may be supposed to +lie, it is certainly denied to none. The humblest shop clerk or +artisan--even the dray-driver--may thus make obeisance to the proudest +and daintiest damsel who treads the trottoirs of Natchitoches. It gives +no right of converse, nor the slightest claim to acquaintanceship. A +mere formality of politeness; and to presume carrying it further would +not only be deemed a rudeness, but instantly, perhaps very seriously, +resented. + +Such is the polished town to which the Belle of Natchez has brought +Colonel Armstrong, with his belongings, and from which he intends taking +final departure for Texas. The "Lone Star State" lies a little beyond-- +the Sabine River forming the boundary line. But from earliest time of +Texan settlement on the north-eastern side, Natchitoches has been the +place of ultimate outfit and departure. + +Here the ex-Mississippian planter has made halt, and purposes to remain +for a much longer time than originally intended. For a far grander +scheme of migration, than that he started out with, is now in his mind. +Born upon the Belle of Natchez, it has been gradually developing itself +during the remainder of the voyage, and is now complete--at least as to +general design. + +It has not originated with Archibald Armstrong himself, but one, whom he +is soon to call son-in-law. The young Creole, Dupre, entranced with +love, has nevertheless not permitted its delirium to destroy all ideas +of other kind. Rather has it re-inspired him with one already +conceived, but which, for some time, has been in abeyance. He, too, has +been casting thoughts towards Texas, with a view to migrating thither. +Of late travelling in Europe--more particularly in France--with some of +whose noblest families he holds relationship, he has there been smitten +with a grand idea, dictated by a spirit of ambition. In Louisiana he is +only a planter among planters and though a rich one, is still not +satisfied, either with the number of his negroes, or the area of his +acres. In Texas, where land is comparatively low priced, he has +conceived a project of colonisation, on an extended scale--in short, the +founding a sort of Transatlantic _seigneurie_. For some months has this +ambitious dream been brooding in his brain; and now, meeting the +Mississippian planter aboard the boat and learning the latter's +intentions, this, and the more tender _liens_ late established between, +them, have determined Louis Dupre to make his dream a reality, and +become one of the migrating party. He will sell his Louisiana houses +and lands, but not his slaves. These can be taken to Texas. + +Scarce necessary to say, that, on thus declaring himself, he becomes the +real chief of the proposed settlement. Whether showing conspicuously in +front, or remaining obscurely in the rear, the capitalist controls all; +and Dupre is this. + +Still, though virtually the controlling spirit, apparently the power +remains in the hands of Colonel Armstrong. The young Creole wishes it +to appear so. He has no jealousy of him, who is soon to be his second +father. Besides, there is another and substantial reason why Colonel +Armstrong should assume the chieftainship of the purposed expedition. +Though reduced in circumstances, the ex-Mississippian planter is held in +high respect. His character commands it; while his name, known +throughout all the South-west, will be sure to draw around, and rally +under his standard, some of those strong stalwart men of the backwoods, +equally apt with axe and rifle, without whom no settlement on the far +frontier of Texas would stand a chance of either security, or success. + +For it is to the far frontier they purpose going, where land can be got +at government prices, and where they intend to purchase it not by the +acre, but in square miles--in leagues. + +Such is Dupre's design, easy of execution with the capital he can +command after disposing of his Red River plantation. + +And within a week after his arrival in Natchitoches, he has disposed of +it; signed the deed of delivery, and received the money. An immense +sum, notwithstanding the sacrifice of a sale requiring quick despatch. +On the transfer being completed, the Creole holds in hand a cash capital +of $200,000; in those days sufficient not only for the purchase of a +large tract of territory, but enough to make the dream of a seignorial +estate appear a possible reality. + +Not much of the future is he reflecting upon now. If, at times, he cast +a chance thought towards it, it may be to picture to himself how his +blonde beauty will look as lady _suzeraine_--_chatelaine_ of the castle +to be erected in Texas. + +In his fancy, no doubt, he figures her as the handsomest creature that +ever carried keys at her belt. + +If these fancies of the future are sweet, the facts of the present are +even more so. Daring their sojourn in Natchitoches the life of Louis +Dupre and Jessie Armstrong is almost a continuous chapter of amorous +converse and dalliance; left hands mutually clasped, right ones around +waists, or playing with curls and tresses; lips at intervals meeting in +a touch that intoxicates the soul--the delicious drunkenness of love, +from which no one need ever wish to get sober. + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY. + +NEWS FROM NATCHEZ. + +While thus pleasantly pass the days with Colonel Armstrong's younger +daughter, to the elder they are drear and dark. No love lights up the +path of _her_ life, no sun shines upon it; nothing save shadow and +clouds. + +More than a week has elapsed since their arrival in Natchitoches, and +for much of this time has she been left alone. Love, reputed a generous +passion, is of all the most selfish. Kind to its own chosen, to others +it can be cruel; often is, when the open exhibition of its fervid zeal +recalls the cold neglect, it may be, making their misery. + +Not that Jessie Armstrong is insensible to the sufferings of her sister. +On the contrary, she feels for--all that sister can--on occasions tries +to comfort her, by words such as she has already spoken, beseeching her +to forget--to pluck the poison from out her heart. + +Easy to counsel thus, for one in whose heart there is no poison; instead +a honeyed sweetness, almost seraphic. She, who this enjoys can ill +understand the opposite; and, Jessie, benighted with her own bliss, +gives less thought to the unhappiness of Helen. Even less than she +might, were it more known to her. For the proud elder sister keeps her +sorrow to herself, eschewing sympathy, and scarce ever recurring to the +past. On her side the younger rarely refers to it. She knows it would +cause pain. Though once a reference to it has given pleasure to +herself; when Helen explained to her the mystery of that midnight plunge +into the river. This, shortly after its occurrence; soon as she herself +came to a clear comprehension of it. It was no mystery after all. The +face seen among the cypress tops was but the fancy of an overwrought +brain; while the spectral arms were the forking tines of a branch, +which, catching upon the boat, in rebound had caught Helen Armstrong, +first raising her aloft, then letting her drop out of their innocent, +but withal dangerous, embrace. + +An explanation more pleasing to Jessie than she cared to let Helen know; +since it gave the assurance that her sister had no thought of +self-destruction. She is further comforted by the reflection, that +Helen has no need to repine, and the hope it may not be for long. Some +other and truer lover will replace the lost false one, and she will soon +forget his falsehood. So reasons the happy heart. Indeed, judging by +what she sees, Jessie Armstrong may well come to this conclusion. +Already around her sister circle new suitors; a host seeking her hand. +Among them the best blood of which the neighbourhood can boast. There +are planters, lawyers, members of the State Assembly--one of the General +Congress--and military men, young officers stationed at Fort Jessup, +higher up the river; who, forsaking the lonely post, occasionally come +down on a day's furlough to enjoy the delights of town life, and dip a +little into its dissipations. + +Before Helen Armstrong has been two weeks in Natchitoches she becomes, +what for over two years she has been in Natchez--its _belle_. The +"bloods" toast her at the drinking bar, and talk of her over the +billiard table. + +Some of them too much for their safety, since already two or three duels +have occurred on her account--fortunately without fatal termination. + +Not that she has given any of them cause to stand forth as her champion; +for not one can boast of having been favoured even with a smile. On the +contrary, she has met their approaches if not frowningly, at least with +denying indifference. All suspect there is _un ver_--_rongeur_--a worm +eating at her heart; that she suffers from a passion of the past. This +does not dismay her Natchitoches adorers, nor hinder them from +continuing their adoration. On the contrary it deepens it; her +indifference only attracting them, her very coldness setting their hot +southern hearts aflame, maddening them all the more. + +She is not unconscious of the admiration thus excited. If she were, she +would not be woman. But also, because being a true woman, she has no +care for, and does not accept it. Instead of oft showing herself in +society to receive homage and hear flattering speeches, she stays almost +constantly within her chamber--a little sitting-room in the hotel, +appropriated to herself and sister. + +For reasons already known, she is often deprived of her sister's +company; having to content herself with that of her mulatto maid. + +A companion who can well sympathise; for Jule, like herself, has a +canker at the heart. The "yellow girl" on leaving Mississippi State has +also left a lover behind. True, not one who has proved false--far from +it. But one who every day, every hour of his life, is in danger of +losing it. Jupe she supposes to be still safe, within the recesses of +the cypress swamp, but cannot tell how long his security may continue. +If taken, she may never see him more, and can only think of his +receiving some terrible chastisement. But she is sustained by the +reflection, that her Jupiter is a brave fellow, and crafty as +courageous; by the hope he will yet get away from that horrid +hiding-place, and rejoin her, in a land where the dogs of Dick Darke can +no more scent or assail him. Whatever may be the fate of the fugitive, +she is sure of his devotion to herself; and this hinders her from +despairing. + +She is almost as much alarmed about her young mistress whom she sees +grieving, day by day evidently sinking under some secret sorrow. + +To her it is not much of a secret. She more than guesses at the cause; +in truth, knows it, as it is known to that mistress herself. For the +wench can read; and made the messenger of that correspondence carried on +clandestinely, strange, if, herself a woman, she should not surmise many +things beyond what could be gleaned from the superscription on the +exchanged epistles. + +She has surmised; but, like her mistress, something wide away from the +reality. No wonder at her being surprised at what she sees in a Natchez +newspaper--brought to the hotel from a boat just arrived at +Natchitoches--something concerning Charles Clancy, very different from +that suspected of him. She stays not to consider what impression it may +produce on the mind of the young lady. Unpleasant no doubt; but a +woman's instinct whispers the maid, it will not be worse than the agony +her mistress is now enduring. + +Entering the chamber, where the latter is alone, she places the paper in +her hands, saying: "Missy Helen, here's a newspaper from Natchez, +brought by a boat just arrived. There's something in it, I think, will +be news to you--sad too." + +Helen Armstrong stretches forth her hand, and takes hold of the sheet. +Her fingers tremble, closing upon it; her whole frame, as she searches +through its columns. + +At the same time her eyes glow, burn, almost blaze, with a wild +unnatural light--an expression telling of jealousy roused, rekindled, in +a last spurt of desperation. Among the marriage notices she expects to +see that of Charles Clancy with a Creole girl, whose name is unknown to +her. It will be the latest chapter, climax and culminating point, of +his perfidy! + +Who could describe the sudden revulsion of thought; what pen depict the +horror that sweeps through her soul; or pencil portray the expression of +her countenance, as, with eyes glaring aghast, she rests them on a large +type heading, in which is the name "Charles Clancy?" + +For, the paragraph underneath tells not of his _marriage_, but his +_murder_! + +Not the climax of his perfidy, as expected, but of her suffering. Her +bosom late burning with indignant jealousy, is now the prey of a very +different passion. + +Letting the paper fall to the floor, she sinks back into her chair, her +heart audibly beating--threatening to beat no more. + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. + +SPECTRES IN THE STREET. + +Colonel Armstrong is staying at the "Planters' House," the chief hotel +in the town of Natchitoches. Not a very grand establishment, +nevertheless. Compared with such a princely hostelry as the "Langham" +of London, it would be as a peasant's hut to a palace. Withal, in every +way comfortable; and what it may lack in architectural style is made up +in natural adornment; a fine effect, produced by trees surrounding and +o'ershading it. + +A hotel of the true Southern States type: weather-board walls, painted +chalk-white, with green Venetian shutters to the windows; a raised +verandah--the "piazza"--running all around it; a portion of this usually +occupied by gentlemen in white linen coats, sky-blue "cottonade" pants, +and Panama hats, who drink mint-juleps all day long; while another +portion, furnished with cane rocking-chairs, presents a certain air of +exclusiveness, which tells of its being tabooed to the sterner sex, or +more particularly meant for ladies. + +A pleasant snuggery this, giving a good view of the street, while its +privacy is secured by a trellis, which extends between the supporting +pillars, clustered with Virginia creepers and other plants trained to +such service. A row of grand magnolias stands along the brick banquette +in front, their broad glabrous leaves effectually fending off the sun; +while at the ladies' end two large Persian lilacs, rivalling the +indigenous tree both in the beauty of their leaves and the fragrance of +their flowers, waft delicious odours into the windows of the chambers +adjacent, ever open. + +Orange-trees grow contiguous, and so close to the verandah rail, that +one leaning over may pluck either their ripe golden globes, or white +wax-like blossoms in all stages of expansion; these beautiful evergreens +bearing fruit and flower at the same time. + +A pleasant place at all hours this open air boudoir; and none more +enjoyable than at night, just after sunset. For then the hot atmosphere +has cooled down, and the soft southern breeze coming up from the bosom +of the river, stirs the leaves of the lilacs into gentle rustling, and +shakes their flower-spikes, scattering sweet incense around. Then the +light from street lamps and house windows, gleaming through the foliage, +mingles with that of the fire-flies crossing and scintillating like +sparks in a pyrotechnic display. Then the tree-crickets have commenced +their continuous trill, a sound by no means disagreeable; if it were, +there is compensation in the song of the mock-bird, that, perched upon +the top of some tall tree, makes the night cheerful with its +ever-changing notes. Sometimes there are other sounds in this shady +retreat, still more congenial to the ears of those who hear them. Oft +is it tenanted by dark-eyed demoiselles, and their Creole cavaliers, who +converse in the low whisperings of love, to them far sweeter than song +of thrush, or note of nightingale--words speaking the surrender of a +heart, with others signifying its acceptance. + +To-night there is nothing of this within the vine-trellised verandah; +for only two individuals occupy it, both ladies. By the light from +street lamps and open casements, from moonbeams shining through the +lilac leaves, from fire-flies hovering and shooting about, it can be +seen that both are young, and both beautiful. Of two different types, +dark and fair: for they are the two daughters of Archibald Armstrong. + +As said, they are alone, nor man nor woman near. There have been others +of both sexes, but all have gone inside; most to retire for the night, +now getting late. + +Colonel Armstrong is not in the hotel, nor Dupre. Both are abroad on +the business of their colonising scheme. About this everything has been +arranged, even to selection of the place. A Texan land speculator, who +holds a large "grant" upon the San Saba river, opportunely chances to be +in Natchitoches at the time. It is a tract of territory surrounding, +and formerly belonging to, an old mission by the monks, long ago +abandoned. Dupre has purchased it; and all now remaining to be done is +to complete the make-up of the migrating party, and start off to take +possession. + +Busied with these preparations, the young Creole, and his future +father-in-law, are out to a later hour than usual, which accounts for +the ladies being left alone. Otherwise, one, at least, would not be +long left to herself. If within the hotel, Dupre would certainly be by +the side of his Jessie. + +The girls are together, standing by the baluster rail, with eyes bent +upon the street. They have been conversing, but have ceased. As usual, +the younger has been trying to cheer the elder, still sad, though now +from a far different cause. The pain at her heart is no longer that of +jealousy, but pure grief, with an admixture of remorse. The Natchez +newspaper has caused this change; what she read there, clearing Clancy +of all treason, leaving herself guilty for having suspected him. + +But, oh! such an _eclaircissement_! Obtained at the expense of a life +dear to her as her own--dearer now she knows he is dead! + +The newspaper has furnished but a meagre account of the murder. It +bears date but two days subsequent, and must have been issued subsequent +to Mrs Clancy's death, as it speaks of this event having occurred. + +It would be out at an early hour that same morning. + +In epitome its account is: that a man is missing, supposed to be +murdered; by name, Charles Clancy. That search is being made for his +body, not yet found. That the son of a well-known planter, Ephraim +Darke, himself called Richard, has been arrested on suspicion, and +lodged in the county jail; and, just as the paper is going to press, it +has received the additional intelligence, that the mother of the +murdered man has succumbed to the shock, and followed her unfortunate +son to the "bourne from which no traveller returns." + +The report is in the flowery phraseology usually indulged, in by the +south-western journals. It is accompanied by comments and conjectures +as to the motive of the crime. Among these Helen Armstrong has read her +own name, with the contents of that letter addressed to Clancy, but +proved to have been in the possession of Darke. Though given only in +epitome--for the editor confesses not to have seen the epistle, but only +had account of it from him who furnished the report--still to Helen +Armstrong is the thing painfully compromising. All the world will now +know the relations that existed between her and Charles Clancy. What +would she care were he alive? And what need she, now he is dead? + +She does not care--no. It is not this that afflicts her. Could she but +bring him to life again, she would laugh the world to scorn, brave the +frowns of her father, to prove herself a true woman by becoming the wife +of him her heart had chosen for a husband. + +"It cannot be; he is dead--gone--lost for ever!" + +So run her reflections, as she stands in silence by her sister's side, +their conversation for the time suspended. Oppressed by their +painfulness, she retires a seep, and sinks down into one of the chairs; +not to escape the bitter thoughts--for she cannot--but to brood on them +alone. + +Jessie remains with hands rested on the rail, gazing down into the +street. She is looking for her Luis, who should now soon be returning +to the hotel. + +People are passing, some in leisurely promenade, others in hurried step, +telling of early habits and a desire to get home. + +One catching her eye, causes her to tremble; one for whom she has a +feeling of fear, or rather repulsion. A man of large stature is seen +loitering under the shadow of a tree, and looking at her as though he +would devour her. Even in his figure there is an expression of sinister +and slouching brutality. Still more on his face, visible by the light +of a lamp which beams over the entrance door of the hotel. The young +girl does not stay to scrutinise it; but shrinking back, cowers by the +side of her sister. + +"What's the matter, Jess?" asks Helen, observing her frayed aspect, and +in turn becoming the supporter. "You've seen something to vex you? +something of--Luis?" + +"No--no, Helen. Not him." + +"Who then?" + +"Oh, sister! A man fearful to look at. A great rough fellow, ugly +enough to frighten any one. I've met him several times when out +walking, and every time it's made me shudder." + +"Has he been rude to you?" + +"Not exactly rude, though something like it. He stares at me in a +strange way. And such horrid eyes! They're hollow, gowlish like an +alligator's. I'd half a mind to tell father, or Luis, about it; but I +know Luis would go wild, and want to kill the big brute. I saw him just +now, standing on the side-walk close by. No doubt he's there still." + +"Let me have a look at those alligator eyes." + +The fearless elder sister, defiant from very despair, steps out to the +rail, and leaning over, looks along the street. + +She sees men passing; but no one who answers to the description given. + +There is one standing under a tree, but not in the place of which Jessie +has spoken; he is on the opposite side of the street. Neither is he a +man of large size, but rather short and slight. He is in shadow, +however, and she cannot be sure of this. + +At the moment he moves off, and his gait attracts her attention; then +his figure, and, finally, his face, as the last comes under the +lamp-light. They attract and fix it, sending a cold shiver through her +frame. + +It was a fancy her thinking she saw Charles Clancy among the tree-tops. +Is it a like delusion, that now shows her his assassin in the streets of +Natchitoches? No; it cannot be! It is a reality; assuredly the man +moving off is _Richard Darke_! + +She has it on her tongue to cry "murderer!" and raise a "hue and cry;" +but cannot. She feels paralysed, fascinated; and stands speechless, not +stirring, scarce breathing. + +Thus, till the assassin is out of sight. + +Then she totters back to the side of her sister, to tell in trembling +accents, how she, too, had been frayed by a _spectre in the street_! + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. + +THE "CHOCTAW CHIEF." + +"You'll excuse me, stranger, for interruptin' you in the readin' o' your +newspaper. I like to see men in the way o' acquirin' knowledge. But +we're all of us here goin' to licker up. Won't you join?" + +The invitation, brusquely, if not uncourteously, extended, comes from a +man of middle age, in height at least six feet three, without reckoning +the thick soles of his bull-skin boots--the tops of which rise several +inches above the knee. A personage, rawboned, and of rough exterior, +wearing a red blanket-coat; his trousers tucked into the aforesaid +boots; with a leather belt buckled around his waist, under the coat, but +over the haft of a bowie-knife, alongside which peeps out the butt of a +Colt's revolving pistol. In correspondence with his clothing and +equipment, he shows a cut-throat countenance, typical of the State +Penitentiary; cheeks bloated as from excessive indulgence in drink; eyes +watery and somewhat bloodshot; lips thick and sensual; with a nose set +obliquely, looking as if it had received hard treatment in some +pugilistic encounter. His hair is of a yellowish clay colour, lighter +in tint upon the eyebrows. There is none either on his lips or jaws, +nor yet upon his thick hog-like throat; which looks as if some day it +may need something stiffer than a beard to protect it from the hemp of +the hangman. + +He, to whom the invitation has been extended, is of quite a different +appearance. In age a little over half that of the individual who has +addressed him; complexion dark and cadaverous; the cheeks hollow and +haggard, as from sleepless anxiety; the upper lip showing two elongated +bluish blotches--the stub of moustaches recently removed; the eyes coal +black, with sinister glances sent in suspicious furtiveness from under a +broad hat-brim pulled low down over the brow; the figure fairly shaped, +but with garments coarse and clumsily fitting, too ample both for body +and limbs, as if intended to conceal rather than show them to advantage. + +A practised detective, after scanning this individual, taking note of +his habiliments, with the hat and his manner of wearing it, would +pronounce him a person dressed in disguise--this, for some good reason, +adopted. A suspicion of the kind appears to be in the mind of the rough +Hercules, who has invited him to "licker up;" though _he_ is no +detective. + +"Thank you," rejoins the young fellow, lowering the newspaper to his +knee, and raising the rim of his hat, as little as possible; "I've just +had a drain. I hope you'll excuse me." + +"Damned if we do! Not this time, stranger. The rule o' this tavern is, +that all in its bar takes a smile thegither--leastwise on first meeting. +So, say what's the name o' yer tipple." + +"Oh! in that case I'm agreeable," assents the newspaper reader, laying +aside his reluctance, and along with it the paper--at the same time +rising to his feet. Then, stepping up to the bar, he adds, in a tone of +apparent frankness: "Phil Quantrell ain't the man to back out where +there's glasses going. But, gentlemen, as I'm the stranger in this +crowd, I hope you'll let me pay for the drinks." + +The men thus addressed as "gentlemen" are seven or eight in number; not +one of whom, from outward seeming, could lay claim to the epithet. So +far as this goes, they are all of a sort with the brutal-looking bully +in the blanket-coat who commenced the conversation. Did Phil Quantrell +address them as "blackguards," he would be much nearer the mark. +Villainous scoundrels they appear, every one of them, though of +different degrees, judging by their countenances, and with like variety +in their costumes. + +"No--no!" respond several, determined to show themselves gentlemen in +generosity. "No stranger can stand treat here. You must drink with us, +Mr Quantrell." + +"This score's mine!" proclaims the first spokesman, in an authoritative +voice. "After that anybody as likes may stand treat. Come, Johnny! +trot out the stuff. Brandy smash for me." + +The bar-keeper thus appealed to--as repulsive-looking as any of the +party upon whom he is called to wait--with that dexterity peculiar to +his craft, soon furnishes the counter with bottles and decanters +containing several sorts of liquors. After which he arranges a row of +tumblers alongside, corresponding to the number of those designing to +drink. + +And soon they are all drinking; each the mixture most agreeable to his +palate. + +It is a scene of every-day occurrence, every hour, almost every minute, +in a hotel bar-room of the Southern United States; the only peculiarity +in this case being, that the Natchitoches tavern in which it takes place +is very different from the ordinary village inn, or roadside hotel. It +stands upon the outskirts of the town, in a suburb known as the "Indian +quarter;" sometimes also called "Spanish town"--both name having +reference to the fact, that some queer little shanties around are +inhabited by pure-blooded Indians and half-breeds, with poor whites of +Spanish extraction--these last the degenerate descendants of heroic +soldiers who originally established the settlement. + +The tavern itself, bearing an old weather-washed swing-sign, on which is +depicted an Indian in full war-paint, is known as the "Choctaw Chief," +and is kept by a man supposed to be a Mexican, but who may be anything +else; having for his bar-keeper the afore-mentioned "Johnny," a +personage supposed to be an Irishman, though of like dubious nationality +as his employer. + +The Choctaw Chief takes in travellers; giving them bed, board, and +lodging, without asking them any questions, beyond a demand of payment +before they have either eaten or slept under its roof. It usually has a +goodly number, and of a peculiar kind--strange both in aspect and +manners--no one knowing whence they come, or whither bent when taking +their departure. + +As the house stands out of the ordinary path of town promenaders, in an +outskirt scarce ever visited by respectable people, no one cares to +inquire into the character of its guests, or aught else relating to it. +To those who chance to stray in its direction, it is known as a sort of +cheap hostelry, that gives shelter to all sorts of odd customers-- +hunters, trappers, small Indian traders, returned from an expedition on +the prairies; along with these, such travellers as are without the means +to stop at the more pretentious inns of the village; or, having the +means, prefer, for reasons of their own, to put up at the Choctaw Chief. + +Such is the reputation of the hostelry, before whose drinking bar stands +Phil Quantrell--so calling himself--with the men to whose boon +companionship he has been so unceremoniously introduced; as declared by +his introducer, according to the custom of the establishment. + +The first drinks swallowed, Quantrell calls for another round; and then +a third is ordered, by some one else, who pays, or promises to pay for +it. + +A fourth "smile" is insisted upon by another some one who announces +himself ready to stand treat; all the liquor, up to this time consumed, +being either cheap brandy or "rot-gut" whisky. + +Quantrell, now pleasantly convivial, and acting under the generous +impulse the drink has produced, sings out "Champagne!" a wine which the +poorest tavern in the Southern States, even the Choctaw Chief, can +plentifully supply. + +After this the choice vintage of France, or its gooseberry counterfeit, +flows feebly; Johnny with gleeful alacrity stripping off the leaden +capsules, twisting the wires, and letting pop the corks. For the +stranger guest has taken a wallet from his pocket, which all can +perceive to be "chock full" of gold "eagles," some reflecting upon, but +saying nothing about, the singular contrast between this plethoric +purse, and the coarse coat out of whose pocket it is pulled. + +After all, not much in this. Within the wooden walls of the Choctaw +Chief there have been seen many contrasts quite as curious. Neither its +hybrid landlord, nor his bar-keeper, nor its guests are addicted to take +note--or, at all events make remarks upon--circumstances which elsewhere +would seem singular. + +Still, is there one among the roystering crowd who does note this; as +also other acts done, and sayings spoken, by Phil Quantrell in his cups. +It is the Colossus who has introduced him to the jovial company, and +who still sticks to him as chaperon. + +Some of this man's associates, who appear on familiar footing, called +him "Jim Borlasse;" others, less free, address him as "Mister Borlasse;" +while still others, at intervals, and as if by a slip of the tongue, +give him the title "Captain." Jim, Mister, or Captain Borlasse-- +whichever designation he deserve--throughout the whole debauch, keeps +his bloodshot eyes bent upon their new acquaintance, noting his every +movement. His ears, too, are strained to catch every word Quantrell +utters, weighing its import. + +For all he neither says nor does aught to tell of his being thus +attentive to the stranger--at first his guest, but now a spendthrift +host to himself and his party. + +While the champagne is being freely quaffed, of course there is much +conversation, and on many subjects. But one is special; seeming more +than all others to engross the attention of the roysterers under the +roof of the Choctaw Chief. + +It is a murder that has been committed in the State of Mississippi, near +the town of Natchez; an account of which has just appeared in the local +journal of Natchitoches. The paper is lying on the bar-room table; and +all of them, who can read, have already made themselves acquainted with +the particulars of the crime. Those, whose scholarship does not extend +so far, have learnt them at secondhand from their better-educated +associates. + +The murdered man is called Clancy--Charles Clancy--while the murderer, +or he under suspicion of being so, is named Richard Darke, the son of +Ephraim Darke, a rich Mississippi planter. + +The paper gives further details: that the body of the murdered man has +not been found, before the time of its going to press; though the +evidence collected leaves no doubt of a foul deed having been done; +adding, that Darke, the man accused of it, after being arrested and +lodged in the county jail, has managed to make his escape--this through +connivance with his jailer, who has also disappeared from the place. +Just in time, pursues the report, to save the culprit's neck from a +rope, made ready for him by the executioners of Justice Lynch, a party +of whom had burst open the doors of the prison, only to find it +untenanted. The paper likewise mentions the motive for the committal of +the crime--at least as conjectured; giving the name of a young lady, +Miss Helen Armstrong, and speaking of a letter, with her picture, found +upon the suspected assassin. It winds up by saying, that no doubt both +prisoner and jailer have G.T.T.--"Gone to Texas"--a phrase of frequent +use in the Southern States, applied to fugitives from justice. Then +follows the copy of a proclamation from the State authorities, offering +a reward of two thousand dollars for the apprehension of Richard Darke, +and five hundred for Joe Harkness--this being the name of the conniving +prison-keeper. + +While the murder is being canvassed and discussed by the _bon-vivants_ +in the bar-room of the Choctaw Chief--a subject that seems to have a +strange fascination for them--Borlasse, who has become elevated with the +alcohol, though usually a man of taciturn habit, breaks out with an +asseveration, which causes surprise to all, even his intimate +associates. + +"Damn the luck!" he vociferates, bringing his fist down upon the counter +till the decanters dance at the concussion; "I'd 'a given a hundred +dollars to 'a been in the place o' that fellow Darke, whoever he is!" + +"Why?" interrogate several of his confreres, in tones that express the +different degrees of their familiarity with him questioned, "Why, Jim?" + +"Why, Mr Borlasse?" + +"Why, Captain?" + +"Why?" echoes the man of many titles, again striking the counter, and +causing decanters and glasses to jingle. "Why? Because that Clancy-- +that same Clancy--is the skunk that, before a packed jury, half o' them +yellar-bellied Mexikins, in the town of Nacogdoches, swore I stealed a +horse from him. Not only swore it, but war believed; an' got me--me, +Jim Borlasse--tied for twenty-four hours to a post, and whipped into the +bargain. Yes, boys, whipped! An' by a damned Mexikin nigger, under the +orders o' one o' their constables, they call algazeels. I've got the +mark o' them lashes on me now, and can show them, if any o' ye hev a +doubt about it. I ain't 'shamed to show 'em to _you_ fellows; as ye've +all got something o' the same, I guess. But I'm burnin' mad to think +that Charley Clancy's escaped clear o' the vengeance I'd sworn again +him. I know'd he was comin' back to Texas, him and his. That's what +took him out thar, when I met him at Nacogdoches. I've been waitin' and +watchin' till he shed stray this way. Now, it appears, somebody has +spoilt my plans--somebody o' the name Richard Darke. An', while I envy +this Dick Darke, I say damn him for doin' it!" + +"Damn Dick Darke! Damn him for doin' it!" they shout, till the walls +re-echo their ribald blasphemy. + +The drinking debauch is continued till a late hour, Quantrell paying +shot for the whole party. Maudlin as most of them have become, they +still wonder that a man so shabbily dressed can command so much cash and +coin. Some of them are not a little perplexed by it. + +Borlasse is less so than any of his fellow-tipplers. He has noted +certain circumstances that give him a clue to the explanation; one, +especially, which seems to make everything clear. As the stranger, +calling himself Phil Quantrell, stands holding his glass in hand, his +handkerchief employed to wipe the wine from his lips, and carelessly +returned to his pocket, slips out, and fails upon the floor. Borlasse +stooping, picks it up, but without restoring it to its owner. + +Instead, he retires to one side; and, unobserved, makes himself +acquainted with a name embroidered on its corner. + +When, at a later hour, the two sit together, drinking a last good-night +draught, Borlasse places his lips close to the stranger's ear, +whispering as if it were Satan himself who spoke, "_Your name is not +Philip Quantrell: 'tis Richard Darke_!" + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. + +THE MURDERER UNMASKED. + +A rattlesnake sounding its harsh "skirr" under the chair on which the +stranger is sitting could not cause him to start up more abruptly than +he does, when Borlasse says:-- + +"_Your name is not Philip Quantrell: 'tis Richard Darke_!" + +He first half rises to his feet, then sits down again; all the while +trembling in such fashion, that the wine goes over the edge of his +glass, sprinkling the sanded floor. + +Fortunately for him, all the others have retired to their beds, it being +now a very late hour of the night--near midnight. The drinking "saloon" +of the Choctaw Chief is quite emptied of its guests. Even Johnny, the +bar-keeper, has gone kitchen-wards to look after his supper. + +Only Borlasse witnesses the effect of his own speech; which, though but +whispered, has proved so impressive. + +The speaker, on his side, shows no surprise. Throughout all the evening +he has been taking the measure of his man, and has arrived at a clear +comprehension of the case. He now knows he is in the company of Charles +Clancy's assassin. The disguise which Darke has adopted--the mere +shaving off moustaches and donning a dress of home-wove "cottonade"--the +common wear of the Louisiana Creole--with slouch hat to correspond, is +too flimsy to deceive Captain Jim Borlasse, himself accustomed to +metamorphoses more ingenious, it is nothing new for him to meet a +murderer fleeing from the scene of his crime--stealthily, disguisedly +making way towards that boundary line, between the United States and +Texas--the limit of executive justice. + +"Come, Quantrell!" he says, raising his arm in a gesture of reassurance, +"don't waste the wine in that ridikelous fashion. You and me are alone, +and I reckin we understand one another. If not, we soon will--the +sooner by your puttin' on no nonsensical airs, but confessin' the clar +and candid truth. First, then, answer me this questyun: Air you, or air +you not, Richard Darke? If ye air, don't be afeerd to say so. No +humbuggery! Thar's no need for't. An' it won't do for Jim Borlasse." + +The stranger, trembling, hesitates to make reply. + +Only for a moment. He sees it will be of no use denying his identity. +The man who has questioned him--of giant size and formidable aspect-- +notwithstanding the copious draughts he has swallowed, appears cool as a +tombstone, and stern as an Inquisitor. The bloodshot eyes look upon him +with a leer that seems to say: "Tell me a lie, and I'm your enemy." + +At the same time those eyes speak of friendship; such as may exist +between two scoundrels equally steeped in crime. + +The murderer of Charles Clancy--now for many days and nights wandering +the earth, a fugitive from foiled justice, taking untrodden paths, +hiding in holes and corners, at length seeking shelter under the roof of +the Choctaw Chief, because of its repute, sees he has reached a haven of +safety. + +The volunteered confessions of Borlasse--the tale of his hostility to +Clancy, and its cause--inspire him with confidence about any revelations +he may make in return. Beyond all doubt his new acquaintance stands in +mud, deep as himself. Without further hesitation, he says--"I _am_ +Richard Darke." + +"All right!" is the rejoinder. "And now, Mr Darke, let me tell you, I +like your manly way of answerin' the question I've put ye. Same time, I +may as well remark, 'twould 'a been all one if ye'd sayed _no_! This +child hain't been hidin' half o' his life, 'count o' some little +mistakes made at the beginnin' of it, not to know when a man's got into +a sim'lar fix. First day you showed your face inside the Choctaw Chief +I seed thar war something amiss; tho', in course, I couldn't gie the +thing a name, much less know 'thar that ugly word which begins with a M. +This evenin', I acknowledge, I war a bit put out--seein' you round thar +by the planter's, spyin' after one of them Armstrong girls; which of +them I needn't say." + +Darke starts, saying mechanically, "You saw me?" + +"In coorse I did--bein' there myself, on a like lay." + +"Well?" interrogates the other, feigning coolness. + +"Well; that, as I've said, some leetle bamboozled me. From your looks +and ways since you first came hyar, I guessed that the something wrong +must be different from a love-scrape. Sartint, a man stayin' at the +Choctaw Chief, and sporting the cheap rig as you've got on, wan't likely +to be aspirin' to sech dainty damsels as them. You'll give in, +yourself, it looked a leetle queer; didn't it?" + +"I don't know that it did," is the reply, pronounced doggedly, and in an +assumed tone of devil-may-care-ishness. + +"You don't! Well, I thought so, up to the time o' gettin' back to the +tavern hyar--not many minutes afore my meetin' and askin' you to jine us +in drinks. If you've any curiosity to know what changed my mind, I'll +tell ye." + +"What?" asks Darke, scarcely reflecting on his words. + +"That ere newspaper you war readin' when I gave you the invite. I read +it _afore_ you did, and had ciphered out the whole thing. Puttin' six +and six thegither, I could easy make the dozen. The same bein', that +one of the young ladies stayin' at the hotel is the Miss Helen Armstrong +spoke of in the paper; and the man I observed watchin' her is Richard +Darke, who killed Charles Clancy--_yourself_!" + +"I--I am--I won't--I don't deny it to you, Mr Borlasse. I am Richard +Darke. I did kill Charles Clancy; though I protest against its being +said I _murdered_ him." + +"Never mind that. Between friends, as I suppose we can now call +ourselves, there need be no nice distinguishin' of tarms. Murder or +manslaughter, it's all the same, when a man has a motive sech as yourn. +An' when he's druv out o' the pale of what they call society, an' hunted +from the settlements, he's not like to lose the respect of them who's +been sarved the same way. Your bein' Richard Darke an' havin' killed +Charles Clancy, in no ways makes you an enemy o' Jim Borlasse--except in +your havin' robbed me of a revenge I'd sworn to take myself. Let that +go now. I ain't angry, but only envious o' you, for havin' the +satisfaction of sendin' the skunk to kingdom come, without givin' me the +chance. An' now, Mister Darke, what do you intend doin'?" + +The question comes upon the assassin with a sobering effect. His +copious potations have hitherto kept him from reflecting. + +Despite the thieve's confidence with which Borlasse has inspired him, +this reference to his future brings up its darkness, with its dangers; +and he pauses before making response. + +Without waiting for it, his questioner continues: + +"If you've got no fixed plan of action, and will listen to the advice of +a friend, I'd advise you to become _one o' us_." + +"One of you! What does that mean, Mr Borlasse?" + +"Well, I can't tell you here," answers Borlasse, in a subdued tone. +"Desarted as this bar-room appear to be, it's got ears for all that. I +see that curse, Johnny, sneakin' about, pretendin' to be lookin' after +his supper. If he knew as much about you as I do, you'd be in limbo +afore you ked get into your bed. I needn't tell you thar's a reward +offered; for you seed that yourself in the newspaper. Two thousand +dollars for you, an' five hundred dollars for the fellow as I've seed +about along wi' you, and who I'd already figured up as bein' jailer Joe +Harkness. Johnny, an' a good many more, would be glad to go halves with +me, for tellin' them only half of what I now know. _I_ ain't goin' to +betray you. I've my reasons for not. After what's been said I reckon +you can trust me?" + +"I can," rejoins the assassin, heaving a sigh of relief. + +"All right, then," resumes Borlasse; "we understand one another. But it +won't do to stay palaverin hyar any longer. Let's go up to my bedroom. +We'll be safe there; and I've got a bottle of whisky, the best stuff for +a nightcap. Over that we can talk things straight, without any one +havin' the chance to set them crooked. Come along!" + +Darke, without protest, accepts the invitation. He dares not do +otherwise. It sounds more like a command. The man extending it has now +full control over him; can deliver him to justice--have him dragged to a +jail. + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. + +"WILL YOU BE ONE OF US?" + +Once inside his sleeping apartment, Borlasse shuts the door, points out +a chair to his invited guest, and plants himself upon another. With the +promised bottle of whisky between them, he resumes speech. + +"I've asked you, Quantrell, to be one o' us. I've done it for your own +good, as you ought to know without my tellin' ye. Well; you asked me in +return what that means?" + +"Yes, I did," rejoins Darke, speaking without purpose. + +"It means, then," continues Borlasse, taking a gulp out of his glass, +"that me, an' the others you've been drinking with, air as good a set of +fellows as ever lived. That we're a cheerful party, you've seen for +yourself. What's passed this night ain't nowheres to the merry times we +spend upon the prairies out in Texas--for it's in Texas we live." + +"May I ask, Mr Borlasse, what business you follow?" + +"Well; when we're engaged in regular business, it's mostly +horse-catchin'. We rope wild horses, _mustangs_, as they're called; an' +sometimes them that ain't jest so wild. We bring 'em into the +settlements for sale. For which reason we pass by the name of +_mustangers_. Between whiles, when business isn't very brisk, we spend +our time in some of the Texas towns--them what's well in to'rds the Rio +Grande, whar there's a good sprinklin' of Mexikins in the population. +We've some rare times among the Mexikin girls, I kin assure you. You'll +take Jim Borlasse's word for that, won't you?" + +"I have no cause to doubt it." + +"Well, I needn't say more, need I? I know, Quantrell, you're fond of a +pretty face yourself, with sloe-black eyes in it. You'll see them among +the Mexikin saynoritas, to your heart's content. Enough o' 'em, maybe, +to make you forget the pair as war late glancin' at you out of the hotel +gallery." + +"Glancing at me?" exclaims Darke, showing surprise, not unmixed with +alarm. + +"Glancing at ye; strait custrut; them same eyes as inspired ye to do +that little bit of shootin', wi' Charley Clancy for a target." + +"You think she _saw_ me?" asks the assassin, with increasing uneasiness. + +"Think! I'm sure of it. More than saw--she recognised ye. I could +tell that from the way she shot back into the shadow. Did ye not notice +it yourself?" + +"No," rejoins Darke, the monosyllable issuing mechanically from his +lips, while a shiver runs through his frame. + +His questioner, observing these signs, continues,-- + +"T'ike my advice, and come with us fellows to Texas. Before you're long +there, the Mexikin girls will make you stop moping about Miss Armstrong. +After the first _fandango_ you've been at, you won't care a straw for +her. Believe me, you'll soon forget her." + +"Never!" exclaims Darke, in the fervour of his passion--thwarted though +it has been--forgetting the danger he is in. + +"If that's your detarmination," returns Borlasse, "an' you've made up +your mind to keep that sweetheart in sight, you won't be likely to live +long. As sure as you're sittin' thar, afore breakfast time to-morrow +mornin' the town of Naketosh 'll be too hot to hold ye." + +Darke starts from his chair, as if _it_ had become too hot. + +"Keep cool, Quantrell!" counsels the Texan. "No need for ye to be +scared at what I'm sayin'. Thar's no great danger jest yet. There +might be, if you were in that chair, or this room, eight hours later. I +won't be myself, not one. For I may as well tell ye, that Jim Borlasse, +same's yourself, has reasons for shiftin' quarters from the Choctaw +Chief. And so, too, some o' the fellows we've been drinkin' with. +We'll all be out o' this a good hour afore sun-up. Take a friend's +advice, and make tracks along wi' us. Will you?" + +Darke still hesitates to give an affirmative answer. His love for Helen +Armstrong--wild, wanton passion though it be--is the controlling +influence of his life. It has influenced him to follow her thus far, +almost as much as the hope of escaping punishment for his crime. And +though knowing, that the officers of justice are after him, he clings to +the spot where she is staying, with that fascination which keeps the fox +by the kennel holding the hounds. The thought of leaving her behind-- +perhaps never to see her again--is more repugnant than the spectre of a +scaffold! + +The Texan guesses the reason of his irresolution. More than this, he +knows he has the means to put an end to it. A word will be sufficient; +or, at most, a single speech. He puts it thus-- + +"If you're detarmined to stick by the apron-strings o' Miss Armstrong, +you'll not do that by staying here in Naketosh. Your best place, to be +_near her_, will be along _with me_." + +"How so, Mr Borlasse?" questions Darke, his eyes opening to a new +light. "Why do you say that?" + +"You ought to know, without my tellin' you--a man of your 'cuteness, +Quantrell! You say you can never forget the older of that pair o' +girls. I believe you; and will be candid, too, in sayin', no more is +Jim Borlasse like to forget the younger. I thought nothin' could 'a +fetched that soft feelin' over me. 'Twant likely, after what I've gone +through in my time. But she's done it--them blue eyes of hers; hanged +if they hain't! Then, do you suppose that I'm going to run away from, +and lose sight o' her and them? _No_; not till I've had her within +these arms, and tears out o' them same peepers droppin' on my cheeks. +That is, if she take it in the weepin' way." + +"I don't understand," stammers Darke. + +"You will in time," rejoins the ruffian; "that is, if you become one o' +us, and go where we're a-goin'. Enough now for you to be told that, +_there you will find your sweetheart_!" + +Without waiting to watch the effect of his last words, the tempter +continues-- + +"Now, Phil Quantrell, or Dick Darke, as in confidence I may call ye, are +you willin' to be one o' us?" + +"I am." + +"Good! That's settled. An' your comrade, Harkness; I take it, he'll +go, too, when told o' the danger of staying behind; not that he appears +o' much account, anyway. Still, among us _mustangers_, the more the +merrier; and, sometimes we need numbers to help in the surroundin' o' +the horses. He'll go along, won't he?" + +"Anywhere, with me." + +"Well, then, you'd better step into his bedroom, and roust him up. Both +of ye must be ready at once. Slip out to the stable, an' see to the +saddles of your horses. You needn't trouble about settlin' the tavern +bill. That's all scored to me; we kin fix the proportions of it +afterward. Now, Quantrell, look sharp; in twenty minutes, time, I +expect to find you an' Harkness in the saddle, where you'll see ten o' +us others the same." + +Saying this, the Texan strides out into the corridor, Darke preceding +him. In the dimly-lighted passage they part company, Borlasse opening +door after door of several bedrooms, ranged on both sides of it; into +each, speaking a word, which, though only in whisper, seems to awake a +sleeper as if a cannon were discharged close to his ears. Then succeeds +a general shuffling, as of men hastily putting on coats and boots, with +an occasional grunt of discontent at slumber disturbed; but neither +talking nor angry protest. Soon, one after another, is seen issuing +forth from his sleeping apartment, skulking along the corridor, out +through the entrance door at back, and on towards the stable. + +Presently, they fetch their horses forth, saddled and bridled. Then, +leaping upon their backs, ride silently off under the shadow of the +trees; Borlasse at their head, Quantrell by his side, Harkness among +those behind. + +Almost instantly they are in the thick forest which comes close up to +the suburbs of Natchitoches; the Choctaw Chief standing among trees +never planted by the hand of man. + +The wholesale departure appearing surreptitious, is not unobserved. +Both the tavern Boniface and his bar-keeper witness it, standing in the +door as their guests go off; the landlord chuckling at the large pile of +glittering coins left behind; Johnny scratching his carroty poll, and +saying,-- + +"Be japers! they intind clearin' that fellow Quantrell out. He won't +long be throubled wid that shinin' stuff as seems burnin' the bottom out +av his pocket. I wudn't be surrprized if they putt both him an' 'tother +fool past tillin' tales afore ayther sees sun. Will, boss, it's no +bizness av ours." + +With this self-consolatory remark, to which the "boss" assents, Johnny +proceeds to shut and lock the tavern door. Soon after the windows of +the Choctaw Chief show lightless, its interior silent, the moonbeams +shining upon its shingled roof peacefully and innocently, as though it +had never sheltered robber, and drunken talk or ribald blasphemy been +heard under it. + +So, till morning's dawn; till daylight; till the sun is o'ertopping the +trees. Then is it surrounded by angry men; its wooden walls re-echoing +their demand for admittance. + +They are the local authorities of the district; the sheriff of +Natchitoches with his _posse_ of constables, and a crowd of people +accompanying. Among them are Colonel Armstrong and the Creole, Dupre; +these instigating the movement; indeed, directing it. + +Ah knew, from yesterday's newspaper, of the murder committed near +Natchez, as also of the murderer having broken jail. Only this morning +have they learnt that the escaped criminal has been seen in the streets +of their town. From an early hour they have been scouring these in +search of him; and, at length, reached the Choctaw Chief--the place +where he should be found, if found at all. + +On its doors being opened, they discover traces of him. No man named +Darke has been there, but one calling himself Quantrell, with another, +who went by the name of Walsh. + +As, in this case, neither the landlord nor bar-keeper have any interest +in screening that particular pair of their late guests, they make no +attempt to do so; but, on the contrary, tell all they know about them; +adding, how both went away with a number of other gentlemen, who paid +their tavern bills, and took departure at an early hour of the morning. + +The description of the other "gentlemen" is not so particularly given, +because not so specially called for. In that of Quantrell and Walsh, +Colonel Armstrong, without difficulty, identifies Richard Darke and the +jailer, Joe Harkness. + +He, sheriff, constables, crowd, stand with countenances expressing +defeat--disappointment. They have reached the Choctaw Chief a little +too late. They know nothing of Borlasse, or how he has baffled them. +They but believe, that, for the second time, the assassin of Charles +Clancy has eluded the grasp of justice. + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. + +A GHOST GOING ITS ROUNDS. + +It is nearly a month since the day of Clancy's death; still the +excitement caused by it, though to some extent subsided, has not died +out. Curiosity and speculation are kept alive by the fact of the body +not having been found. For it has not. Search has been made everywhere +for miles around. Field and forest, creeks, ponds, swamp, and river, +have all been traversed and interrogated, in vain. All have refused to +surrender up the dead. + +That Clancy is dead no one has a doubt. To say nothing of the blood +spilt beside his abandoned hat and gun, with the other circumstances +attendant, there is testimony of a moral nature, to many quite as +convincing. + +Alive he would long since have returned home, at thought of what his +mother must be suffering. He was just the man to do that, as all who +knew him are aware. Even wounded and crippled, if able to crawl, it +would be to the side of the only woman at such a crisis he should care +for. + +Though it is now known that he cared for another, no one entertains a +thought of his having gone off after _her_. It would not be in keeping +with his character, any more than with the incidents and events that +have conspired to make the mystery. Days pass, and it still remains +one. + +The sun rises and sets, without throwing any light upon it. Conjecture +can do nothing to clear it up; and search, over and over unsuccessful, +is at length abandoned. + +If people still speculate upon how the body of the murdered man has been +disposed of, there is no speculation as to who was his murderer, or how +the latter made escape. + +The treason of the jail-keeper explains this--itself accounted for by +Ephraim Darke having on the previous day paid a visit to his son in the +cell, and left with him a key that ere now has opened many a prison +door. Joe Harkness, a weak-witted fellow, long suspected of +faithlessness, was not the man to resist the temptation with which his +palm had been touched. + +Since that day some changes have taken place in the settlement. The +plantation late Armstrong's has passed into the hands of a new +proprietor--Darke having disposed of it--while the cottage of the +Clancys, now ownerless, stays untenanted. Unfurnished too: for the +bailiff has been there, and a bill of sale, which covered its scant +plenishing, farm-stock, implements and utensils, has swept all away. + +For a single day there was a stir about the place, with noise +corresponding, when the chattels were being disposed of by public +auction. Then the household gods of the decayed Irish gentleman were +knocked down to the highest bidder, and scattered throughout the +district. Rare books, pictures, and other articles, telling of refined +taste, with some slight remnants of _bijouterie_, were carried off to +log-cabins, there to be esteemed in proportion to the prices paid for +them. In fine, the Clancy cottage, stripped of everything, has been +left untenanted. Lone as to the situation in which it stands, it is yet +lonelier in its desolation. Even the dog, that did such service in +pointing out the criminality of him who caused all the ruin, no longer +guards its enclosures, or cheers them with his familiar bark. The +faithful animal, adopted by Simeon Woodley, has found a home in the +cabin of the hunter. + +It is midnight; an hour still and voiceless in Northern climes, but not +so in the Southern. Far from it in the State of Mississippi. There the +sun's excessive heat keeps Nature alert and alive, even at night, and in +days of December. + +Though night, it is not December, but a date nearer Spring. February is +written on the heading of letters, and this, a Spring month on the Lower +Mississippi, has commenced making its imprint on the forest trees. +Their buds have already burst, some showing leaves fully expanded, +others of still earlier habit bedecked with blossoms. Birds, too, +awaking from a short winter's silence, pour forth their amorous lays, +filling glade and grove with music, that does not end with the day; for +the mock-bird, taking up the strain, carries it on through the hours of +night; so well counterfeiting the notes of his fellow-songsters, one +might fancy them awake--still singing. + +Not so melodious are other voices disturbing the stillness of the +Southern night. Quite the opposite are the croaking of frogs, the +screeching of owls, the jerking call of tree-crickets, and the bellowing +of the alligator. Still, the ear accustomed to such sounds is not +jarred by them. They are but the bass notes, needed to complete the +symphony of Nature's concert. + +In the midst of this melange,--the hour, as already stated, midnight--a +man, or something bearing man's semblance, is seen gliding along the +edge of the cypress swamp, not far from the place where Charles Clancy +fell. + +After skirting the mud-flat for a time, the figure--whether ghost or +human--turns face toward the tract of lighter woodland, extending +between the thick timber and cleared ground of the plantations. + +Having traversed this, the nocturnal wayfarer comes within sight of the +deserted cottage, late occupied by the Clancys. + +The moonlight, falling upon his face, shows it to be white. Also, that +his cheeks are pallid, with eyes hollow and sunken, as from sickness-- +some malady long-endured, and not yet cured. As he strides over fallen +logs, or climbs fences stretching athwart his course, his tottering step +tells of a frame enfeebled. + +When at length clear of the woods, and within sight of the untenanted +dwelling, he stops, and for a time remains contemplating it. That he is +aware of its being unoccupied is evident, from the glance with which he +regards it. + +His familiarity with the place is equally evident. On entering the +cottage grounds, which he soon after does, through, some shrubbery at +the back, he takes the path leading up to the house, without appearing +to have any doubt about its being the right one. + +For all this he makes approach with caution, looking suspiciously +around--either actually afraid, or not desiring to be observed. + +There is little likelihood of his being so. At that hour all in the +settlement should be asleep. The house stands remote, more than a mile +from its nearest neighbour. It is empty; has been stripped of its +furniture, of everything. What should any one be doing there? + +What is _he_ doing there? A question which would suggest itself to one +seeing him; with interest added on making note of his movements. + +There is no one to do either; and he continues on to the house, making +for its back door, where there is a porch, as also a covered way, +leading to a log-cabin--the kitchen. + +Even as within the porch, he tries the handle of the door which at a +touch goes open. There is no lock, or if there was, it has not been +thought worth while to turn the key in it. There are no burglars in the +backwoods. If there were, nothing in that house need tempt them. + +Its nocturnal visitor enters under its roof. The ring of his footsteps, +though he still treads cautiously, gives out a sad, solemn sound. It is +in unison with the sighs that come, deep-drawn, from his breast; at +times so sonorous as to be audible all over the house. + +He passes from room to room. There are not many--only five of them. In +each he remains a few moments, gazing dismally around. But in one--that +which was the widow's sleeping chamber--he tarries a longer time; +regarding a particular spot--the place formerly occupied by a bed. Then +a sigh, louder than any that has preceded it, succeeded by the words, +low-muttered:-- + +"There she must have breathed her last!" + +After this speech, more sighing, accompanied by still surer signs of +sorrow--sobs and weeping. As the moonbeams, pouring in through the open +window, fall upon his face, their pale silvery light sparkles upon +tears, streaming from hollow eyes, chasing one another down emaciated +cheeks. + +After surrendering himself some minutes to what appears a very agony of +grief, he turns out of the sleeping chamber; passes through the narrow +hall-way; and on into the porch. Not now the back one, but that facing +front to the road. + +On the other side of this is an open tract of ground, half cleared, half +woodland; the former sterile, the latter scraggy. It seems to belong to +no one, as if not worth claiming, or cultivating. It has been, in fact, +an appanage of Colonel Armstrong's estate, who had granted it to the +public as the site for a schoolhouse, and a common burying-ground--free +to all desiring to be instructed, or needing to be interred. The +schoolhouse has disappeared, but the cemetery is still there--only +distinguishable from the surrounding _terrain_ by some oblong +elevations, having the well-known configuration of graves. There are in +all about a score of them; some having a plain head-board--a piece of +painted plank, with letters rudely limned, recording the name and age of +him or her resting underneath. + +Time and the weather have turned most of them greyish, with dates +decayed, and names scarcely legible. But there is one upon which the +paint shows fresh and white; in the clear moonlight gleaming like a +meteor. + +He who has explored the deserted dwelling, stands for a while with eyes +directed on this recently erected memorial. Then, stepping down from +the porch, he passes through the wicket-gate; crosses the road; and goes +straight towards it, as though a hand beckoned him thither. + +When close up, he sees it to be by a grave upon which the herbage has +not yet grown. + +The night is a cold one--chill for that Southern clime. The dew upon +the withered grass of the grave turf is almost congealed into hoar +frost, adding to its ghostly aspect. + +The lettering upon the head-board is in shadow, the moon being on the +opposite side. + +But stooping forward, so as to bring his eyes close to the slab, he is +enabled to decipher the inscription. + +It is the simplest form of memento--only a name, with the date of +death-- + + "Caroline Clancy, + Died January 18--" + +After reading it, a fresh sob bursts from his bosom, new tears start +from his eyes, and he flings himself down upon the grave. Disregarding +the dew, thinking nought of the night's dullness, he stretches his arms +over the cold turf, embracing it as though it were the warm body of one +beloved! + +For several minutes he remains in this attitude. Then, suddenly rising +erect, as if impelled by some strong purpose, there comes from his lips, +poured forth in wild passionate accent, the speeches:-- + +"Mother! dear mother! I am still living! I am here! And you, dead! +No more to know--no more hear me! O God!" + +They are the words of one frantic with grief, scarce knowing what he +says. + +Presently, sober reason seems to assert itself, and he again resumes +speech; but now with voice, expression of features, attitude, everything +so changed, that no one, seeing him the moment before, would believe it +the same man. + +Upon his countenance sternness has replaced sorrow; the soft lines have +become rigid; the melancholy glance is gone, replaced by one that tells +of determination--of vengeance. + +Once more he glances down at the grave; then up to the sky, till the +moon, coursing across high heaven, falls full upon his face. With his +body slightly leaning backward, the arms along his sides, stiffly +extended, the hands closed in convulsive clutch, he cries out:-- + +"By the heavens above--by the shade of my murdered mother, who lies +beneath--I swear not to know rest, never more seek contentment, till +I've punished her murderer! Night and day--through summer and winter-- +shall I search for him. Yes; search till I've found and chastised this +man, this monster, who has brought blight on me, death to my mother, and +desolation to our house! Ah! think not you can escape me! Texas, +whither I know you have gone, will not be large enough to hold, nor its +wilderness wide enough to screen you from my vengeance. If not found +there, I shall follow you to the end of the earth--to the end of the +earth, Richard Darke!" + +"Charley Clancy!" + +He turns as if a shot had struck him. He sees a man standing within six +paces of the spot. + +"Sime Woodsy!" + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. + +"SHE IS TRUE--STILL TRUE!" + +The men who thus mutually pronounce each other's names are they who bear +them. For it is, in truth, Charles Clancy who stands by the grave, and +Simeon Woodley who has saluted him. + +The surprise is all upon the side of Sime, and something more. He +beholds a man all supposed to be dead, apparently returned from the +tomb! Sees him in a place appropriate to resurrection, in the centre of +a burying-ground, by the side of a recently made grave! + +The backwoodsman is not above believing in spiritual existences, and for +an instant he is under a spell of the supernatural. + +It passes off on his perceiving that real flesh and blood is before +him--Charles Clancy himself, and not his wraith. + +He reaches this conclusion the sooner from having all along entertained +a doubt about Clancy being dead. Despite the many circumstances +pointing to, almost proving, his death, Woodley was never quite +convinced of it. No one has taken so much trouble, or made so many +efforts, to clear up the mystery. He has been foremost in the attempt +to get punishment for the guilty man, as in the search for the body of +his victim; both of which failed, to his great humiliation; his grief +too, for he sincerely lamented his lost friend. Friends they were of no +common kind. Not only had they oft hunted in company, but been together +in Texas during Clancy's visit to the Lone Star State; together at +Nacogdoches, where Borlasse received chastisement for stealing the +horse; together saw the thief tied to the stake, Woodley being one of +the stern jury who sentenced him to be whipped, and saw to the sentence +being carried into execution. + +The hunter had been to Natchez for the disposal of some pelts and +deer-meat, a week's produce of his gun. Returning at a late hour, he +must needs pass the cottage of the Clancys, his own humble domicile +lying beyond. At sight of the deserted dwelling a painful throb passed +through his heart, as he recalled the sad fate of those who once +occupied it. + +Making an effort to forget the gloomy record, he was riding on, when a +figure flitting across the road arrested his attention. The clear +moonlight showed the figure to be that of a man, and one whose movements +betrayed absence of mind, if not actual aberration. + +With the instinct habitual to the hunter Woodley at once tightened rein, +coming to a stop under the shadow of the roadside trees. Sitting in his +saddle he watched the midnight wanderer, whose eccentric movements +continued to cause him surprise. He saw the latter walk on to the +little woodland cemetery, take stand by the side of a grave, bending +forward as if to read the epitaph on its painted slab. Soon after +kneeling down as in prayer, then throwing himself prostrate along the +earth. Woodley well knew the grave thus venerated. For he had himself +assisted in digging and smoothing down the turf that covered it. He had +also been instrumental in erecting the frail tablet that stood over. +Who was this man, in the chill, silent hour of midnight, flinging +himself upon it in sorrow or adoration? + +With a feeling far different from curiosity, the hunter slipped out of +his saddle, and leaving his horse behind, cautiously approached the +spot. As the man upon the grave was too much absorbed with his own +thoughts, he got close up without being observed; so close as to hear +that strange adjuration, and see a face he never expected to look upon +again. Despite the features, pale and marked with emaciation, the +hollow cheeks, and sunken but glaring eyeballs, he recognised the +countenance of Charles Clancy; soon as he did so, mechanically calling +out his name. + +Hearing his own pronounced, in response, Sime again exclaims, "Charley +Clancy!" adding the interrogatory, "Is it yurself or yur shader?" + +Then, becoming assured, he throws open his arms, and closes them around +his old hunting associate. + +Joy, at seeing the latter still alive, expels every trace of +supernatural thought, and he gives way--to exuberant congratulation. + +On Clancy's side the only return is a faint smile, with a few confused +words, that seem to speak more of sadness than satisfaction. The +expression upon his face is rather or chagrin, as if sorry at the +encounter having occurred. His words are proof of it. + +"Simeon Woodley," he says, "I should have been happy to meet you at any +other time, but not now." + +"Why, Clancy!" returns the hunter, supremely astonished at the coldness +with which his warm advances have been received. "Surely you know I'm +yur friend?" + +"Right well I know it." + +"Wal, then, believin' you to be dead--tho' I for one never felt sure +o't--still thinking it might be--didn't I do all my possible to git +justice done for ye?" + +"You did. I've heard all--everything that has happened. Too much I've +heard. O God! look there! Her grave--my murdered mother!" + +"That's true. It killed the poor lady, sure enough." + +"Yes; _he_ killed her." + +"I needn't axe who you refar to. I heerd you mention the name as I got +up. We all know that Dick Darke has done whatever hez been done. We +hed him put in prison, but the skunk got away from us, by the bribin' o' +another skunk like hisself. The two went off thegither, an' no word's +ever been since heerd 'bout eyther. I guess they've put for Texas, whar +every scoundrel goes nowadays. Wal, Lordy! I'm so glad to see ye still +alive. Won't ye tell me how it's all kim about?" + +"In time I shall--not now." + +"But why are ye displeezed at meetin' me--me that mayent be the +grandest, but saitinly one o' the truest an' fastest o' yur friends?" + +"I believe you are, Woodley--am sure of it. And, now that I think more +of the matter, I'm not sorry at having met you. Rather am I glad of it; +for I feel that I can depend upon you. Sime, will you go with me to +Texas?" + +"To Texas, or anywhars. In coorse I will. An' I reck'n we'll hev a +good chance o' meetin' Dick Darke thar, an' then--" + +"Meet him!" exclaimed Clancy, without waiting for the backwoodsman to +finish his speech, "I'm sure of meeting him. I know the spot where. +Ah, Simeon Woodley! 'tis a wicked world! Murderer as that man is, or +supposed to be, there's a woman gone to Texas who will welcome him-- +receive him with open arms; lovingly entwine them around his neck. O +God!" + +"What woman air ye talkin' o', Clancy?" + +"Her who has been the cause of all--Helen Armstrong." + +"Wal; ye speak the truth partwise--but only partwise. Thar' can be no +doubt o' Miss Armstrong's being the innercent cause of most o' what's +been did. But as to her hevin' a likin' for Dick Darke, or puttin' them +soft white arms o' hern willingly or lovingly aroun' his neck, thar +you're clar off the trail--a million miles off o' it. That ere gurl +hates the very sight o' the man, as Sime Woodley hev' good reason to +know. An' I know, too, that she's nuts on another man--leastwise has +been afore all this happened, and I reck'n still continue to be. +Weemen--that air, weemen o' her kidney--ain't so changeable as people +supposes. 'Bout Miss Helen Armstrong hevin' once been inclined to'ardst +this other man, an' ready to freeze to him, I hev' the proof in my +pocket." + +"The proof! What are you speaking of?" + +"A dookyment, Charley Clancy, that shed hev reached you long ago, seein' +that it's got your name on it. Thar's both a letter and a pictur'. To +examine 'em, we must have a clarer light than what's unner this tree, or +kin be got out o' that 'ere moon. S'pose we adjern to my shanty. Thar +we kin set the logs a-bleezin'. When they throw thar glint on the bit +o' paper I've spoke about, I'll take long odds you won't be so down in +the mouth. Come along, Charley Clancy! Ye've had a durned dodrotted +deal both o' sufferin' an' sorrow. Be cheered! Sime Woodley's got +somethin' thet's likely to put ye straight upright on your pins. It's +only a bit o' pasteboard an' a sheet o' paper--both inside what in +Natcheez they calls a enwelope. Come wi' me to the ole cabin, an' thar +you kin take a squint at 'em." + +Clancy's heart is too full to make rejoinder. The words of Woodley have +inspired him with new hope. Health, long doubtful, seems suddenly +restored to him. The colour comes back to his cheeks; and, as he +follows the hunter to his hut, his stride exhibits all its old vigour +and elasticity. + +When the burning logs are kicked into a blaze; when by its light he +reads Helen Armstrong's letter, and looks upon her photograph--on that +sweet inscript intended for himself--he cries out in ecstasy,-- + +"Thank heaven! she is true--still true!" + +No longer looks he the sad despairing invalid, but the lover--strong, +proud, triumphant. + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. + +THE HOME OF THE HUNTED SLAVE. + +Throughout all these days where has Clancy been? Dead, and come to life +again? Or, but half killed and recovered? Where the while hidden? And +why? Questions that in quick succession occur to Simeon Woodley meeting +him by his mother's grave. + +Not all put then or there; but afterwards on the hunter's own hearth, as +the two sit before the blazing logs, by whose light Clancy has read the +letter so cheering him. + +Then Woodley asks them, and impatiently awaits the answers. + +The reader may be asking the same questions, and in like manner +expecting reply. + +He shall have it, as Woodley, not in a word or at once, but in a series +of incidents, for the narration of which it is necessary to return upon +time; as also to introduce a personage hitherto known but by repute--the +fugitive slave, Jupiter. + +"Jupe" is of the colour called "light mulatto," closely approximating to +that of newly tanned leather. His features are naturally of a pleasing +expression; only now and then showing fierce, when he reflects on a +terrible flogging, and general ill treatment experienced, at the hands +of the cruel master from whom he has absconded. + +He is still but a young fellow, with face beardless; only two darkish +streaks of down along the upper lip. But the absence of virile sign +upon his cheeks has full compensation in a thick shock covering his +crown, where the hair of Shem struggles for supremacy with the wool of +Ham, and so successfully, as to result in a profusion of curls of which +Apollo might be proud. The god of Beauty need not want a better form or +face; nor he of Strength a set of sinews tougher, or limbs more tersely +knit. Young though he may be, Jupe has performed feats of Herculean +strength, requiring courage as well. No wonder at his having won Jule! + +A free fearless spirit he: somewhat wild, though not heart-wicked; a +good deal given to nocturnal excursions to neighbouring plantations; +hence the infliction of the lash, which has finally caused his +absconding from that of Ephraim Darke. + +A merry jovial fellow he has been--would be still--but for the cloud of +danger that hangs over him; dark as the den in which he has found a +hiding-place. This is in the very heart and centre of the cypress +swamp, as also in the heart and hollow of a cypress tree. No dead log, +but a living growing trunk, which stands on a little eyot, not +immediately surrounded by water, but marsh and mud. There is water +beyond, on every side, extending more than a mile, with trees standing +in and shadowing its stagnant surface. + +On the little islet Nature has provided a home for the hunted fugitive-- +an asylum where he is safe from pursuit--beyond the scent of savage +hounds, and the trailing of men almost as savage as they; for the place +cannot be approached by water-craft, and is equally unapproachable by +land. Even a dog could not make way through the quagmire of mud, +stretching immediately around it to a distance of several hundred yards. +If one tried, it would soon be snapped up by the great saurian, master +of this darksome domain. Still is there a way to traverse the +treacherous ground, for one knowing it, as does Darke's runaway slave. +Here, again, has Nature intervened, lending her beneficent aid to the +oppressed fleeing from oppression. The elements in their anger, spoken +by tempest and tornado, have laid prostrate several trees, whose trunks, +lying along the ooze, lap one another, and form a continuous causeway. +Where there chances to be a break, human ingenuity has supplied the +connecting link, making it as much as possible to look like Nature's own +handiwork; though it is that of Jupiter himself. The hollow tree has +given him a house ready built, with walls strong as any constructed by +human hands, and a roof to shelter him from the rain. If no better than +the lair of a wild beast, still is it snug and safe. The winds may blow +above, the thunder rattle, and the lightning flash; but below, under the +close canopy of leaves and thickly-woven parasites, he but hears the +first in soft sighings, the second in distant reverberation, and sees +the last only in faint phosphoric gleams. Far brighter the sparkle of +insects that nightly play around the door of his dwelling. + +A month has elapsed since the day when, incensed at the flogging +received--this cruel as causeless--he ran away, resolved to risk +everything, life itself, rather than longer endure the tyrannous +treatment of the Darkes. + +Though suspected of having taken refuge in the swamp, and there +repeatedly sought for, throughout all this time he has contrived to +baffle search. Nor has he either starved or suffered, except from +solitude. Naturally of a social disposition, this has been irksome to +him. Otherwise, he has comforts enough. Though rude his domicile, and +remote from a market, it is sufficiently furnished and provided. The +Spanish moss makes a soft couch, on which he can peacefully repose. And +for food he need not be hard up, nor has he been for a single day. If +it come to that, he can easily entrap an alligator, and make a meal off +the tenderest part of its tail; this yielding a steak which, if not +equal to best beef, is at all events eatable. + +But Jupe has never been driven to diet on alligator meat too much of +musky flavour. His usual fare is roast pork, with now and then broiled +ham and chicken; failing which, a _fricassee_ of 'coon or a _barbecue_ +of 'possum. No lack of bread besides--maize bread--in its various +bakings of "pone", "hoe cake," and "dodger." Sometimes, too, he +indulges in "Virginia biscuit," of sweetest and whitest flour. + +The question is called up, Whence gets he such good things? The 'coon +and 'possum may be accounted for, these being wild game of the woods, +which he can procure by capture; but the other viands are domestic, and +could only be obtained from a plantation. + +And from one they are obtained--that of Ephraim Darke! How? Does +Jupiter himself steal them? Not likely. The theft would be attended +with too much danger. To attempt it would be to risk not only his +liberty, but his life. He does not speculate on such rashness, feeling +sure his larder will be plentifully supplied, as it has hitherto been-- +by a friend. + +Who is he? + +A question scarce requiring answer. It almost responds to itself, +saying, "Blue Bill." Yes; the man who has kept the fugitive in +provisions--the faithful friend and confederate--is no other than the +coon-hunter. + +Something more than bread and meat has Blue Bill brought to the swamp's +edge, there storing them in a safe place of deposit, mutually agreed +upon. Oft, as he starts forth "a-cooning," may he be observed with +something swelling out his coat-pockets, seemingly carried with +circumspection. Were they at such times searched, they would be found +to contain a gourd of corn whisky, and beside it a plug of tobacco. But +no one searches them; no one can guess at their contents--except Phoebe. +To her the little matter of commissariat has necessarily been made +known, by repeated drafts on her meat-safe, and calls upon her culinary +skill. She has no jealous suspicion as to why her scanty store is thus +almost daily depleted--no thought of its being for Brown Bet. She knows +it is for "poor Jupe," and approves, instead of making protest. + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. + +AN EXCURSION BY CANOE. + +On that day when Dick Darke way-laid Charles Clancy, almost the same +hour in which the strife is taking place between them, the fugitive +slave is standing by the side of his hollow tree, on the bit of dry land +around its roots. + +His air and bearing indicate intention not to stay there long. Ever and +anon he casts a glance upward, as if endeavouring to make out the time +of day. A thing not easily done in that sombre spot. For he can see no +sun, and only knows there is such by a faint reflection of its light +scarce penetrating through the close canopy of foliage overhead. Still, +this gradually growing fainter, tells him that evening is at hand. + +Twilight is the hour he is waiting for, or rather some twenty minutes +preceding it. For, to a minute he knows how long it will take him to +reach the edge of the swamp, at a certain point to which he contemplates +proceeding. It is the place of deposit for the stores he receives from +the coon-hunter. + +On this particular evening he expects something besides provender, and +is more than usually anxious about it. Mental, not bodily food, is what +he is craving. He hopes to get tidings of her, whose image is engraven +upon his heart--his yellow girl, Jule. For under his coarse cotton +shirt, and saddle-coloured skin, Jupe's breast burns with a love pure +and passionate, as it could, be were the skin white, and the shirt +finest linen. + +He knows of all that is taking place in the plantations; is aware of +what has been done by Ephraim Darke in the matter of the mortgage, and +what is about to be done by Colonel Armstrong. The coon-hunter has kept +him posted up in everything--facts and fancies, rumours and realities. + +One of the last, and latest, is the intention of the Armstrongs to +remove from the neighbourhood. He has already heard of this, as also +their destination. It might not so much concern him, but for the +implied supposition that his sweetheart will be going along with them. +In fact, he feels sure of it; an assurance that, so far from causing +regret, rather gives him gladness. It promises a happier future for +all. Jupe, too, has had thoughts about Texas. Not that the Lone Star +State is at all a safe asylum for such as he; but upon its wild +borderland there may be a chance for him to escape the bondage of +civilisation, by alliance with the savage! Even this idea of a freedom +far off, difficult of realisation, and if realised not so delectable, +has nevertheless been flitting before the mind of the mulatto. Any life +but that of a slave! His purpose, modified by late events and +occurrences, is likely to be altogether changed by them. His Jule will +be going to Texas, along with her master and young mistresses. In the +hope of rejoining her, he will go there too--as soon as he can escape to +the swamp. + +On this evening he expects later news, with a more particular account of +what is about to be done. Blue Bill is to bring them, and direct from +Jule, whom the coon-hunter has promised to see. Moreover, Jupe has a +hope of being able to see her himself, previous to departure; and to +arrange an interview, through the intervention of his friend, is the +matter now most on his mind. No wonder, then, his scanning the sky, or +its faint reflection, with glances that speak impatience. + +At length, becoming satisfied it must be near night, he starts off from +the eyot, and makes way along the causeway furnished by the trunks of +the fallen trees. This serves him only for some two hundred yards, +ending on the edge of deep water, beyond which the logs lie submerged. +The last of them showing above, is the wreck of a grand forest giant, +with branches undecayed, and still carrying the parasite of Spanish moss +in profusion. This hanging down in streamers, scatters over the surface +and dips underneath, like the tails of white horses wading knee-deep. +In its midst appears something, which would escape the eye of one +passing carelessly by. On close scrutiny it is seen to be a craft of +rude construction--a log with the heart wood removed--in short, a canoe +of the kind called "dug-out." + +No surprise to the runaway slave seeing it there; no more at its seeming +to have been placed in concealment. It is his own property, by himself +secreted. + +Gliding down through the moss-bedecked branches, he steps into it; and, +after balancing himself aboard, dips his paddle into the water, and sets +the dug-out adrift. + +A way for a while through thick standing trunks that require many +tortuous turnings to avoid them. + +At length a creek is reached, a _bayou_ with scarce any current; along +which the canoe-man continues his course, propelling the craft +up-stream. He has made way for something more than a mile, when a noise +reaches his ear, causing him to suspend stroke, with a suddenness that +shows alarm. + +It is only the barking of a dog; but to him no sound could be more +significant--more indicative of danger. + +On its repetition, which almost instantly occurs, he plucks his paddle +out of the water, leaving the dug-out to drift. + +On his head is a wool hat of the cheap fabric supplied by the +Penitentiaries of the Southern States, chiefly for negro wear. Tilting +it to one side, he bends low, and listens. + +Certainly a dog giving tongue--but in tone strange, unintelligible. It +is a hound's bay, but not as on slot, or chase. + +It is a howl, or plaintive whine, as if the animal were tied up, or +being chastised! + +After listening to it for some time--for it is nearly continuous--the +mulatto makes remark to himself. "There's no danger in the growl of +that dog. I know it nearly as well as my own voice. It's the +deer-hound that belong to young Masser Clancy. He's no slave-catcher." + +Re-assured he again dips his blade, and pushes on as before. + +But now on the alert, he rows with increased caution, and more +noiselessly than ever. So slight is the plash of his paddle, it does +not hinder him from noting every sound--the slightest that stirs among +the cypresses. + +The only one heard is the hound's voice, still in whining, wailing note. + +"Lor!" he exclaims once more, staying his stroke, and giving way to +conjectures, "what can be the matter with the poor brute? There must be +something amiss to make it cry; out in that strain. Hope 'taint no +mischance happened its young masser, the best man about all these parts. +Come what will, I'll go to the ground, an' see." + +A few more strokes carries the canoe on to the place, where its owner +has been accustomed to moor it, for meeting Blue Bill; and where on this +evening, as on others, he has arranged his interview with the +coon-hunter. A huge sycamore, standing half on land, half in the water, +with long outstretching roots laid bare by the wash of the current, +affords him a safe point of debarkation. For on these his footsteps +will leave no trace, and his craft can be stowed in concealment. + +It chances to be near the spot where the dog is still giving tongue-- +apparently not more than two hundred yards off. + +Drawing the dug-out in between the roots of the sycamore, and there +roping it fast, the mulatto mounts upon the bank. Then after standing +some seconds to listen, he goes gliding off through the trees. + +If cautious while making approach by water, he is even more so on the +land; so long being away from it, he there feels less at home. + +Guided by the yelps of the animal, that reach him in quick repetition, +he has no difficulty about the direction--no need for aught save +caution. The knowledge that he may be endangering his liberty--his +life--stimulates him to observe this. Treading as if on eggs, he glides +from trunk to trunk; for a time sheltering behind each, till assured he +can reach another without being seen. + +He at length arrives at one, in rear of which he remains for a more +prolonged period. + +For he now sees the dog--as conjectured, Clancy's deer-hound. The +animal is standing, or rather crouching, beside a heap of moss, ever and +anon raising its head and howling, till the forest is filled with the +plaintive refrain. + +For what is it lamenting? What can the creature mean? Interrogatives +which the mulatto puts to himself; for there is none else to whom he may +address them. No man near--at least none in sight. No living thing, +save the hound itself. + +Is there anything dead? Question of a different kind which now occurs, +causing him to stick closer than ever to his cover behind the tree. + +Still there is nought to give him a clue to the strange behaviour of the +hound. Had he been there half-an-hour sooner, he need not now be +racking his brain with conjectures. For he would have witnessed the +strife, with all the incidents succeeding, and already known to the +reader--with others not yet related, in which the hound was itself sole +actor. For the animal, after being struck by Darke's bullet, did not go +directly home. There could be no home where its master was not; and it +knew he would not be there. In the heart of the faithful creature, +while retreating, affection got the better of its fears; and once more +turning, it trotted back to the scene of the tragedy. + +This time not hindered from approaching the spot; the assassin--as he +supposed himself--having wound up his cruel work, and hurriedly made +away. Despite the shroud thrown over its master's body, the dog soon +discovered it--dead, no doubt the animal believed, while tearing aside +the moss with claws and teeth, and afterwards with warm tongue licking +the cold face. + +Believing it still, as crouched beside the seeming corpse it continues +its plaintive lamentation, which yet perplexes the runaway, while +alarming him. + +Not for long does he listen to it. There is no one in sight, therefore +no one to be feared. Certainly not Charles Clancy, nor his dog. With +confidence thus restored, he forsakes his place of concealment, and +strides on to the spot where the hound has couched itself. At his +approach the animal starts up with an angry growl, and advances to meet +him. Then, as if in the mulatto recognising a friend of its master, it +suddenly changes tone, bounding towards and fawning upon him. + +After answering its caresses, Jupe continues on till up to the side of +the moss pile. Protruding from it he sees a human head, with face +turned towards him--the lips apart, livid, and bloodless; the teeth +clenched; the eyes fixed and filmy. + +And beneath the half-scattered heap he knows there is a body; believes +it to be dead. + +He has no other thought, than that he is standing beside a corpse. + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. + +IS IT A CORPSE? + +"Surely Charl Clancy!" exclaims the mulatto as soon as setting eyes on +the face. "Dead--shot--murdered!" + +For a time he stands aghast, with arms upraised, and eyes staring +wildly. + +Then, as if struck by something in the appearance of the corpse, he +mutteringly interrogates: "Is he sure gone dead?" + +To convince himself he kneels down beside the body, having cleared away +the loose coverlet still partially shrouding it. + +He sees the blood, and the wound from which it is yet welling. He +places his hand over the heart with a hope it may still be beating. + +Surely it is! Or is he mistaken? + +The pulse should be a better test; and he proceeds to feel it, taking +the smooth white wrist between his rough brown fingers. + +"It beats! I do believe it does!" are his words, spoken hopefully. + +For some time he retains his grasp of the wrist. To make more sure, he +tries the artery at different points, with a touch as tender, as if +holding in his hand the life of an infant. + +He becomes certain that the heart throbs; that there is yet breath in +the body. + +What next? What is he to do? + +Hasten to the settlement, and summon a doctor? + +He dares not do this; nor seek assistance of any kind. To show himself +to a white man would be to go back into hated bondage--to the slavery +from which he has so lately, and at risk of life, escaped. It would be +an act of grand generosity--a self-sacrifice--more than man, more than +human being is capable of. Could a poor runaway slave be expected to +make it? + +Some sacrifice he intends making, as may be gathered from his muttered +words: + +"Breath in his body, or no breath, it won't do to leave it lyin' here. +Poor young gen'leman! The best of them all about these parts. What +would Miss Helen say if she see him now? What will she say when she +hear o' it? I wonder who's done it? No, I don't--not a bit. There's +only one likely. From what Jule told me, I thought 't would come to +this, some day. Wish I could a been about to warn him. Well, it's too +late now. The Devil has got the upper hand, as seem always the way. +Ah! what 'll become o' Miss Armstrong? She loved him, sure as I love +Jule, or Jule me." + +For a time he stands considering what he ought to do. The dread +spectacle has driven out of his mind all thoughts of his appointment +with Blue Bell; just as what preceded hindered the coon-hunter from +keeping it with him. For the latter, terrified, has taken departure +from the dangerous place, and is now hastening homeward. + +Only for a short while does the mulatto remain hesitating. His eyes are +upon the form at his feet. He sees warm blood still oozing from the +wound, and knows, or hopes, Clancy is not dead. Something must be done +immediately. + +"Dead or alive," he mutters. "I mustn't, shan't leave him here. The +wolves would soon make bare bones of him, and the carrion crows peck +that handsome face of his. They shan't either get at him. No. He's +did me a kindness more'n once, it's my turn now. Slave, mulatto, +nigger, as they call me, I'll show them that under a coloured skin there +can be gratitude, as much as under a white one--may be more. Show them! +What am I talkin' 'bout? There's nobody to see. Good thing for me +there isn't. But there might be, if I stand shilly-shallying here. I +mustn't a minute longer." + +Bracing himself for an effort, he opens his arms, and stoops as to take +up the body. Just then the hound, for some time silent, again gives out +its mournful monotone--continuing the dirge the runaway had interrupted. + +Suddenly he rises erect, and glances around, a new fear showing upon his +face. For he perceives a new danger in the presence of the dog. + +"What's to be done with it?" he asks himself. "I daren't take it along. +'Twould be sure some day make a noise, and guide the nigger-hunters to +my nest--I mustn't risk that. To leave the dog here may be worse still. +It'll sure follow me toatin away its master, an' if it didn't take to +the water an' swim after 'twould know where the dug-out lay, an' might +show them the place. I shan't make any tracks; for all that they'd +suspect somethin', down the creek, an' come that way sarchin'. 'Twont +do take the dog--'twont do to leave it--what _will_ do?" + +The series of reflections, and questions, runs rapidly as thought +itself. And to the last, quick as thought, comes an answer--a plan +which promises a solution of the difficulty. He thinks of killing the +dog--cutting its throat with his knife. + +Only for an instant is the murderous intent in his mind. In the next he +changes it, saying: + +"I can't do that--no; the poor brute so 'fectionate an' faithful! +'Twould be downright cruel. A'most the same as murderin' a man. I wont +do it." + +Another pause spent in considering; another plan soon suggesting itself. + +"Ah!" he exclaims, with air showing satisfied, "I have it now. That'll +be just the thing." + +The "thing" thus approved of, is to tie the hound to a tree, and so +leave it. + +First to get hold of it. For this he turns towards the animal, and +commences coaxing it nearer. "Come up, ole fella. You aint afeerd o' +me. I'm Jupe, your master's friend, ye know. There's a good dog! Come +now; come!" + +The deer-hound, not afraid, does not flee him; and soon he has his hands +upon it. + +Pulling a piece of cord out of his pocket, he continues to apostrophise +it, saying: + +"Stand still, good dog! Steady, and let me slip this round your neck. +Don't be skeeart. I'm not goin' to hang you--only to keep you quiet a +bit." + +The animal makes no resistance; but yields to the manipulation, +believing it to be by a friendly hand, and for its good. + +In a trice the cord is knotted around its neck; and the mulatto looks +out for a tree to which he may attach it. + +A thought now strikes him, another step calling for caution. It will +not do to let the dog see him go off, or know the direction he takes; +for some one will be sure to come in search of Clancy, and set the hound +loose. Still, time will likely elapse; the scent will be cold, as far +as the creek's edge, and cannot be lifted. With the water beyond there +will be no danger. + +The runaway, glancing around, espies a palmetto brake; these forming a +sort of underwood in the cypress forest, their fan-shaped leaves growing +on stalks that rise directly out of the earth to a height of three or +four feet, covering the ground with a _chevaux de frise_ of deepest +green, but hirsute and spinous as hedgehogs. + +The very place for his purpose. So mutters he to himself, as he +conducts the dog towards it. Still thinking the same, after he has tied +the animal to a palmetto shank near the middle of the brake, and there +left it. He goes off, regardless of its convulsive struggles to set +itself free, with accompanying yelps, by which the betrayed quadruped +seems to protest against such unexpected as ill-deserved, captivity. + +Not five minutes time has all this action occupied. In less than five +more a second chapter is complete, by the carrying of Clancy's body--it +may be his corpse--to the creek, and laying it along the bottom of the +canoe. + +Notwithstanding the weight of his burden, the mulatto, a man of uncommon +strength, takes care to make no footmarks along the forest path, or at +the point of embarkation. The ground, thickly strewn with the leaves of +the deciduous _taxodium_, does not betray a trace, any more than if he +were treading on thrashed straw. + +Undoing the slip-knot of his painter, he shoves the canoe clear of its +entanglement among the roots of the tree. Then plying his paddle, +directs its course down stream, silently as he ascended, but with look +more troubled, and air intensely solemnal. This continuing, while he +again shoulders the insensible form, and carries it along the causeway +of logs, until he has laid it upon soft moss within the cavity of the +cypress--his own couch. Then, once more taking Clancy's wrist between +his fingers, and placing his ear opposite the heart, he feels the pulse +of the first, and listens for the beatings of the last. + +A ray of joy illuminates his countenance, as both respond to his +examination. It grows brighter, on perceiving a muscular movement of +the limbs, late rigid and seemingly inanimate, a light in the eyes +looking like life; above all, words from the lips so long mute. Words +low-murmured, but still distinguishable; telling him a tale, at the same +time giving its interpretation. That in this hour of his +unconsciousness Clancy should in his speech couple the names of Richard +Darke and Helen Armstrong is a fact strangely significant, he does the +same for many days, in his delirious ravings; amid which the mulatto, +tenderly nursing him, gets the clue to most of what has happened. + +Clearer when his patient, at length restored to consciousness, confides +everything to the faithful fellow who has so befriended him. Every +circumstance he ought to know, at the same time imparting secrecy. + +This, so closely kept, that even Blue Bill, while himself disclosing +many an item, of news exciting the settlement, is not entrusted with one +the most interesting, and which would have answered the questions on +every tongue:--"What has become of Charles Clancy?" and "Where is his +body?" + +Clancy still in it, living and breathing, has his reasons for keeping +the fact concealed. He has succeeded in doing so till this night; till +encountering Simeon Woodley by the side of his mother's tomb. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +And now on Woodley's own hearth, after all has been explained, Clancy +once more returns to speak of the purpose he has but half communicated +to the hunter. + +"You say, Sime, I can depend upon you to stand by me?" + +"Ye may stake yur life on that. Had you iver reezun to misdoubt me?" + +"No--never." + +"But, Charley, ye hain't tolt me why ye appeared a bit displeezed at +meetin' me the night. That war a mystery to me." + +"There was nothing in it, Sime. Only that I didn't care to meet, or be +seen by, any one till I should be strong enough to carry out my purpose. +It would, in all probability, be defeated were the world to know I am +still alive. That secret I shall expect you to keep." + +"You kin trust to me for that; an' yur plans too. Don't be afeerd to +confide them to Sime Woodley. Maybe he may help ye to gettin' 'em +ship-shape." + +Clancy is gratified at this offer of aid. For he knows that in the +backwoodsman he will find his best ally; that besides his friendship +tested and proved, he is the very man to be with him in the work he has +cut out for himself--a purpose which has engrossed his thoughts ever +since consciousness came back after his long dream of delirium. It is +that so solemnly proclaimed, as he stood in the cemetery, with no +thought of any one overhearing him. + +He had then three distinct passions impelling him to the stern threat-- +three reasons, any of them sufficient to ensure his keeping it. First, +his own wrongs. True the attempt at assassinating him had failed; still +the criminality remained the same. But the second had succeeded. His +mother's corpse was under the cold sod at his feet, her blood calling to +him for vengeance. And still another passion prompted him to seek it-- +perhaps the darkest of all, jealousy in its direst shape, the sting from +a love promised but unbestowed. For the coon-hunter had never told Jupe +of Helen Armstrong's letter. Perhaps, engrossed with other cares, he +had forgotten it; or, supposing the circumstance known to all, had not +thought it worth communicating. Clancy, therefore, up to that hour, +believed his sweetheart not only false to himself, but having favoured +his rival. + +The bitter delusion, now removed, does not in any way alter his +determination. That is fixed beyond change, as he tells Simeon Woodley +while declaring it. He will proceed to Texas in quest of the assassin-- +there kill him. + +"The poor old place!" he says, pointing to the cottage as he passes it +on return to the swamp. "No more mine! Empty--every stick sold out of +it, I've heard. Well, let them go! I go to Texas." + +"An' I with ye. To Texas, or anywhars, in a cause like your'n, Clancy. +Sime Woodley wouldn't desarve the name o' man, to hang back on a trail +like that. But, say! don't ye think we'd be more likely o' findin' the +game by stayin' hyar? Ef ye make it known that you're still alive, then +thar ain't been no murder done, an' Dick Darke 'll be sure to kum home +agin." + +"If he came what could I do? Shoot him down like a dog, as he thought +he had me? That would make _me_ a murderer, with good chance of being +hanged for it. In Texas it is different. There, if I can meet him--. +But we only lose time in talking. You say, Woodley, you'll go with me?" + +"In course I've said it, and I'll do as I've sayed. There's no backin' +out in this child. Besides, I war jest thinkin' o' a return to Texas, +afore I seed you. An' thar's another 'll go along wi' us; that's young +Ned Heywood, a friend o' your'n most as much as myself. Ned's wantin' +bad to steer torst the Lone Star State. So, thar'll be three o' us on +the trail o' Dick Darke." + +"There will be _four_ of us." + +"Four! Who's the t'other, may I axe?" + +"A man I've sworn to take to Texas along with me. A brave, noble man, +though his skin be--. But never mind now. I'll tell you all about it +by-and-by. Meanwhile we must get ready. There's not a moment to lose. +A single day wasted, and I may be too late to settle scores with Richard +Darke. There's some one else in danger from him--" + +Here Clancy's utterance becomes indistinct, as if his voice were stifled +by strong emotion. + +"Some one else!" echoes Sime, interrupting; "who mout ye mean, Clancy?" + +"Her." + +"That air's Helen Armstrong. I don't see how she kin be in any danger +from Dick Darke. Thet ere gurl hev courage enuf to take care o' +herself, an' the spirit too. Besides, she'll hev about her purtectors a +plenty." + +"There can be no safety against an assassin. Who should know that +better than I? Woodley, that man's wicked enough for anything." + +"Then, let's straight to Texas!" + + + +CHAPTER FORTY. + +"ACROSS THE SABINE." + +At the time when Texas was an independent Republic, and not, as now, a +State of the Federal Union, the phrase, "Across the Sabine" was one of +noted signification. + +Its significance lay in the fact, that fugitives from States' justice, +once over the Sabine, felt themselves safe; extradition laws being +somewhat loose in the letter, and more so in the spirit, at any attempt +made to carry them into execution. + +As a consequence, the fleeing malefactor could breathe freely--even the +murderer imagine the weight of guilt lifted from off his soul--the +moment his foot touched Texan soil. + +On a morning of early spring--the season when settlers most affect +migration to the Lone Star State--a party of horsemen is seen crossing +the boundary river, with faces turned toward Texas. The place where +they are making passage is not the usual emigrants' crossing--on the old +Spanish military road between Natchitoches and Nacogdoches,--but several +miles above, at a point where the stream is, at certain seasons, +fordable. From the Louisiana side this ford is approached through a +tract of heavy timber, mostly pine forest, along a trail little used by +travellers, still less by those who enter Texas with honest intent, or +leave Louisiana with unblemished reputations. + +That these horsemen belong not to either category can be told at a +glance. They have no waggons, nor other wheeled vehicles, to give them +the semblance of emigrants; no baggage to embarrass them on their march. +Without it, they might be explorers, land speculators, surveyors, or +hunters. But no. They have not the look of persons who pursue any of +these callings; no semblance of aught honest or honourable. In all +there are twelve of them; among them not a face but speaks of the +Penitentiary--not one which does not brighten up, and show more +cheerful, as the hooves of their horses strike the Texan bank of the +Sabine. + +While on the _terrain_ of Louisiana, they have been riding fast and +hard--silent, and with pent-up thoughts, as though pursuers were after. +Once on the Texan side all seem relieved, as if conscious of having at +length reached a haven of safety. + +Then he who appears leader of the party, reining up his horse, breaks +silence, saying-- + +"Boys! I reckon we may take a spell o' rest here. We're now in Texas, +whar freemen needn't feel afeard. If thar's been any fools followin' +us, I guess they'll take care to keep on t'other side o' the river. +Tharfor, let's dismount and have a bit o' breakfast under the shadder o' +these trees. After we've done that, we can talk about what shed be our +next move. For my part, I feel sleepy as a 'possum. That ar licker o' +Naketosh allers knocks me up for a day or two. This time, our young +friend Quantrell here, has given us a double dose, the which I for one +won't get over in a week." + +It is scarcely necessary to say the speaker is Jim Borlasse, and those +spoken to his drinking companions in the Choctaw Chief. + +To a man, they all make affirmative response. Like himself, they too +are fatigued--dead done up by being all night in the saddle,--to say +nought about the debilitating effects of their debauch, and riding +rapidly with beard upon the shoulder, under the apprehension that a +sheriff and posse may be coming on behind. For, during the period of +their sojourn in Natchitoches, nearly every one of them has committed +some crime that renders him amenable to the laws. + +It may be wondered how such roughs could carry on and escape +observation, much more, punishment. But at the time Natchitoches was a +true frontier town, and almost every day witnessed the arrival and +departure of characters "queer" as to dress and discipline--the trappers +and prairie traders. Like the sailor in port, when paid off and with +full pockets--making every effort to deplete them--so is the trapper +during his stay at a fort, or settlement. He does things that seem odd, +are odd, to the extreme of eccentricity. Among such the late guests of +the Choctaw Chief would not, and did not, attract particular attention. +Not much was said or thought of them, till after they were gone; and +then but by those who had been victimised, resignedly abandoning claims +and losses with the laconic remark, "The scoundrels have G.T.T." + +It was supposed the assassin of Charles Clancy had gone with them; but +this, affecting the authorities more than the general public, was left +to the former to deal with; and in a land of many like affairs, soon +ceased to be spoken of. + +Borlasse's visit to Natchitoches had not been for mere pleasure. It was +business that took him thither--to concoct a scheme of villainy such as +might be supposed unknown among Anglo-Saxon people, and practised only +by those of Latinic descent, on the southern side of the Rio Grande. + +But robbery is not confined to any race; and on the borderland of Texas +may be encountered brigandage as rife and ruthless as among the +mountains of the Sierra Morena, or the defiles of the Appenines. + +That the Texan bandit has succeeded in arranging everything to his +satisfaction may be learnt from his hilarious demeanour, with the speech +now addressed to his associates:-- + +"Boys!" he says, calling them around after they have finished eating, +and are ready to ride on, "We've got a big thing before us--one that'll +beat horse-ropin' all to shucks. Most o' ye, I reckin, know what I +mean; 'ceptin', perhaps, our friends here, who've just joined us." + +The speaker looks towards Phil Quantrell _alias_ Dick Darke, and +another, named Walsh, whom he knows to be Joe Harkness, ex-jailer. + +After glancing from one to the other, he continues-- + +"I'll take charge o' tellin' _them_ in good time; an', I think, can +answer for their standin' by us in the bizness. Thar's fifty thousand +dollars, clar cash, at the bottom of it; besides sundries in the trinket +line. The question then is, whether we'd best wait till this nice +assortment of property gets conveyed to the place intended for its +destination, or make a try to pick it up on the way. What say ye, +fellers? Let every man speak his opinion; then I'll give mine." + +"You're sure o' whar they're goin', capting?" asks one of his following. +"You know the place?" + +"Better'n I know the spot we're now camped on. Ye needn't let that +trouble ye. An' most all o' ye know it yourselves. As good luck has +it, 'taint over twenty mile from our old stampin' groun' o' last year. +Thar, if we let em' alone, everythin' air sure to be lodged 'ithin +less'n a month from now. Thar, we'll find the specie, trinkets, an' +other fixins not forgetting the petticoats--sure as eggs is eggs. To +some o' ye it may appear only a question o' time and patience. I'm +sorry to tell ye it may turn out somethin' more." + +"Why d'ye say that, capting? What's the use o' waitin' till they get +there?" + + + +CHAPTER FORTY ONE. + +A REPENTANT SINNER. + +Nearly three weeks after Borlasse and his brigands crossed the Sabine, a +second party is seen travelling towards the same river through the +forests of Louisiana, with faces set for the same fording-place. + +In number they are but a third of that composing the band of Borlasse; +as there are only four of them. Three are on horseback, the fourth +bestriding a mule. + +The three horsemen are white; the mule-rider a mulatto. + +The last is a little behind; the distance, as also a certain air of +deference--to say nothing of his coloured skin--proclaiming him a +servant, or slave. + +Still further rearward, and seemingly careful to keep beyond reach of +the hybrid's heels, is a large dog--a deer-hound. The individuals of +this second cavalcade will be easily identified, as also the dog that +accompanies it. The three whites are Charles Clancy, Simeon Woodley, +and Ned Heywood; he with the tawny complexion Jupiter; while the hound +is Clancy's--the same he had with him when shot down by Richard Darke. + +Strange they too should be travelling, as if under an apprehension of +being pursued! Yet seems it so, judging from the rapid pace at which +they ride, and there anxious glances occasionally cast behind. It is +so; though for very different reasons from those that affected the +freebooters. + +None of the white men has reason to fear for himself--only for the +fugitive slave whom they are assisting to escape from slavery. Partly +on this account are they taking the route, described as rarely travelled +by honest men. But not altogether. Another reason has influenced their +selection of it while in Natchitoches they too have put up at the +Choctaw Chief; their plans requiring that privacy which an obscure +hostelry affords. To have been seen with Jupiter at the Planter's House +might have been for some Mississippian planter to remember, and +identify, him as the absconded slave of Ephraim Darke. A _contretemps_ +less likely to occur at the Choctaw Chief, and there stayed they. It +would have been Woodley's choice anyhow; the hunter having frequently +before made this house his home; there meeting many others of his kind +and calling. + +On this occasion his sojourn in it has been short; only long enough for +him and his travelling companions to procure a mount for their journey +into Texas. And while thus occupied they have learnt something, which +determined them as to the route they should take. Not the direct road +for Nacogdoches by which Colonel Armstrong and his emigrants have gone, +some ten days before; but a trail taken by another party that had been +staying at the Choctaw Chief, and left Natchitoches at an earlier +period--that they are now on. + +Of this party Woodley has received information, sufficiently minute for +him to identify more than one of the personages composing it. Johnny +has given him the clue. For the Hibernian innkeeper, with his national +habit of wagging a free tongue, has besides a sort of liking for Sime, +as an antipathy towards Sime's old enemy, Jim Borlasse. The consequence +of which has been a tale told in confidence to the hunter, about the +twelve men late sojourning at the Choctaw Chief, that was kept back from +the Sheriff on the morning after their departure. The result being, +that in choice of a route to Texas, Woodley has chosen that by which +they are now travelling. For he knows--has told Clancy--that by it has +gone Jim Borlasse, and along with him Richard Darke. + +The last is enough for Clancy. He is making towards Texas with two +distinct aims, the motives diametrically opposite. One is to comfort +the woman he loves, the other to kill the man he hates. + +For both he is eagerly impatient; but he has vowed that the last shall +be first--sworn it upon the grave of his mother. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Having reached the river, and crossed it, Clancy and his travelling +companions, just as Borlasse and his, seek relaxation under the shade of +the trees. Perhaps, not quite so easy in their minds. For the +murderer, on entering Texas, may feel less anxiety than he who has with +him a runaway slave! + +Still in that solitary place--on a path rarely trodden--there is no +great danger; and knowing this, they dismount and make their bivouac +_sans souci_. The spot chosen is the same as was occupied by Borlasse +and his band. Near the bank of the river is a spreading tree, +underneath which a log affords sitting accommodation for at least a +score of men. Seated on this, smoking his pipe, after a refection of +corn-bread and bacon, Sime Woodley unburdens himself of some secrets he +obtained in the Choctaw Chief, which up to this time he has kept back +from the others. + +"Boys!" he begins, addressing himself to Clancy and Heywood, the mulatto +still keeping respectfully apart. "We're now on a spot, whar less'n two +weeks agone, sot or stud, two o' the darndest scoundrels as iver made +futmark on Texan soil. _You_ know one o' 'em, Ned Heywood, but not the +tother. Charley Clancy hev akwaintance wi' both, an' a ugly +reccoleckshun o' them inter the bargain." + +The hunter pauses in his speech, takes a whiff or two from his pipe, +then resumes:-- + +"They've been hyar sure. From what thet fox, Johnny, tolt me, they must +a tuk this trail. An' as they hed to make quick tracks arter leavin' +Naketosh, they'd be tired on gettin' this fur, an' good as sartin to lay +up a bit. Look! thar's the ashes o' thar fire, whar I 'spose they +cooked somethin'. Thar hain't been a critter crossed the river since +the big rain, else we'd a seed tracks along the way. For they started +jest the day afore the rain; and that ere fire hez been put out by it. +Ye kin tell by them chunks showin' only half consoomed. Yis, by the +Eturnal! Roun' the bleeze o' them sticks has sot seven, eight, nine, or +may be a dozen, o' the darndest cut-throats as ever crossed the Sabine; +an' that's sayin' a goodish deal. Two o' them I kin swar to bein' so; +an' the rest may be counted the same from their kumpny--that kumpny +bein' Jim Borlasse an' Dick Darke." + +After thus delivering himself, the hunter remains apparently reflecting, +not on what he has said, but what they ought to do. Clancy has been all +the while silent, brooding with clouded brow--only now and then showing +a faint smile as the hound comes up, and licks his outstretched hand. +Heywood has nothing to say; while Jupiter is not expected to take any +part in the conversation. + +For a time they all seem under a spell of lethargy--the lassitude of +fatigue. They have ridden a long way, and need rest. They might go to +sleep alongside the log, but none of them thinks of doing so, least of +all Clancy. There is that in his breast forbidding sleep, and he is but +too glad when Woodley's next words arouse him from the torpid repose to +which he has been yielding. These are:-- + +"Now we've struck thar trail, what, boys, d'ye think we'd best do?" + +Neither of the two replying, the hunter continues:-- + +"To the best of my opeenyun, our plan will be to put straight on to whar +Planter Armstrong intends settin' up his sticks. I know the place 'most +as well as the public squar o' Natchez. This chile intends jeinin' the +ole kurnel, anyhow. As for you, Charley Clancy, we know whar ye want to +go, an' the game ye intend trackin' up. Wal; ef you'll put trust in +what Sime Woodley say, he sez this: ye'll find that game in the +neighbourhood o' Helen Armstrong;--nigh to her as it dar' ventur'." + +The final words have an inflammatory effect upon Clancy. He springs up +from the log, and strides over the ground, with a wild look and +strangely excited air. He seems impatient to be back in his saddle. + +"In coorse," resumes Woodley, "we'll foller the trail o' Borlasse an' +his lot. It air sure to lead to the same place. What they're arter +'tain't eezy to tell. Some deviltry, for sartin. They purtend to make +thar livin' by ropin' wild horses? I guess he gits more by takin' them +as air tame;--as you, Clancy, hev reezun to know. I hain't a doubt he'd +do wuss than that, ef opportunity offered. Thar's been more'n one case +o' highway robbery out thar in West Texas, on emigrant people goin' that +way; an' I don't know a likelier than Borlasse to a had a hand in't. Ef +Kurnel Armstrong's party wan't so strong as 'tis, an' the kurnel hisself +a old campayner, I mout hev my fears for 'em. I reckin they're safe +enuf. Borlasse an' his fellurs won't dar tech them. Johnny sez thar +war but ten or twelve in all. Still, tho' they moutn't openly attack +the waggon train, thar's jest a chance o' their hangin' on its skirts, +an' stealin' somethin' from it. Ye heerd in Naketosh o' a young Creole +planter, by name Dupray, who's goed wi' Armstrong, an's tuk a big count +o' dollars along. Jest the bait to temp Jim Borlasse; an' as for Dick +Darke, thar's somethin' else to temp him. So--" + +"Woodley!" exclaims Clancy, without waiting for the hunter to conclude; +"we must be off from here. For God's sake let us go!" + +His comrades, divining the cause of Clancy's impatience, make no attempt +to restrain him. They have rested and sufficiently refreshed +themselves. There is no reason for their remaining any longer on the +ground. + +Rising simultaneously, each unhitches his horse, and stands by the +stirrup, taking in the slack of his reins. + +Before they can spring into their saddles, the deer-hound darts off from +their midst--as he does so giving out a growl. + +The stroke of a hoof tells them of some one approaching, and the next +moment a horseman is seen through the trees. + +Apparently undaunted, he comes on towards their camp ground; but when +near enough to have fair view of their faces, he suddenly reins up, and +shows signs of a desire to retreat. + +If this be his intention, it is too late. + +Before he can wrench round his horse a rifle is levelled, its barrel +bearing upon his body; while a voice sounds threateningly in his ears, +in clear tone, pronouncing the words,-- + +"Keep yur ground, Joe Harkness! Don't attempt retreetin'. If ye do, +I'll send a bullet through ye sure as my name's Sime Woodley." + +The threat is sufficient. Harkness--for it is he--ceases tugging upon +his rein, and permits his horse to stand still. + +Then, at a second command from Woodley, accompanied by; a similar +menace, he urges the animal into action, and moves on towards their +bivouac. + +In less than sixty seconds after, he is in their midst, dismounted and +down upon his knees, piteously appealing to them to spare his life. + +The ex-jailor's story is soon told, and that without any reservation. +The man who has connived at Richard Darke's escape, and made money by +the connivance, is now more than repentant for his dereliction of duty. +For he has not only been bullied by Borlasse's band, but stripped of his +ill-gotten gains. Still more, beaten, and otherwise so roughly handled +that he has been long trying to get quit of their company. Having +stolen away from their camp--while the robbers were asleep--he is now +returning along the trail they had taken into Texas, on his way back to +the States, with not much left him, except a very sorry horse and a +sorrowing heart. + +His captors soon discover that, with his sorrow, there is an admixture +of spite against his late associates. Against Darke in particular, who +has proved ungrateful for the great service done him. + +All this does Harkness communicate to them, and something besides. + +Something that sets Clancy well-nigh crazed, and makes almost as much +impression upon his fellow-travellers. + +After hearing it they bound instantly to their saddles, and spur away +from the spot; Harkness, as commanded, following at their horses' heels. +This he does without daring to disobey; trotting after, in company with +the dog, seemingly less cur than himself. + +They have no fear of his falling back. Woodley's rifle, whose barrel +has been already borne upon him, can be again brought to the level in an +instant of time. + +The thought holds him secure, as if a trail-rope attached him to the +tail of the hunter's horse. + + + +CHAPTER FORTY TWO. + +THE PRAIRIE CARAVAN. + +Picture in imagination meadows, on which scythe of mower has never cut +sward, nor haymaker set foot; meadows loaded with such luxuriance of +vegetation--lush, tall grass--that tons of hay might be garnered off a +single acre; meadows of such extent, that in speaking of them you may +not use the word acres, but miles, even this but faintly conveying the +idea of their immensity; in fancy summon up such a scene, and you will +have before you what is a reality in Texas. + +In seeming these plains have no boundary save the sky--no limit nearer +than the horizon. And since to the eye of the traveller this keeps +continually changing, he may well believe them without limit at all, and +fancy himself moving in the midst of a green sea, boundless as ocean +itself, his horse the boat on which he has embarked. + +In places this extended surface presents a somewhat monotonous aspect, +though it is not so everywhere. Here and there it is pleasantly +interspersed with trees, some standing solitary, but mostly in groves, +copses, or belts; these looking, for all the world, like islands in the +ocean. So perfect is the resemblance, that this very name has been +given them, by men of Norman and Saxon race; whose ancestors, after +crossing the Atlantic, carried into the colonies many ideas of the +mariner, with much of his nomenclature. To them the isolated groves are +"islands;" larger tracts of timber, seen afar, "land;" narrow spaces +between, "straits;" and indentations along their edges "bays." + +To carry the analogy further, the herds of buffalo, with bodies half +buried in the tall grass, may be likened to "schools" of whales; the +wild horses to porpoises at play; the deer to dolphins; and the fleet +antelopes to flying-fish. + +Completing the figure, we have the vultures that soar above, performing +the part of predatory sea-gulls; the eagle representing the rarer +frigate-bird, or albatross. + +In the midst of this verdant expanse, less than a quarter of a century +ago, man was rarely met; still more rarely civilised man; and rarer yet +his dwelling-place. If at times a human being appeared among the +prairie groves, he was not there as a sojourner--only a traveller, +passing from place to place. The herds of cattle, with shaggy frontlets +and humped shoulders--the droves of horses, long-tailed and with full +flowing manes--the proud antlered stags, and prong-horned antelopes, +were not his. He had no control over them. The turf he trod was free +to them for pasture, as to him for passage; and, as he made way through +their midst, his presence scarce affrighted them. He and his might +boast of being "war's arbiter's," and lords of the great ocean. They +were not lords of that emerald sea stretching between the Sabine River +and the Rio Grande. Civilised man had as yet but shown himself upon its +shores. + +Since then he has entered upon, and scratched a portion of its surface; +though not much, compared with its immensity. There are still grand +expanses of the Texan prairie unfurrowed by the ploughshare of the +colonist--almost untrodden by the foot of the explorer. Even at this +hour, the traveller may journey for days on grass-grown plains, amidst +groves of timber, without seeing tower, steeple, or so much as a chimney +rising above the tree-tops. If he perceive a solitary smoke, curling +skyward, he knows that it is over the camp-fire of some one like +himself--a wayfarer. + +And it may be above the bivouac of those he would do well to shun. For +upon the green surface of the prairie, as upon the blue expanse of the +ocean, all men met with are not honest. There be land-sharks as well as +water-sharks--prairie pirates as corsairs of the sea. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +No spectacle more picturesque, nor yet more pleasing, than that of an +emigrant caravan _en route_ over the plains. The huge waggons--"prairie +ships," as oft, and not inaptly, named--with their white canvass tilts, +typifying spread sails, aligned and moving along one after the other, +like a _corps d'armee_ on march by columns; a group of horsemen ahead, +representing its vanguard; others on the flanks, and still another party +riding behind, to look after strays and stragglers, the rear-guard. +Usually a herd of cattle along--steers for the plough, young bullocks to +supply beef for consumption on the journey, milch kine to give comfort +to the children and colour to the tea and coffee--among them an old bull +or two, to propagate the species on reaching the projected settlement. +Not unfrequently a drove of pigs, or flock of sheep, with coops +containing ducks, geese, turkeys, Guinea-fowl--perhaps a screaming +peacock, but certainly Chanticleer and his harem. + +A train of Texan settlers has its peculiarities, though now not so +marked as in the times of which we write. Then a noted feature was the +negro--his _status_ a slave. He would be seen afoot, toiling on at the +tails of the waggons, not in silence or despondingly, as if the march +were a forced one. Footsore he might be, in his cheap "brogans" of +Penitentiary fabric, and sore aweary of the way, but never sad. On the +contrary, ever hilarious, exchanging jests with his fellow-pedestrians, +or a word with Dinah in the wagon, jibing the teamsters, mocking the +mule-drivers, sending his cachinations in sonorous ring along the moving +line; himself far more mirthful than his master--more enjoying the +march. + +Strange it is, but true, that a lifetime of bondage does not stifle +merriment in the heart of the Ethiopian. Grace of God to the sons of +Ham--merciful compensation for mercies endured by them from the day +Canaan was cursed, as it were a doom from the dawning of creation! + +Just such a train as described is that commanded by Colonel Armstrong, +_en route_ towards Western Texas. Starting from Natchitoches some +twenty days ago, it has reached the Colorado river, crossed it, and is +now wending its way towards the San Saba, a tributary of the former +stream. + +It is one of the largest caravans that has yet passed over the prairies +of Texas, counting between twenty and thirty "Conestoga" wagons, with +several "carrioles" and vehicles of varied kind. Full fifty horsemen +ride in its front, on its flank, and rear; while five times the number +of pedestrians, men with black or yellow skins, keep pace with it. A +proportionate number of women and children are carried in the wagons, +their dusky faces peeping out from under the tilts, in contrast with the +colour of the rain-bleached canvass; while other women and children of +white complexion ride in the vehicles with springs. + +In one of the latter--a barouche of the American build--travel two young +ladies, distinguished by particular attentions. Half a dozen horsemen +hover around their carriage, acting as its escort, each apparently +anxious to exchange words with them. With one they can talk, jest, +laugh, chatter as much as they like; but the other repels them. For the +soul of the former is full of joy; that of the latter steeped in +sadness. + +Superfluous to say, they are Jessie and Helen Armstrong. And needless +to tell why the one is gay, the other grave. Since we last saw them in +the hotel of Natchitoches, no change has taken place in their hearts or +their hopes. The younger of the two, Jessie, is still an expectant +bride, certain soon to be a wife; and with this certainty rejoices in +the future. Helen, with no such expectation, no wish for it, feeling as +one widowed, grieves over the past. The former sees her lover by her +side living and loving, constantly, caressingly; the latter can but +think of hers as something afar off--a dream--a dread vision--a cold +corpse--herself the cause of it! + +Colonel Armstrong's eldest daughter is indeed sad--a prey to repining. +Her heart, after receiving so many shocks, has almost succumbed to that +the supremest, most painful suffering that can afflict humanity--the +malady of _melancholia_. The word conveys but a faint idea of the +suffering itself. Only they who have known it--fortunately but few--can +comprehend the terror, the wan, wasting misery, endured by those whose +nerves have given way under some terrible stroke of misfortune. 'Tis +the story of a broken heart. + +Byron has told us "the heart may break and brokenly live on." In this +her hour of unhappiness, Helen Armstrong would not and could not believe +him. It may seem strange that Jessie is still only a bride to be. But +no. She remembers the promise made to her father--to share with him a +home in Texas, however humble it might be. All the same, now that she +knows it will be splendid; knowing, too, it is to be shared by another-- +her Louis. He is still but her _fiancee_; but his troth is plighted, +his truthfulness beyond suspicion. They are all but man and wife; which +they will be soon as the new home is reached. + +The goal of their journey is to be the culminating point of Jessie's +joy--the climax of her life's happiness. + + + +CHAPTER FORTY THREE. + +THE HAND OF GOD. + +Scarce any stream of South-Western Texas but runs between bluffs. There +is a valley or "bottom-land," only a little elevated above the water's +surface, and often submerged during inundations,--beyond this the +bluffs. The valley may be a mile or more in width, in some places ten, +at others contracted, till the opposing cliffs are scarce a pistol-shot +apart. And of these there are frequently two or three tiers, or +terraces, receding backward from the river, the crest of the last and +outmost being but the edge of an upland plain, which is often sterile +and treeless. Any timber upon it is stunted, and of those species to +which a dry soil is congenial. Mezquite, juniper, and "black-jack" oaks +grow in groves or spinneys; while standing apart may be observed the +arborescent jucca--the "dragon-tree" of the Western world, towering +above an underwood unlike any other, composed of _cactaceae_ in all the +varieties of cereus, cactus, and echinocactus. Altogether unlike is the +bottom-land bordering upon the river. There the vegetation is lush and +luxuriant, showing a growth of large forest timber--the trees set +thickly, and matted with many parasites, that look like cables coiling +around and keeping them together. These timbered tracts are not +continuous, but show stretches of open between,--here little glades +filled with flowers, there grand meadows overgrown with grass--so tall +that the horseman riding through it has his shoulders swept by the +spikes, which shed their pollen upon his coat. + +Just such a bottom-land is that of the San Saba, near the river's mouth; +where, after meandering many a score of miles from its source in the +Llano Estacado, it espouses the Colorado--gliding softly, like a shy +bride, into the embrace of the larger and stronger-flowing stream. + +For a moment departing from the field of romance, and treading upon the +domain of history--or it may be but legend--a word about this Colorado +river may interest the reader. + +Possibly, probably, almost lor certain, there is no province in all +Spanish America without its "Rio Colorado." The geographer could count +some scores of rivers so named--point them out on any map. They are +seen in every latitude, trending in all directions, from the great +Colorado of _canon_ celebrity in the north to another far south, which +cuts a deep groove through the plains of Patagonia. All these streams +have been so designated from the hue of their waters--muddy, with a +pronounced tinge of red: this from the ochreous earth through which they +have coursed, holding it in suspension. + +In the Texan Colorado there is nothing of this; on the contrary, it is a +clear water stream. A circumstance that may seem strange, till the +explanation be given--which is, that the name is a _misnomer_. In other +words, the Texan river now bearing the designation Colorado is not that +so-called by the Spaniards, but their Rio Brazos; while the present +Brazos is their Rio Colorado--a true red-tinted stream. The exchange of +names is due to an error of the American map-makers, unacquainted with +the Spanish tongue. Giving the Colorado its true name of Brazos, or +more correctly "Brazos de Dios" ("The Arms of God"), the origin of this +singular title for a stream presents us with a history, or legend, alike +singular. As all know, Texas was first colonised by Spaniards, or +Spanish Mexicans, on what might be termed the "militant missionary +system." Monks were sent into the province, cross in hand, with +soldiers at their back, bearing the sword. Establishments were formed +in different parts of the country; San Antonio de Bejar being the +ecclesiastical centre, as also the political capital. Around these the +aborigines were collected, and after a fashion converted to +Christianity. With the christianising process, however, there were +other motives mixed up, having very little to do either with morality or +religion. Comfortable subsistence, with the accumulation of wealth by +the missionaries themselves, was in most instances the lure which +attracted them to Texas, tempting them to risk their lives in the +so-called conversion of the heathen. + +The mission-houses were in the monasterial style, many of them on a +grand scale--mansions in fact, with roomy refectories, and kitchens to +correspond; snug sitting and sleeping-chambers; well-paved courts and +spacious gardens attached. Outside the main building, sometimes forming +part of it, was a church, or _capilla_; near by the _presidio_, or +barrack for their military protectors; and beyond, the _rancheria_, or +village of huts, the homes of the new-made neophytes. + +No great difficulty had the fathers in thus handsomely housing +themselves. The converts did all the work, willingly, for the sake and +in the name of the "Holy Faith," into which they had been recently +inducted. Nor did their toil end with the erection of the +mission-buildings. It was only transferred to a more layical kind; to +the herding of cattle, and tillage of the surrounding land; this +continued throughout their whole lives--not for their own benefit, but +to enrich those idle and lazy friars, in many cases men of the most +profligate character. It was, in fact, a system of slavery, based upon +and sustained by religious fanaticism. The result as might be +expected--failure and far worse. Instead of civilising the aborigines +of America, it has but brutalised them the more--by eradicating from +their hearts whatever of savage virtue they had, and implanting in its +place a debasing bigotry and superstition. + +Most American writers, who speak of these missionary establishments, +have formed an erroneous estimate of them. And, what is worse, have +given it to the world. Many of these writers are, or were, officers in +the United States army, deputed to explore the wild territories in which +the missions existed. Having received their education in Roman Catholic +seminaries, they have been inducted into taking a too lenient view of +the doings of the "old Spanish padres;" hence their testimony so +favourable to the system. + +The facts are all against them; these showing it a scheme of +_villeinage_, more oppressive than the European serfdom of the Middle +Ages. The issue is sufficient proof of this. For it was falling to +pieces, long before the Anglo-Saxon race entered into possession of the +territory where it once flourished. The missions are now in a state of +decadence, their buildings fast falling into decay; while the red man, +disgusted at the attempt to enslave, under the clock of christianising +him, has returned to his idolatry, as to his savage life. + +Several of these _misiones_ were established on the San Saba river; one +of which for a considerable period enjoyed a prosperous existence, and +numbered among its neophytes many Indians of the Lipan and Comanche +tribes. + +But the tyranny of their monkish teachers by exactions of tenths and +almost continuous toil--themselves living in luxurious ease, and without +much regard to that continence they inculcated--at length provoked the +suffering serfs to revolt. In which they were aided by those Indians +who had remained unconverted, and still heretically roamed around the +environs. The consequence was that, on a certain day when the hunters +of the _mision_ were abroad, and the soldiers of the _presidio_ alike +absent on some expedition, a band of the outside idolaters, in league +with the discontented converts, entered the mission-building, with arms +concealed under their ample cloaks of buffalo skin. After prowling +about for a while in an insolent manner, they at length, at a given +signal from their chief, attacked the proselytising _padres_, with those +who adhered to them; tomahawked and scalped all who came in their way. + +Only one monk escaped--a man of great repute in those early times of +Texas. Stealing off at the commencement of the massacre, he succeeded +in making his way down the valley of the San Saba, to its confluence +with the Colorado. But to reach an asylum of safety it was necessary +for him to cross the latter stream; in which unfortunately there was a +freshet, its current so swollen that neither man nor horse could ford +it. + +The _padre_ stood upon its bank, looking covetously across, and +listening in terror to the sounds behind; these being the war-cries of +the pursuing Comanches. + +For a moment the monk believed himself lost. But just then the arm of +God was stretched forth to save him. This done in a fashion somewhat +difficult to give credence to, though easy enough for believers in Holy +Faith. It was a mere miracle; not stranger, or more apocryphal, than we +hear of at this day in France, Spain, or Italy. The only singularity +about the Texan tale is the fact of its not being original; for it is a +pure piracy from Sacred Writ--that passage of it which relates to the +crossing of the Red Sea by Moses and his Israelites. + +The Spanish monk stood on the river's bank, his eyes fixed despairingly +on its deep rapid-running current, which he knew he could not cross +without danger of being drowned. Just at this crisis he saw the waters +separate; the current suddenly stayed, and the pebbly bed showing dry as +a shingle! + +Tucking his gown under his girdle, he struck into the channel; and, no +doubt, making good time--though the legend does not speak of this--he +succeeded in planting his sandalled feet, dry shod, on the opposite +shore! So far the Texan story closely corresponds with the Mosaic. +Beyond, the incidents as related, are slightly different. Pharaoh's +following host was overwhelmed by the closing waters. The pursuing +Comanches did not so much as enter the charmed stream; which, with +channel filled up, as before, was running rapidly on. They were found +next morning upon the bank where they had arrived in pursuit, all dead, +all lying at full stretch along the sward, their heads turned in the +same direction, like trees struck down by a tornado! + +Only the Omnipotent could have done this. No mortal hand could make +such a _coup_. Hence the name which the Spaniards bestowed upon the +present Colorado, _Brazos de Dios_--the "Hand of God." Hence also the +history, or rather fable, intended to awe the minds of the rebellious +redskins, and restore them to Christanity, or serfdom. + +Which it did not; since from that day the _misiones_ of San Saba +remained abandoned, running into ruin. + +It is to one of these forsaken establishments Colonel Armstrong is +conducting his colony; his future son-in-law having purchased the large +tract of territory attached to it. + +To that spot, where more than a century ago the monks made halt, with +cross borne conspicuously in one hand, and sword carried surreptitiously +in the other, there is now approaching a new invasion--that of axe and +rifle--neither ostentatiously paraded, but neither insidiously +concealed. + + + +CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. + +A CLOUD ON THE CLIFFS. + +After a long toilsome journey through Eastern Texas, the emigrant train +has reached the San Saba, and is working its way up-stream. Slowly, for +the bottom-land is in some places heavily timbered, and the road +requires clearing for the waggons. + +The caravan has entered the valley on the left, or northern, bank of the +river, while its point of destination is the southern; but a few miles +above its confluence with the Colorado is a ford, by which the right +side may be reached at low water. Luckily it is now at its lowest, and +the waggons are got across without accident, or any great difficulty. + +Once on the southern side, there is nothing to obstruct or further delay +them. Some ten miles above is the abandoned mission-house, which they +expect to reach that day, before going down of the sun. + +With perhaps one exception, the emigrants are all happy, most of them in +exuberant spirits. They are nearing a new home, having long ago left +the old one behind; left also a thousand cankering cares,--many of them +more than half a life spent in struggles and disappointments. In the +untried field before them there is hope; it may be success and +splendour; a prospect like the renewing of life's lease, the younger to +find fresh joys, the older to grow young again. + +For weeks has the San Saba mission-house been the theme of their +thoughts, and topic of discourse. They will re-people the deserted +dwelling, restore it to its pristine splendour; bring its long neglected +fields under tillage--out of them make fortunes by the cultivation of +cotton. + +There is no cloud to darken the horizon of their hopes. The toilsome +journey is nearly at an end, and rejoicingly they hail its termination. +Whether their train of white tilted wagons winds its way under shadowing +trees, or across sunlit glades, there is heard along its line only +joyous speech and loud hilarious laughter. + +So go they on, regardless about the future, or only thinking of it as +full of bright promise. Little do they dream how it may be affected by +something seen upon the cliffs above, though not seen by them. At the +point they have now reached, the bottom-land is several miles wide, with +its bordering of grim bluffs rising on either flank, and running far as +eye can see. On the left side, that they have just forsaken, not upon +the river's bank, but the cliff far back, is a cloud. No darkness of +the sky, or concentration of unsubstantial vapour. But a gathering on +the earth, and of men; who, but for their being on horseback, might be +mistaken for devils. In Satan's history the horse has no part; though, +strange to say, Satan's sons are those who most affect friendship for +the noble animal. Of the horsemen seen hovering above the San Saba +there are in all twenty; most of them mounted upon mustangs, the native +steed of Texas, though two or three bestride larger and better stock, +the breed of the States. + +All appear Indians, or if there be white man among them, he must have +been sun-tanned beyond anything commonly seen. In addition to their +tint of burnt umber, they are all garishly painted; their faces +escutcheoned with chalk-white, charcoal-black, and vermillion-red. Of +their bodies not much can be seen. Blankets of blue and scarlet, or +buffalo robes, shroud their shoulders; while buckskin breeches and +leggings wrap their lower limbs; mocassins encasing their feet. In +addition to its dress, they wear the usual Indian adornments. Stained +eagle-plumes stand tuft-like out of their raven-black hair, which, in +trailing tresses, sweeps back over the hips of their horses; while +strings of peccaries' teeth and claws of the grizzly bear fall over +their breasts in bountiful profusion. + +It is true, they are not in correct fighting costume. Nor would their +toilet betoken them on the "war-trail." But the Texan Indian does not +always dress warrior-fashion, when he goes forth upon a predatory +excursion. More rarely when on a mere pilfering maraud, directed +against some frontier settlement, or travelling party of whites. On +such occasions he does not intend fighting, but rather shuns it. And, +as thieving is more congenial to him, he can steal as cleverly and +adroitly in a buckskin hunting-shirt, as with bare arms. + +The Indians in question number too few for a war party. At the same +time, their being without women is evidence they are on no errand of +peace. But for the arms carried, they might be mistaken for hunters. +They have spears and guns, some of them "bowie" knives and pistols; +while the Indian hunter still believes in the efficacy of the silent +arrow. + +In their armour, and equipment there are other peculiarities the +ordinary traveller might not comprehend, but which to the eye of an old +prairie man would be regarded as suspicious. Such an one would at once +pronounce them a band of _prairie pirates_, and of the most dangerous +kind to be encountered in all the territory of Texas. + +Whoever they may be, and whatever their design, their behaviour is +certainly singular. Both by their looks and gestures it can be told +they are watching the waggon train, and interested in its every +movement; as also taking care not to be themselves observed by those +belonging to it. To avoid this they keep back from the crest of the +escarpment; so far, it would not be possible to see them from any part +of the bottom-land below. + +One of their number, afoot, goes closer to the cliff's edge, evidently +sent there by the others as a sort of moving vidette. Screened by the +cedars that form its _criniere_, he commands a view of the river valley +below, without danger of being himself seen from it. + +At short intervals he passes back a pace or two, and gesticulates to the +others. Then returning to the cliff's edge, he continues on as before. + +These movements, apparently eccentric, are nevertheless of grave import. +The man who makes them, with those to whom they are made, must be +watching the travellers with the intention of waylaying them. + +Afar off are the waggons, just distinguishable as such by their white +canvas tilts--the latter in contrast with the surface of vivid green +over which they are progressing. Slowly crawling along, they bear +similitude to a string of gigantic _termites_ bent on some industrial +excursion. Still the forms of mounted men--at least forty in number, +can be distinguished. Some riding in front of the train, some in its +rear, and others alongside of it. No wonder the twenty savage men, who +pursue the parallel line along the cliff, are taking care not to +approach it too nearly. One would suppose that from such a strong +travelling party their chance of obtaining plunder would seem to them +but slight. And yet they do not appear to think so. For as the caravan +train tardily toils on up the bottom-land, they too move along the upper +plain at a like rate of speed, their scout keeping the waggons in sight, +at intervals, as before, admonishing them of every movement. + +And they still continue watching the emigrant train until the sun sinks +low--almost to the horizon. Then they halt upon a spot thickly beset +with cedar trees--a sort of promontory projecting over the river valley. + +On its opposite side they can see the waggons still slowly creeping +along, though now not all in motion. Those in the lead have stopped; +the others doing likewise, as, successively, they arrive at the same +place. + +This in front of a large building, just discernible in the distance, its +outlines with difficulty traceable under the fast gathering gloom of the +twilight. + +But the savages who survey it from the bluff have seen that building +before, and know all about it; know it to be one of the abandoned +_misiones_ of San Saba; as, also, why those vehicles are now coming to a +stop before its walls. + +While watching these, but few words are exchanged between them, and only +in an under tone. Much or loud talk would not be in keeping with their +Indian character. Still enough passes in their muttered speeches-- +observable also in the expression of their features--for any one hearing +the first, or seeing the last, to predict danger to the colony of +Colonel Armstrong. If looks count for aught, or words can be relied on +the chances seem as if the old San Saba mission-house, long in ruins, +may remain so yet longer. + + + +CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. + +A SUSPICIOUS SURVEILLANCE. + +The ancient monastery, erst the abode of Spanish monks, now become the +dwelling-place of the ci-devant Mississippi planter, calls for a word of +description. + +It stands on the right side of the river, several hundred yards from the +bank, on a platform slightly elevated above the general level of the +surrounding _terrain_. + +The site has been chosen with an eye to the pleasant and picturesque-- +that keen look-out towards temporal enjoyment, which at all times, and +in all countries, has characterised these spiritual teachers of the +heathen. + +Its elevated position gives it command of a fine prospect, at the same +time securing it against the danger of inundation, when the river is in +flood. + +In architectural style the mission-building itself does not much differ +from that of most Mexican country houses--called _haciendas_. + +Usually a grand quadrangular structure, with an uncovered court in the +centre, the _patio_; around which runs a gallery or corridor, +communicating with the doors of the different apartments. + +But few windows face outside; such as there are being casements, +unglazed, but protected by a _grille_ of iron bars set vertically--the +_reja_. In the centre of its front _facade_ is a double door, of +gaol-like aspect, giving admittance to the passage-way, called _saguan_; +this of sufficient capacity to admit a waggon with its load, intended +for those grand old coaches that lumbered along our own highways in the +days of Dick Turpin, and in which Sir Charles Grandison used luxuriously +to ride. Vehicles of the exact size, and pattern, may be seen to this +day crawling along the country roads of modern Mexico--relics of a +grandeur long since gone. + +The _patio_ is paved with stone flags, or tesselated tiles; and, where a +head of water can be had, a fountain plays in the centre, surrounded by +orange-trees, or other evergreens, with flowering-plants in pots. To +rearward of this inner court, a second passage-way gives entrance to +another, and larger, if not so sumptuously arrayed; this devoted to +stables, store-rooms, and other domestic offices. Still farther back is +the _huerta_, or garden. + +That attached to the ancient monastery is an enclosure of several acres +in extent, surrounded by a high wall of _adobes_; made to look still +higher from being crested with a palisade of the organ cactus. Filled +with fruit trees and flowering shrubs, these once carefully cultivated, +but for long neglected, now cover the walks in wild luxuriance. Under +their shade, silently treading with sandalled feet, or reclining on +rustic benches, the Texan friars used to spend their idle hours, quite +as pleasantly as their British brethren of Tintern and Tewkesbury. Oft +have the walls of the San Saba mission-house echoed their "ha, ha!" as +they quaffed the choicest vintage of Xeres, and laughed at jests ribald +as any ever perpetrated in a pot-house. Not heard, however, by the +converted heathen under their care; nor intended to be. For them there +were dwellings apart; a collection of rude hovels, styled the +_rancheria_. These were screened from view by a thick grove of +evergreen trees; the _padres_ not relishing a too close contact with +their half-naked neophytes, who were but their _peons_--in short their +slaves. In point of fact, it was the feudal system of the Old World +transported to the New; with the exception that the manorial lords were +monks, and the _villeins_ savage men. And the pretence at +proselytising, with its mongrel mixture of Christianity and +superstition, did not make this Transatlantic _villeinage_ a whit less +irksome to endure. Proof, that the red-skinned serfs required the iron +hand of control is found in the _presidio_, or soldier's barrack-- +standing close by--its ruin overlooking those of the _rancheria_. They +who had been conquered by the Cross, still needed the sword to keep them +in subjection, which, as we have seen, it finally failed to do. + +Several of the huts still standing, and in a tolerable state of repair, +have supplied shelter to the new settlers; most of whom have taken up +their abode in them. They are only to serve as temporary residences, +until better homes can be built. There is no time for this now. The +spring is on, and the cotton-seed must be got into the ground, to the +neglect of everything else. + +Colonel Armstrong himself, with his daughters and domestics, occupies +the old mission-building, which also gives lodgment to Luis Dupre and +his belongings. For the young planter is now looked upon as a member of +the Armstrong family, and it wants but a word from one in holy orders to +make him really so. And such an one has come out with the colonists. +The marriage ceremony is but deferred until the cotton-seed be safe +under the soil. Then there will be a day of jubilee, such as has never +been seen upon the San Saba; a _fiesta_, which in splendour will eclipse +anything the Spanish monks, celebrated for such exhibitions, have ever +got up, or attempted. + +But "business before pleasure" is the adage of the hour; and, after a +day or two given to rest, with the arrangement of household affairs, the +real work of colonising commences. The little painted ploughs, +transported from the States, are set to soiling their paint, by turning +up the fertile clod of the San Saba valley, which has so long lain +fallow; while the seed of the cotton-plant is scattered far and wide +over hundreds--ay, thousands of acres. + +Around the ancient mission is inaugurated a new life, with scenes of +industry, stirring as those presided over by the _padres_. + +Is it sure of being as prosperous, or more likely to be permanent? + +One confining his view to the valley--regarding only the vigorous +activity there displayed--would answer this question in the affirmative. + +But he who looks farther off--raising his eyes to the bluff on the +opposite side of the river, fixing them on that spot where the Indians +made halt--would hesitate before thus prognosticating. In the dusky +cohort he might suspect some danger threatening the new settlement. + +True, the savages are no longer there. After seeing the waggons one +after another becoming stationary, like vultures deprived of a carrion +repast, they moved away. But not far. Only about five miles, to a +grove of timber standing back upon the plain, where they have made a +more permanent camp. + +Two alone are left upon the cliff's edge; evidently to act as videttes. +They keep watch night and day, one always remaining awake. Especially +during the night hours do they appear on the alert--with eyes bent on +the far off mission-buildings--watching the window-lights that steadily +shine, and the torches that flit to and fro. Watching for something not +yet seen. What can it be? + +And what is the design of these painted savages, who look more like +demons than men? Is it to attack the new colony, plunder, and destroy +it? + +Regarding their numbers, this would seem absurd. They are in all only +twenty; while the colonists count at least fifty fighting men. No +common men either; but most of them accustomed to the use of arms; many +backwoodsmen, born borderers, staunch as steel. Against such, twenty +Indians--though the picked warriors of the warlike Comanche tribe--would +stand no chance in fair open fight. But they may not mean this; and +their intent be only stealing? + +Or they may be but a pioneer party--the vanguard of a greater force? + +In any case, their behaviour is singularly suspicious. Such manoeuvring +can mean no good, but may be fraught with evil to Colonel Armstrong and +his colonists. + +For several successive days is this surveillance maintained, and still +nothing seems to come of it. The party of savages remains encamped in +the timber at back; while the two sentinels keep their place upon the +promontory; though now and then going and coming, as before. + +But on a certain night they forsake their post altogether, as if their +object has been attained, and there is no need to keep watch any more. + +On this same night, a man might be seen issuing out of the +mission-building, and making away from its walls. He is not seen, +nevertheless. For it is the hour of midnight, and all have retired to +rest--the whole household seemingly wrapt in profoundest slumber. +Moreover, the man slips out stealthily, through the backdoor; thence +across the second courtyard, and along a narrow passage leading into the +garden. Having reached this, he keeps on down the centre walk, and over +the wall at bottom, through which there chances to be a breach. All +these mysterious movements are in keeping with the appearance of the +man. For his countenance shows cunning of no ordinary kind. At first +glance, and under the moonlight, he might be mistaken for a mulatto. +But, though coloured, he is not of this kind. His tawny skin shows a +tinge of red, which tells of Indian, rather than African blood. He is, +in truth, a _mestizo_--half Spaniard or Mexican, the other half being +the aboriginal race of America. + +It is a breed not always evil-disposed, still less frequently +ill-featured; and, so far as looks go, the individual in question might +claim to be called handsome. He has a plenteous profusion of dark curly +hair, framing a countenance by no means common. A face of oval form, +regular features, the nose and chin markedly prominent, a pair of coal +black eyes, with a well-defined crescent over each. Between his lips +are teeth, sound and of ivory whiteness, seeming whiter in contrast with +a pair of jet black moustaches. + +Taking his features singly, any of them might be pronounced comely. And +yet the _tout ensemble_ is not pleasing. Despite physical beauty, there +is something in the man's face that appears repulsive, and causes +shrinking in the heart of the beholder. Chiefly is it his eyes that +seem to produce this effect; their glance inspiring fear, such as one +feels while being gazed at by an adder. + +Not always can this sinister look be observed. For the _mestizo_, when +face to face with his superiors, has the habit of holding his eyes +averted--cast down, as if conscious of having committed crime, or an +intention to commit it. + +Most with whom he comes in contact are impressed with the idea, that he +either has sinned, or intends sinning; so all are chary of giving him +confidence. + +No--not all. There is one exception: one man who has trusted, and still +continues to trust him--the young planter, Dupre. So far, that he has +made him his man of confidence--head-servant over all the household. +For it need scarce be told, that the real master of the house is he who +rendered it habitable, by filling it with furniture and giving it a +staff of servants. Colonel Armstrong is but its head through courtesy +due to age, and the respect shown to a future father-in-law. + +Why the Creole puts such trust in Fernand--the _mestizo's_ name--no one +can clearly comprehend. For he is not one of those domestics, whose +integrity has been tested by long years of service. On the contrary, +Dupre has never set eyes on him, till just before leaving Nachitoches. + +While organising the expedition, the half-blood had presented himself, +and offered to act as its guide--professing acquaintance with that +section of Texas whither the colony was to be conducted. But long +before reaching their destination, Dupre had promoted him to a higher +and more lucrative post--in short, made him his "major-domo." + +Colonel Armstrong does not object. He has not the right. Still less, +anybody else. Outsiders only wonder and shake their heads; saying, in +whispers, that the thing is strange, and adding, "No good can come of +it." + +Could any of them observe the _mestizo_ at this midnight hour, skulking +away from the house; could they follow and watch his further movements, +they might indulge in something more than a surmise about his fidelity; +indeed, be convinced he is a traitor. + +After getting about half-a-mile from the mission walls, he makes stop on +the edge of attract of timber lying between--its outer edge, open +towards the river's bank, and the bluffs beyond. + +There, crouching down by the side of a flat stone, he pours some +gunpowder upon it, from a horn taken out of his pocket. + +This done, he draws forth a box of lucifer matches; scrapes one across +the stone, and sets the powder ablaze. + +It flashes up in bright glare, illumining the darkness around. + +A second, time he repeats this manoeuvre; a third, and a fourth; and on, +till, for the tenth time, powder has been burnt. + +Then turning away from the spot, he makes back towards the +dwelling-house, entering it by the way he went out, and stealthily as +before. + +No one within its walls has been witness to the pyrotechnic display. + +For all, it has not been unobserved. The Indian videttes, stationed on +the far-off bluff, see it. See, and furthermore, seem to accept it as a +signal--a cue for action. What but this could have caused them to +spring upon the backs of their horses, forsake their post of +observation, and gallop off to the bivouac of their comrades; which they +do, soon as noting that the tenth flash is not followed by another? + +Surely must it be a signal, and preconcerted? + +In the life of the prairie savage fire plays a conspicuous part. It is +his telegraph, by which he can communicate with far off friends, telling +them where an enemy is, and how or when he should be "struck." A single +spark, or smoke, has in it much of meaning. A flash may mean more; but +ten following in succession were alphabet enough to tell a tale of no +common kind--one, it may be, predicting death. + + + +CHAPTER FORTY SIX. + +A SUSPECTED SERVANT. + +Now fairly inaugurated, the new colony gives promise of a great success; +and the colonists are congratulating themselves. + +None more than their chief, Colonel Armstrong. His leaving Mississippi +has been a lucky move; so far all has gone well; and if the future but +respond to its promise, his star, long waning, will be once more in the +ascendant. There is but one thought to darken this bright dream: the +condition of his eldest daughter. Where all others are rejoicing, there +is no gladness for her. Sombre melancholy seems to have taken +possession of her spirit, its shadow almost continuously seated on her +brow. Her eyes tell of mental anguish, which, affecting her heart, is +also making inroad on her health. Already the roses have gone out of +her cheeks, leaving only lilies; the pale flowers foretelling an early +tomb. + +The distressing symptoms do not escape the fond father's observation. +Indeed he knows all about them, now knowing their cause. Only through +the Natchez newspapers was he first made aware of that secret +correspondence between his daughter and Clancy. But since she has +confessed all--how her heart went with her words; is still true to what +she then said. The last an avowal not needed: her pallid cheeks +proclaiming it. The frank confession, instead of enraging her father, +but gives him regret, and along with it self-reproach. But for his +aristocratic pride, with some admixture of cupidity, he would have +permitted Clancy's addresses to his daughter. With an open honourable +courtship, the end might have been different--perhaps less disastrous. +It could not have been more. + +He can now only hope, that time, the great soother of suffering hearts, +may bring balm to hers. New scenes in Texas, with thoughts arising +therefrom, may throw oblivion over the past. And perchance a new lover +may cause the lost one to be less painfully remembered. Several +aspirants have already presented themselves; more than one of the +younger members of the colony having accompanied it, with no view of +making fortunes by the cultivation of cotton, but solely to be beside +Helen Armstrong. + +Her suitors one and all will be disappointed. She to whom they sue is +not an ordinary woman; nor her affections of the fickle kind. Like the +eagle's mate, deprived of her proud lord, she will live all her after +life in lone solitude--or die. She has lost her lover, or thinks so, +believing Clancy dead; but the love still burns within her bosom, and +will, so long as her life may last. Colonel Armstrong soon begins to +see this, and despairs of the roses ever again returning to the cheeks +of his elder daughter. + +It would, no doubt, be different were the blighted heart that of his +younger. With her the Spanish proverb, "_un clavo saca otro clavo_," +might have meaning. By good fortune, Jessie needs no nail to drive out +another. Her natural exuberance of spirits grown to greater joy from +the hopes that now halo her young life, is flung over the future of all. +Some compensation for her sister's sadness--something to cheer their +common father. There is also the excitement attendant on the industries +of the hour--the cares of the cotton-planting, with speculations about +the success of the crop--these, with a hundred like thoughts and things, +hinder him from so frequently recurring to, or so long dwelling on, that +which can but cruelly distress. + +It is the night succeeding that in which the mestizo made his private +pyrotechnic display; and Colonel Armstrong with his future son-in-law is +seated in the former refectory of the mission, which they have converted +into a decent dining-room. + +They are not alone, or, as in French phraseology better expressed, _chez +eux memes_. Six or seven of their fellow-colonists of the better class +share the saloon with them--these being guests whom they have invited to +dinner. + +The meal is over, the hour touching ten, the ladies have retired from +the table, only the gentlemen remain, drinking choice claret, which +Dupre, a sort of Transatlantic Lucullus, has brought with him from his +Louisiana wine bins. + +Armstrong himself, being of Scotch ancestry, has the national preference +for whisky punch; and a tumbler of this beverage--the best in the +world--stands on the table before him. His glass has been filled three +times, and is as often emptied. + +It need not be said, at this moment he is not sad. After three tumblers +of whisky toddy no man can help being hilarious; and so is it with +Colonel Armstrong. Seated at the head of his dining-table, the steaming +punch before him, he converses with his guests, gay as the gayest. For +a time their conversation is on general topics; but at length changes to +one more particular. Something said has directed their attention to a +man, who waited upon them at table, now no longer in the room. + +The individual thus honoured is Dupre's confidential servant Fernand; +who, as already said, is house-steward, butler, _factotum_ of affairs +generally. + +As is usual with such grand dignitaries, he has withdrawn simultaneously +with the removal of the tablecloth, leaving a deputy to look to the +decanting of the wine. Therefore, there is nothing remarkable in his +disappearance; nor would aught be observed about it, but for a remark +made by one of the guests during the course of conversation. A young +surgeon, who has cast in his lot with the new colony, is he who starts +the topic, thus introducing it:-- + +"Friend Dupre, where did you get that fellow Fernand? I don't remember +having seen him on your Louisiana plantation." + +"I picked him up in Natchitoches while we were organising. You know I +lost my old major-domo last fall by the yellow fever. It took him off +while we were down in New Orleans. Fernand, however, is his superior in +every sense; can keep plantation accounts, wait at table, drive a +carriage, or help in a hunt. He's a fellow of wonderful versatility; in +short, a genius. And what is rare in such a combination of talents, he +is devoted to his duties--a very slave to them." + +"What breed may your admirable Crichton be?" asks another of the guests, +adding: "He looks a cross between Spaniard and Indian." + +"Just what he is," answers the young planter; "at least says so. By his +own account his father was a Spaniard, or rather a Mexican, and his +mother an Indian of the Seminole tribe. His real name is Fernandez; but +for convenience I've dropped the final syllable." + +"It's a bad sort of mixture, that between Spaniard and Seminole, and not +improved by the Spaniard being a Mexican," remarks he who made the +inquiry. + +"I don't like his looks," observes a third speaker. + +Then all around the table wait to hear what Wharton, the young surgeon, +has to say. For it is evident, from his way of introducing the subject, +he either knows or suspects something prejudicial to the character of +the major-domo. Instead of going on to explain, he puts a second +interrogatory-- + +"May I ask, M. Dupre, whether you had any character with him?" + +"No, indeed," admits the master. "He came to me just before we left +Natchitoches asking for an engagement. He professed to know all about +Texas, and offered to act as a guide. As I had engaged guides, I didn't +want him for that when he said any other place would do. Seeing him to +be a smart sort of fellow, which he certainly has proved, I engaged him +to look after my baggage. Since, I've found him useful in other ways, +and have given him full charge of everything--even to entrusting him +with the care of my modest money chest." + +"In doing that," rejoins the surgeon, "I should say you've acted +somewhat imprudently. Excuse me, M. Dupre, for making the observation." + +"Oh, certainly," is the planter's frank reply. "But why do you say so, +Mr Wharton? Have you any reason to suspect his honesty?" + +"I have; more than one." + +"Indeed! Let us hear them all." + +"Well; in the first place I don't like the look of the man, nor ever did +since the day of our starting. Since I never set eyes on him before, I +could have had no impression to prejudice me against him. I admit that, +judging by physiognomy, any one may be mistaken; and I shouldn't have +allowed myself to be led by that. In this case, however, a circumstance +has contributed to shaping my judgment; in fact, deciding me in the +opinion, that your fellow Fernand is not only dishonest, but something +worse than a thief." + +"Worse than a thief!" is the simultaneous echo from all sides of the +table, succeeded by a universal demand for explanation. + +"Your words have a weighty sound, doctor," is Colonel Armstrong's way of +putting it. "We are anxious to hear what they mean." + +"Well," responds Wharton, "you shall know why I've spoken them, and +what's led me to suspect this fellow Fernand. You can draw your own +conclusions, from the premises I put before you. Last night at a late +hour--near midnight--I took a fancy into my head to have a stroll +towards the river. Lighting a weed, I started out. I can't say exactly +how far I may have gone; but I know that the cigar--a long `Henry +Clay'--was burnt to the end before I thought of turning back. As I was +about doing so, I heard a sound, easily made out to be the footsteps of +a man, treading the firm prairie turf. As it chanced just then, I was +under a pecan-tree that screened me with its shadow; and I kept my +ground without making any noise. + +"Shortly after, I saw the man whose footfall I had heard, and recognised +him as M. Dupre's head-servant. He was coming up the valley, toward the +house here, as if returning from some excursion. I mightn't have +thought much of that, but for noticing, as he passed me, that he didn't +walk erect or on the path, but crouchingly, among the trees skirting it. + +"Throwing away the stump of my cigar, I set out after him, treading +stealthily as he. Instead of entering by the front, he went round the +garden, all the way to its rear; where suddenly I lost sight of him. On +arriving at the spot where he had disappeared, I saw there was a break +in the wall. Through that, of course, he must have passed, and entered +the mission-building at the back. Now, what are we to make of all +this?" + +"What do you make of it, doctor?" asks Dupre. + +"Give us your own deductions!" + +"To say the truth, I don't know what deductions to draw, I confess +myself at fault; and cannot account for the fellow's movements; though I +take you'll all acknowledge they were odd. As I've said, M. Dupre, I +didn't from the first like your man of versatile talents; and I'm now +more than ever distrustful of him. Still I profess myself unable to +guess what he was after last night. Can any of you, gentlemen?" + +No one can. The singular behaviour of Dupre's servant is a puzzle to +all present. At the same time, under the circumstances, it has a +serious aspect. + +Were there any neighbouring settlement, the man might be supposed +returning from a visit to it; entering stealthily, from being out late, +and under fear of rebuke from his master. As there are no such +neighbours, this theory cannot be entertained. + +On the other hand, there has been no report of Indians having been seen +in proximity to the place. If there had, the mestizo's conduct might be +accounted for, upon an hypothesis that would certainly cause +apprehension to those discussing it. + +But no savages have been seen, or heard of; and it is known that the +Southern Comanches--the only Indians likely to be there encountered--are +in treaty of peace with the Texan Government. Therefore, the nocturnal +excursion of the half-blood could not be connected with anything of this +kind. + +His singular, and seemingly eccentric, behaviour, remains an unsolved +problem to the guests around the table; and the subject is eventually +dropped their conversation changing to other and pleasanter themes. + + + +CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. + +OPPOSITE EMBLEMS. + +Pleasure has not been the sole purpose for which Colonel Armstrong is +giving his little dinner party, else there would have been ladies +invited along with the gentlemen. It is rather a re-union to talk over +the affairs of the colony; hence the only ladies present were the +daughters of the host. And, for the same reason, these have retired +from the table at an early hour, betaking themselves to the _sala_ of +the old monastery, their sitting and drawing-room. This, though an +ample apartment, is anything but a pleasant one; never much affected by +the monks, who in their post-prandial hours, preferred sticking to the +refectory. A hasty attempt has been made to modernise it; but the light +furniture of French Creole fabric, brought along from Louisiana, ill +accords with its heavy style of architecture, while its decayed walls +and ceilings _lezardee_, give it a gloomy dismal look, all the more from +the large room being but dimly lit up. As it is not a drawing-room +party, the ladies expect that for a long while, if not all evening, they +will be left alone in it. For a time they scarce know how to employ +themselves. With Helen, amusement is out of the question. She has +flung herself into a _fauteuil_, and sits in pensive attitude; of late, +alas! become habitual to her. + +Jessie, taking up her guitar, commences a song, the first that occurs to +her, which chances to be "Lucy Neal," a negro melody, at the time much +in vogue on the plantations of the South. She has chosen the pathetic +strain without thought of the effect it may produce upon her sister. +Observing it to be painful she abruptly breaks off, and with a sweep of +her fingers across the guitar strings, changes to the merrier refrain of +"Old Dan Tucker." Helen, touched by the delicate consideration, rewards +it with a faint smile. Then, Jessie rattles on through a _melange_ of +negro ministrelsy, all of the light comical kind, her only thought being +to chase away her sister's despondency. + +Still is she unsuccessful. Her merry voice, her laughter, and the +cheerful tinkle of the guitar strings, are all exerted in vain. The +sounds so little in consonance with Helen's thoughts seem sorely out of +place in that gloomy apartment; whose walls, though they once echoed the +laughter of roystering friars, have, no doubt, also heard the sighs of +many a poor _peon_ suffering chastisement for disobedience, or apostacy. + +At length perceiving how idle are her efforts, the younger sister lays +aside her guitar, at the same time starting to her feet, and +saying:--"Come, Helen! suppose we go outside for a stroll? That will be +more agreeable than moping in this gloomsome cavern. There's a +beautiful moonlight, and we ought to enjoy it." + +"If you wish, I have no objections. Where do you intend strolling to?" + +"Say the garden. We can take a turn along its walks, though they are a +little weedy. A queer weird place it is--looks as if it might be +haunted. I shouldn't wonder if we met a ghost in it--some of the old +monks; or it might be one of their victims. 'Tis said they were very +cruel, and killed people--ay, tortured them. Only think of the savage +monsters! True, the ones that were here, as I've heard, got killed +themselves in the end--that's some satisfaction. But it's all the more +reason for their ghosts being about. If we should meet one, what would +you do?" + +"That would depend on how he behaved himself." + +"You're not afraid of ghosts, Helen! I know you're not." + +"I was when a child. Now I fear neither the living nor the dead. I can +dare both, having nought to make me care for life--" + +"Come on!" cries Jessie, interrupting the melancholy train of +reflection, "Let us to the garden. If we meet a monk in hood and cowl, +I shall certainly--" + +"Do what?" + +"Run back into the house fast as feet can carry me. Come along!" + +Keeping up the jocular bravado, the younger sister leads the way out. +Arm-in-arm the two cross the _patio_, then the outer courtyard, and on +through a narrow passage communicating with the walled enclosure at +back; once a grand garden under careful cultivation, still grand in its +neglect. + +After entering it, the sisters make stop, and for a while stand +surveying the scene. The moon at full, coursing through a cloudless +sky, flings her soft light upon gorgeous flowers with corollas but +half-closed, in the sultry southern night giving out their fragrance as +by day. The senses of sight and smell are not the only ones gratified; +that of hearing is also charmed with the song of the _czentzontle_, the +Mexican nightingale. One of these birds perched upon a branch, and +pouring forth its love-lay in loud passionate strain, breaks off at +sight of them. Only for a short interval is it silent; then resuming +its lay, as if convinced it has nought to fear from such fair intruders. +Its song is not strange to their ears, though there are some notes they +have not hitherto heard. It is their own mocking-bird of the States, +introducing into its mimic minstrelsy certain variations, the imitations +of sounds peculiar to Texas. + +After having listened to it for a short while, the girls move on down +the centre walk, now under the shadow of trees, anon emerging into the +moonlight; which shimmering on their white evening robes, and reflecting +the sparkle of their jewellery, produces a pretty effect. + +The garden ground slopes gently backward; and about half-way between the +house and the bottom wall is, or has been, a fountain. The basin is +still there, and with water in it, trickling over its edge. But the jet +no longer plays, and the mason-work shows greatly dilapidated. So also +the seats and statues around, some of the latter yet standing, others +broken off, and lying alongside their pedestals. + +Arriving at this spot, the sisters again stop, and for a time stand +contemplating the ruins; the younger making a remark, suggested by a +thought of their grandeur gone. + +"Fountains, statues, seats under shade trees, every luxury to be got out +of a garden! What Sybarites the Holy Fathers must have been!" + +"Truly so," assents Helen. "They seem to have made themselves quite +comfortable; and whatever their morals, it must be admitted they +displayed good taste in landscape gardening, with an eye on good living +as well. They must have been very fond of fruit, and a variety of it-- +judging by the many sorts of trees they've planted." + +"So much the better for us," gleefully replies Jessie. "We shall have +the benefit of their industry, when the fruit season comes round. Won't +it be a grand thing when we get the walks gravelled, these statues +restored, and that fountain once more in full play. Luis has promised +me it shall be done, soon as the cotton crop is in. Oh! it will be a +Paradise of a place!" + +"I like it better as it is." + +"You do. Why?" + +"Ah! that _you_ cannot understand. You do not know--I hope never will-- +what it is to live only in the past. This place has had a past, like +myself, once smiling; and now like me all desolation." + +"O sister! do not speak so. It pains me--indeed it does. Besides your +words only go half-way. As you say, it's had a smiling past, and's +going to have a smiling future. And so will you sis. I'm determined to +have it all laid out anew, in as good style as it ever was--better. +Luis shall do it--must, _when he marries, me_--if not before." + +To the pretty bit of bantering Helen's only answer is a sigh, with a +sadder expression, as from some fresh pang shooting through her heart. +It is even this; for, once again, she cannot help contrasting her own +poor position with the proud one attained by her sister. She knows that +Dupre is in reality master of all around, as Jessie will be mistress, +she herself little better than their dependant. No wonder the thought +should cause her humiliation, or that, with a spirit imperious as her's, +she should feel it acutely. Still, in her crushed heart there is no +envy at her sister's good fortune. Could Charles Clancy come to life +again, now she knows him true--were he but there to share with her the +humblest hut in Texas, all the splendours, all the grandeurs of earth, +could not add to that happiness, nor give one emotion more. + +After her enthusiastic outburst, to which there has been no rejoinder, +Jessie continues on toward the bottom of the garden, giving way to +pleasant fancies, dreams of future designs, with her fan playfully +striking at the flowers as she passes them. + +In silence Helen follows; and no word is exchanged between them till +they reach the lower end; when Jessie, turning round, the two are face +to face. The place, where they have stopped is another opening with +seats and statues, admitting the moonlight. By its bright beam the +younger sister sees anguish depicted on the countenance of the older. + +With a thought that her last words have caused or contributed to this, +she is about to add others that may remove it. But before she can +speak, Helen makes a gesture that holds her silent. + +Near the spot where they are standing two trees overshadow the walk, +their boughs meeting across it. Both are emblematic--one symbolising +the most joyous hour of existence, the other its saddest. They are an +orange, and a cypress. The former is in bloom, as it always is; the +latter only in leaf, without a blossom on its branches. + +Helen, stepping between them, and extending an arm to each, plucks from +the one a sprig, from the other a flower. Raising the orange blossom +between her white fingers, more attenuated than of yore, she plants it +amid Jessie's golden tresses. At the same time she sets the cypress +sprig behind the plaits of her own raven hair; as she does so, saying:-- + +"That for you, sister--this for me. We are now decked as befits us--as +we shall both soon be--_you for the bridal, I for the tomb_!" + +The words, seeming but too prophetic, pierce Jessie's heart as arrow +with poisoned barb. In an instant, her joy is gone, sunk into the +sorrow of her sister. Herself sinking upon that sister's bosom, with +arms around her neck, and tears falling thick and fast over her +swan-white shoulders. + +Never more than now has her heart overflowed with compassion, for never +as now has Helen appeared to suffer so acutely. As she stood, holding +in one hand the symbol of bright happy life, in the other the dark +emblem of death, she looked the very personification of sorrow. With +her magnificent outline of form, and splendid features, all the more +marked in their melancholy, she might have passed for its divinity. The +ancient sculptors would have given much for such a model, to mould the +statue of Despair. + + + +CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT. + +A BLANK DAY. + +On the frontier every settlement has its professional hunter. Often +several, seldom less than two or three; their _metier_ being to supply +the settlers with meat and game--venison, the standing dish--now and +then bear hams, much relished--and, when the place is upon prairie-land, +the flesh of the antelope and buffalo. The wild turkey, too--grandest +of all game birds--is on the professional hunter's list for the larder; +the lynx and panther he will kill for their pelts; but squirrels, +racoons, rabbits, and other such "varmints," he disdains to meddle with, +leaving them to the amateur sportsman, and the darkey. + +Usually the professional votary of Saint Hubert is of solitary habit, +and prefers stalking alone. There are some, however, of more social +inclining, who hunt in couples; one of the pair being almost universal a +veteran, the other a young man--as in the case of Sime Woodley and Ned +Heywood. By the inequality of age the danger of professional jealousy +is avoided; the younger looking up to his senior, and treating him with +the deference due to greater knowledge and experience. + +Just such a brace of professionals has come out with the Armstrong +colony--their names, Alec Hawkins and Cris Tucker--the former an old +bear-hunter, who has slain his hundreds; the latter, though an excellent +marksman, in the art of _venerie_ but a tyro compared with his partner. + +Since their arrival on the San Saba, they have kept the settlement +plentifully supplied in meat; chiefly venison of the black-tailed deer, +with which the bottom-land abounds. Turkeys, too, in any quantity; +these noble birds thriving in the congenial climate of Texas, with its +nuts and berry-bearing trees. + +But there is a yet nobler game, to the hunting of which Hawkins and his +younger associate aspire; both being eager to add it to the list of +their trophies. It is that which has tempted many an English Nimrod to +take three thousand miles of sea voyage across the Atlantic, and by land +nearly as many more--the buffalo. Hawkins and Tucker, though having +quartered the river bottom, for ten miles above and below the +mission-building, have as yet come across none of these grand +quadrupeds, nor seen "sign" of them. + +This day, when Armstrong has his dinner party, the hunters bethink +themselves of ascending to the upper plain, in the hope of there finding +the game so much desired. + +The place promising best is on the opposite side of the valley, to reach +which the river must be crossed. + +There are two fords at nearly equal distances from the old +mission-house, one about ten miles above, the other as many below. By +the latter the waggons came over, and it is the one chosen by the +hunters. + +Crossing it, they continue on to the bluffs rising beyond, and ascend +these through a lateral ravine, the channel of a watercourse--which +affords a practicable pass to the plain. On reaching its summit they +behold a steppe to all appearance; illimitable, almost as sterile as +Saara itself. Treeless save a skirting of dwarf cedars along the +cliff's edge, with here and there a _motte_ of black-jack oaks, a +cluster of cactus plants, or a solitary yucca of the arborescent +species--the _palmilla_ of the Mexicans. + +Withal, not an unlikely place to encounter the cattle with; hunched +backs, and shaggy shoulders. None are in sight; but hoping they soon +will be the hunters launch out upon the plain. + +Till near night they scout around, but without seeing any buffalo. + +The descending sun warns them it is time to return home; and, facing for +the bluff, they ride back towards it. Some three or four hundred yards +from the summit of the pass is a _motte_ of black-jacks, the trees +standing close, in full leaf, and looking shady. As it is more than +fifteen miles to the mission, and they have not eaten since morning, +they resolve to make halt, and have a sneck. The black-jack grove is +right in their way, its shade invites them, for the sun is still sultry. +Soon they are in it, their horses tied to trees, and their haversacks +summoned to disgorge. Some corn-bread and bacon is all these contain; +but, no better refection needs a prairie hunter, nor cares for, so long +he has a little distilled corn-juice to wash it down, with a pipe of +tobacco to follow. They have eaten, drunk, and are making ready to +smoke, when an object upon the plain attracts their attention. Only a +cloud of dust, and far off--on the edge of the horizon. For all that a +sign significant. It may be a "gang" of buffaloes, the thing they have +been all day vainly searching for. + +Thrusting the pipes back into their pouches, they grasp their guns, with +eyes eagerly scanning the dust-cloud. At first dim, it gradually +becomes darker. For a whiff of wind has blown the "stoor" aside, +disclosing not a drove of buffaloes, but instead a troop of horses, at +the same time showing them to have riders on their backs, as the hunters +can perceive Indians. + +Also that the troop is coming towards them, and advancing at such rapid +pace, that in less than twenty minutes after being descried, it is close +to the clump of black-jacks. Fortunately for Alec Hawkins and Oris +Tucker, the Indian horsemen have no intention to halt there, or rest +themselves under the shadow of the copse. To all appearance they are +riding in hot haste, and with a purpose which carries them straight +towards the pass. They do not even stop on arrival at its--summit; but +dash down the ravine, disappearing suddenly as though they had dropped +into a trap! + +It is some time before the two hunters have recovered from their +surprise, and can compare notes about what they have seen, with +conjectures as to its bearing. They have witnessed a spectacle +sufficiently alarming,--a band of fierce-looking savages, armed with +spear and tomahawk--some carrying guns--all plumed and painted, all +alike terrible in aspect. + +Quick the apparition has passed before their eyes, as suddenly +disappearing. The haste in which the Indians rode down the ravine tells +of their being bent on some fore-arranged purpose that calls for early +execution. It may be murder, or only plunder; and the men may be +Comanches--as in every likelihood they are. + +"They're a ugly-looking lot," says Hawkins, after seeing them file past. +"If there were a hundred, instead o' twenty, I'd predict some danger to +our new settlement. They appear to be going that way--at all events +they are bound for the river bottom, and the lower crossing. We must +follow them, Oris, an' see if we can make out what's their game. The +red devils mayn't mean downright robbery, but like enough they intend +stealin'. Hitch up, and let's after em'." + +In a trice the two hunters are in their saddles; and proceeding to the +summit of the pass, look down at the valley below. Not carelessly, but +cautiously. Hawkins is an old campaigner, has fought Indians before, +and knows how to deal with them. + +Keeping himself and horse under cover of the cedars, after instructing +his comrade to do the same, he reconnoitres the bottom-land, before +attempting to descend to it. + +As expected, he sees the Indians making for the ford. At the point +between the San Saba, and either of its bluffs is a breadth of some four +miles, part open meadow land, the other part, contiguous to the river +overgrown with heavy timber. Into this the red horsemen are riding, as +the two hunters reach the summit of the pass, the latter arriving just +in time to see their last files disappear among the trees. It is their +cue to descend also, which they do, without further delay. + +Hastening down the ravine and on to the river ford, they discover that +the Indians have crossed it. The tracks of their horses are on both +banks. Beyond, the hunters cannot tell which way they have taken. For +though still only twilight it is dark as night under the thick standing +trees; and he keenest eye could not discover a trail. + +Thus thrown off, they have no choice but continue on to the settlement. + +Beaching this at a rather late hour, they do not enter the +mission-building nor yet any of the huts of the _rancheria_. Their own +residence is a tent, standing in the grove between; and to it they +betake themselves. Once under canvass their first thought is supper, +and they set about cooking it. Though they have brought back no buffalo +meat a twenty pound turkey "gobbler" has been all day dangling at the +horn of Hawkins' saddle--enough for a plentiful repast. + +Oris, who acts as cook, sets to plucking the bird, while Hawkins +commences kindling a fire outside the tent. But before the fagots are +ablaze, the old hunter, all along abstracted, becomes fidgetty, as if +troubled with the reflection of having neglected some duty he ought to +have done. + +Abruptly breaking off, and pitching aside the sticks, he says:--"This +wont do, Cris, nohow. I've got a notion in my head there's something +not right about them Indyens. I must up to the house an' tell the +Colonel. You go on, and get the gobbler roasted. I'll be back by the +time its ready." + +"All right," rejoins Tucker, continuing to make the feathers fly. +"Don't stay if you expect any share of this bird. I'm hungry enough to +eat the whole of it myself." + +"You needn't fear for my stayin'. I'm just as sharp set as yourself." + +So saying, Hawkins strides out of the tent, leaving his comrade to +continue the preparations for their repast. + +From the hunter's tent, the house is approached by a narrow path, nearly +all the way running through timber. While gliding silently along it, +Hawkins comes suddenly to a stop. + +"Seems to me I heard a cry," he mutters to himself; "seems, too, as +'twar a woman's voice." + +After listening awhile, without hearing it repeated, he adds: + +"I reckon, 'twar only the skirl o' them tree-crickets. The warm night +makes 'em chirp their loudest." + +Listening a little longer, he becomes convinced it was but the crickets +he heard, and keeps on to the house. + + + +CHAPTER FORTY NINE. + +WAITING THE WORD. + +To all appearance Fernand's fireworks are about to bear fruit, this +likely to be bitter. As the sky, darker after the lightning's flash, a +cloud is collecting over the new settlement, which threatens to sweep +down upon it in a rain storm of ruin. What but they could have caused +this cloud; or, at all events, given a cue for the time of its bursting. + +It appears in the shape of a cohort of dusky horsemen, painted and +plumed. No need to say, they are the same that were seen by Hawkins and +Tucker. + +Having crossed the river at its lower ford, where so far the hunters saw +their tracks, there losing them, the savages continued on. Not by the +main road leading to the mission, but along a path which deflects from +it soon after leaving the river's bank. A narrower trace, indeed the +continuation of that they had been following all along--the transverse +route across the bottom-land from bluff to bluff, on both sides +ascending to the steppe. + +But though they came down on one side, they went not up on the other. +Instead, having reached the nether bluff, they turned sharp along its +base, by another and still narrower trace, which they knew would take +them up to the mission-building. A route tortuous, the path beset with +many obstacles; hence their having spent several hours in passing from +the ford to the mission-house, though the distance between is barely ten +miles. + +No doubt they have good reason for submitting to the irksome delay +caused by the difficult track, as also for the cautious manner in which +they have been coming along it. Otherwise, they would certainly have +chosen the direct road running nearer the river's bank. + +While Colonel Armstrong, and his friends, are enjoying themselves in the +refectory of the ancient mission-house, in the midst of their laughing +hilarity, the painted cavaliers have been making approach, and are now +halted, within less than half-a-mile from its walls. In such fashion as +shows, they do not intend a long stay in their stopping place. Not a +saddle is removed, or girth untightened; while the bridles, remaining on +their horses' heads, are but used as halters to attach them to the +trees. + +The men have dismounted, but not to form camp, or make bivouac. They +kindle no fires, nor seem caring to cook, or eat. They drink, however; +several of them taking flasks from their saddle pouches, and holding +them to their heads bottom upward. Nothing strange in this. The Texan +Indian, whether Comanche, Kiowa, or Lipan, likes his fire-water as much +as a white man, and as constantly carries it along with him. The only +peculiarity about these is that, while quaffing, they do not talk in the +Indian tongue, but English of the Texan idiom, with all its wild +swearing! + +The place where they have halted is a bit of glade-ground, nearly +circular in shape, only half-encompassed by timber, the other half being +an embayment of the bluffs, twin to those on the opposite side of the +river bottom. It is shaded three-quarters across by the cliff, the moon +being behind this. The other quarter, on the side of the trees, is +brilliantly lit up by her beams, showing the timber thick and close +along its edge, to all appearance impassable as the _facade_ of rugged +rock frowning from the opposite concave of the enclosed circle. +Communicating with this are but two paths possible for man or horse, and +for either only in single file. One enters the glade coming up the +river bottom along the base of the bluff; the other debouches at the +opposite end, still following the cliff's foot. By the former the +Indians have entered; but by the latter it is evident they intend going +out, as their eyes are from time to time turned towards it, and their +gestures directed that way. Still they make no movement for resuming +their march, but stand in gathered groups, one central and larger than +the rest. In its midst is a man by nearly the head taller than those +around him: their chief to a certainty. His authority seems +acknowledged by all who address him, if not with deference, in tone and +speech telling they but wait for his commands, and are willing to obey +them. He, himself, appears waiting for something, or somebody else, +before he can issue them, his glance continually turning towards the +point where the path leads out upwards. + +Impatiently, too, as ever and anon he pulls out a watch and consults it +as, to the time. Odd to see a savage so engaged; above all possessed of +a repeater! Still the Indians of to-day are different from those of +days past, and have learnt many of the white man's ways--even to wearing +watches. The man in question seems to know all about it; and has his +reasons for being particular as to the hour. He is evidently acting +upon a preconcerted plan, with the time fixed and fore-arranged. And +evident also that ten is the hour awaited; for, while in the act of +examining his dial, the old mission clock, restored to striking, tolls +just so many times; and, before the boom of its cracked bell has ceased +rolling in broken reverberation through the trees, he thrusts the watch +hurriedly into his fob. Then stands in expectant attitude, with eyes +upon the embouchure of the upper path, scanning it more eagerly than +ever. There is a strange coincidence between the strokes of the clock +and the flashes of Fernanda powder--both numbering the same. Though not +strange to the leader of the savage troop. He knows what it is-- +comprehends the significance of the signal--for signal it has been. A +dread one, too, foreboding danger to innocent people. One who could +behold this savage band, scrutinise the faces of those composing it, +witness the fierce wicked flashes from their eyes, just as the clock is +striking, would send up a prayer for the safety of Colonel Armstrong and +his colonists. + +If further informed as to who the savages are, the prayer would sure be +succeeded by the reflection--"Heaven help his daughters! If God guard +not, a fearful fate will be theirs--a destiny worse than death!" + + + +CHAPTER FIFTY. + +AN UNCANNY SKULKER. + +Still within the garden are the young girls--still standing under the +shadow of the two trees that furnished the contrasting symbols,-- +unconscious of danger near. Helen's speech, suggesting such painful +sequence, has touched her sister to the quick, soon as spoken, +afflicting also herself; and for a time they remain with entwined arms +and cheeks touching--their tears flowing together. But Jessie's sobs +are the louder, her grief greater than that she has been endeavouring to +assuage. + +Helen perceiving it, rises to the occasion; and, as oft before, in turn +becomes the comforter; their happiness and misery like scales vibrating +on the beam. + +"Don't cry so, Jess. Be a good girl, now. You're a little simpleton, +and I a big one. 'Twas very wrong of me to say what I did. Be it +forgotten, and let's hope we may yet both be happy." + +"Oh, if I could but think that!" + +"Think it, then. You _are_ happy, and I--shall try to be. Who knows +what time may do--that and Texas? Now, my little Niobe, dry up your +tears. Mine are all gone, and I feel in first rate spirits. I do +indeed." + +She is not sincere in what she says, and but counterfeits cheerfulness +to restore that of her sister. + +She has well-nigh succeeded, when a third personage appears upon the +scene, causing a sudden change in their thoughts, turning these into a +new and very different channel. + +He whose appearance produces such effect--for it is a man--seems wholly +unconscious of the influence he has exerted; indeed, is so. + +When first observed, he is coming down the central walk; which, though +wide, is partially shadowed by trees. And in their shadow he keeps, +clinging to it, as if desirous to shun observation. His step declares +it; not bold this, nor regardless, but skulking, with tread catlike; +while every now and then he casts a backward glance, as if in fear of +some one being behind. Just that which hinders him from seeing those +who are in front. + +The girls are still standing together, with hands joined--luckily on one +of the side-walks, and like himself in shadow--though very near to +having separated, and one, at least, rushing out into the light at first +sound of his footstep. For to Jessie it gave joy, supposing it that of +her Luis. Naturally expecting him to join her, she was almost sure of +its being he. + +Only for an instant. The tread was too light for a man marching with +honest intent, and the step too shuffling to be that of the young +planter. So whispered Helen. + +Soon they see it is not he, but his major-domo. + +Both are annoyed, some little irritated, at being thus intruded upon. +At such a time, in the midst of sacred emotions, all the more by a man +they both instinctively dislike. For Fernand is not a favourite with +either. + +Then the idea occurs, he may be coming to seek them, sent with some +message from the house, and if so, they can excuse him. Concluding his +errand to be this, they await it, in silence. + +They are quite mistaken, and soon perceive it. An honest messenger +would not be moving as he. While passing the open ground by the ruined +waterworks, the moon falls full upon his face, which wears an expression +anything but innocent, as they can both see. Besides, his gestures also +betray guilt; for he is skulking, and casting glances back. + +"What can it mean?" whispers Jessie into Helen's ear; who replies by +placing a finger on her lips, and drawing her sister into deeper shadow. + +Silent both stand, not stirring, scarce breathing. One seeing, might +easily mistake them for statues--a Juno and a Venus. Fortunately +Fernand does not see, else he might scrutinise them more closely. He is +too much absorbed about his own affair, whatever it be, to think of any +one loitering there at that time of the night. + +Where the main garden-walk meets the one going along the bottom, is +another open space, smaller than that around the fountain, still +sufficient to let in the light of the moon. Here also have been seats +and statues; the latter lying shattered, as if hashed to the earth by +the hand of some ruthless iconoclast. Just opposite, is a breach in the +wall; the mud bricks, crumbled into clods forming a _talus_ on each face +of it. + +Arriving at this, the _mestizo_ makes stop. Only for an instant, long +enough to give a last glance up the garden. + +Apparently satisfied, that he is not followed nor observed, he scrambles +up the slope and down on the opposite side, where he is lost to the view +of the sisters; who both stand wondering--the younger sensibly +trembling. + +"What on earth is the fellow after?" asks Helen, whose speech comes +first. + +"What, indeed?" echoes Jessie. + +"A question, sister, you should be better able to answer than I. He is +the trusted servant of M. Dupre; and he, I take it, has told you all +about him." + +"Not a word has he. He knows that I don't like the man, and never did +from the first. I've intimated as much to him more than once." + +"That ought to have got Master Fernand his discharge. Your Luis will +surely not keep him, if he knows it's disagreeable to you?" + +"Well, perhaps he wouldn't if I were to put it in that way. I haven't +done so yet. I only hinted that the man wasn't altogether to my liking; +especially made so much of as Luis makes of him. You must know, dear +Helen, my future lord and master is of a very trusting nature; far too +much, I fear, for some of the people now around him. He has been +brought up like all Creoles, without thought for the morrow. A +sprinkling of Yankee cuteness wouldn't do him any harm. As for this +fellow, he has insinuated himself into Luis's confidence in some way +that appears quite mysterious. It even puzzles our father; though he's +said nothing much about it. So far he appears satisfied, because the +man has proved capable, and, I believe, very useful to them in their +affairs. For my part I've been mystified by him all along, and not less +now. I wonder what he can be after. Can you not give a guess?" + +"Not the slightest; unless it be theft. Do you think it's that?" + +"I declare I don't know." + +"Is there anything he could be carrying off from the house, with the +intention of secreting it outside? Some of your Luis's gold for +instance, or the pretty jewels he has given you?" + +"My jewels! No; they are safe in their case; locked up in my room, of +which I've the key with me. As for Luis's gold, he hasn't much of that. +All the money he possesses--quite fifty thousand dollars, I believe--is +in silver. I wondered at his bringing it out here in that heavy shape, +for it made a whole waggon-load of itself. He's told me the reason, +however; which is, that among Indians and others out here on the +frontier, gold is not thought so much of as silver." + +"It can't be silver Fernand is stealing--if theft it be. He would look +more loaded, and couldn't have gone so lightly over that wall." + +"Indeed, as you say, he went skipping over it like a grasshopper." + +"Rather say gliding like a snake. I never saw a man whose movements +more resembled the Devil in serpent shape--except one." + +The thought of this one, who is Richard Darke, causes Helen Armstrong to +suspend speech; at the same time evoking a sigh to the memory of another +one--Charles Clancy. + +"Shall we return into the house?" asks Jessie, after a pause. + +"For what purpose?" + +"To tell Luis of what we've seen; to warn him about Fernand." + +"If we did the warning would be unheeded. I fear Monsieur Dupre will +remain unconvinced of any intended treachery in his trusted servant, +until something unpleasant occur; it may be something disastrous. After +all, you and I, Jess, have only our suspicions, and may be wronging the +fellow. Suppose we stay a little longer, and see what comes of it. No +doubt, he'll soon return from his mysterious promenade, and by +remaining, we may find out what he's been after. Shall we wait for him? +You're not afraid, are you?" + +"A little, I confess. Do you know, Helen, this Fernand gives me the +same sort of feeling I had at meeting that big fellow in the streets of +Natchitoches. At times he glares at me just in the same way. And yet +the two are so different." + +"Well, since no harm came of your Nachitoches bogie, it's to be hoped +there won't any from this one. If you have any fear to stay, let us go +in. Only my curiosity is greatly excited by what we've seen, and I'd +like to know the end of it. If we don't discover anything, it can do no +harm. And if we do--say; shall we go, or try?" + +"I'm not afraid now. You make me brave, sister. Besides, we may find +out something Luis ought to know." + +"Then let us stay." + +Having resolved to await the coming back of the half-blood, and watch +his further movements, the sisters bethink them of seeking a safer place +for observation; one where there will be less danger of being themselves +seen. + +It is to Helen the idea occurs. + +"On his return," she says, "he might stray along this way, and not go up +the centre walk. Therefore we had better conceal ourselves more +effectually. I wonder he didn't see us while passing out. No doubt he +would have done so, but for looking so anxiously behind, and going at +such a rapid rate. Coming back he may not be so hurried; and should he +sight us, then an end to our chance of finding out what he's up to. +Where's the best place to play spy on him?" + +The two look in different directions, in search of an appropriate spot. + +There can be no difficulty in finding such. The shrubbery, long +unpruned, grows luxuriantly everywhere, screening the _facade_ of the +wall along its whole length. + +Near by is an arbour of evergreens, thickly overgrown with a trellis of +trailing plants. + +They know of this shady retreat; have been in it before that night. +Now, although the moon is shining brightly, its interior, arcaded over +by dense foliage, is in dark shadow--dark as a cavern. Once inside it, +eye cannot see them from without. + +"The very place," whispers Helen; and they commence moving towards it. + +To reach the arbour it is necessary for them to return to the main walk, +and pass the place where the bottom wall is broken down; a ruin +evidently caused by rude intruders, doubtless the same savages who made +the mission desolate. The talus extending to the path, with its fringe +of further scattered clods, requires them to step carefully so as to +avoid stumbling. + +They go hand in hand, mutually supporting one another. + +Their white gossamer dresses, floating lightly around them as they glide +silently along, give them a resemblance to sylphs, or wood-nymphs, all +the more as they emerge into the moonlight. + +To complete the sylvan picture, it seems necessary there should be +satyrs, or wood-demons, as well. + +And such in reality there are, not a great way off. These, or something +closely resembling them. No satyrs could show in more grotesque guise +than the forms at that moment moving up to the wall, on its opposite +side. + +Gliding on, the sisters have arrived before the gap. Some instinct, +perhaps curiosity, tempts them to take a look through it, into the +shadowy forest beyond; and for some time, as under a spell of +fascination, they stand gazing into its dark, mysterious depths. + +They see nought save the sparkle of fire-flies; and hear nothing but the +usual noises of the Southern night, to which they have been from infancy +accustomed. + +But as they are about moving on again, a sound salutes their ear-- +distinguishable as a footstep. Irregular and scrambling, as of one +stepping among the broken bricks. Simultaneously a man is seen making +his way over the wall. + +"Fernand!" + +No use for them now to attempt concealment; no good can come of it. He +has seen them. + +Nor does he any longer seem desirous of shunning observation. On the +contrary, leaping down from the rampart, he comes straight towards them; +in an instant presenting himself face to face, not with the nimble air +of a servant, but the demeanour of one who feels himself master, and +intend to play tyrant. With the moon shining full upon his tawny face, +they can distinguish the play of its features. No look of humility, nor +sign of subservience there. Instead, a bold, bullying expression, eyes +emitting a lurid light, lips set in a satanic smile, between them teeth +gleaming like a tiger's! He does not speak a word. Indeed, he has not +time; for Helen Armstrong anticipates him. The proud girl, indignant at +what she sees, too fearless to be frightened, at once commences chiding +him. + +In words bold and brave, so much that, if alone, the scoundrel might +quail under their castigation. But he is not alone, nor does he allow +her to continue. + +Instead, he cries out, interrupting, his speech not addressed to her, +but some one behind:-- + +"Bring hither the serapes! Quick, or--" + +He himself is not permitted to finish what he intended saying; or, if +so, his last words are unheard; drowned by a confused noise of rushing +and rumbling, while the gap in the garden wall is suddenly closed, as if +by enchantment. It is at first filled by a dark mass, seemingly +compact, but soon separating into distinct forms. + +The sisters, startled, terrified, have but time to give out one wild +cry--a shriek. Before either can utter a second, brawny arms embrace +them; blinds are thrown over their faces; and, half stifled, they feel +themselves lifted from their feet, and borne rudely and rapidly away! + + + +CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. + +LOCKED IN. + +At that same moment, when the red Sabines are carrying off his +daughters, Colonel Armstrong is engaged, with his fellow-colonists, in +discussing a question of great interest to all. The topic is sugar--the +point, whether it will be profitable to cultivate it in their new +colony. That the cane can be grown there all know. Both soil and +climate are suitable. The only question is, will the produce pay, sugar +being a bulky article in proportion to its price, and costly in +transport through a territory without railroads, or steam communication. + +While the discussion is at its height a new guest enters the room; who, +soon as inside, makes a speech, which not only terminates the talk about +sugar, but drives all thought of it out of their minds. + +A speech of only four words, but these of startling significance: +"_There are Indians about_!" 'Tis Hawkins who speaks, having entered +without invitation, confident the nature of his news will hold him clear +of being deemed an intruder. + +And it does. At the word "Indians," all around the table spring up from +their seats, and stand breathlessly expectant of what the hunter has +further to communicate. For, by his serious air, they are certain there +must be something more. + +Colonel Armstrong alone asks, the old soldier showing the presence of +mind that befits an occasion of surprise. + +"Indians about? Why do you say that, Hawkins? What reason have you to +think so?" + +"The best o' reasons, colonel. I've seed them myself, and so's Cris +Tucker along with me." + +"Where?" + +"Well, there's a longish story to tell. If you'll have patience, I'll +make it short as possible." + +"Go on!--tell it!" + +The hunter responds to the demand; and without wasting words in detail, +gives an epitome of his day's doings, in company with Cris Tucker. +After describing the savage troop, as first seen on the upper plain, how +he and his comrade followed them across the river bottom, then over the +ford, and there lost their trail, he concludes his account, saying: + +"Where they went afterward, or air now, 'taint possible for me to tell. +All I can say is, what I've sayed already: _there are Indians about_." + +Of itself enough to cause anxiety in the minds of the assembled +planters; which it does, to a man making them keenly apprehensive of +danger. + +All the more from its being their first alarm of the kind. For, while +travelling through Eastern Texas, where the settlements are thick, and +of old standing, the savages had not evens been thought of. There was +no chance of seeing any there. Only, on drawing nigh to the Colorado, +were Indians likely to be encountered; though it did not necessarily +follow that the encounter should be hostile. On the contrary, it ought +to be friendly; since a treaty of peace had for some time been existing +between the Comanches and Texans. + +For all this, Colonel Armstrong, well acquainted with the character of +the red men, in war as in peace, had not relied altogether on their +pacific promises. He knew that such contracts only bind the savage so +long as convenient to him, to be broken whenever they become irksome. +Moreover, a rumour had reached the emigrants that, although the great +Comanche nation was itself keeping the treaty, there were several +smaller independent tribes accustomed to make "maraud" upon the frontier +settlements, chiefly to steal horses, or whatever chanced in their way. + +For this reason, after entering the territory where such pillagers might +be expected, the old soldier had conducted his expedition as if passing +through an enemy's country. The waggons had been regularly _corralled_, +and night guards kept--both camp sentinels and outlying pickets. + +These rules had been observed up to the hour of arrival at their +destination. Then, as the people got settled down in their respective +domiciles, and nothing was heard of any Indians in that district, the +discipline had been relaxed--in fact, abandoned. The colonists, +numbering over fifty white men--to say nothing of several hundred negro +slaves--deemed themselves strong enough to repel any ordinary assault +from savages. They now considered themselves at home; and, with the +confidence thus inspired, had ceased to speculate, on being molested by +Indian enemies, or any others. + +For this reason the suspicious movements of Dupre's half-breed servant, +as reported by the young surgeon, had failed to make more than a passing +impression on those around the dining-table; many of them treating it as +an eccentricity. + +Now, after hearing Hawkins, they think differently. It presents a +serious aspect, is, in truth, alarmingly suggestive of treason. + +The half-blood inside the house may be in correspondence with +full-blooded Indians outside, for some scheme of thieving or burglary. + +The thought of either is sufficient to excite Colonel Armstrong's +guests, and all are on foot ready to take action. + +"Dupre, call in your half-breed!" says the Colonel, directing it. "Let +us hear what the fellow has to say for himself." + +"Tell Fernand to come hither," commands the Creole, addressing himself +to one of the negro lads waiting at table. "Tell him to come +instantly!" + +The boy hastens off to execute the order; and is several minutes before +making re-appearance. + +During the interval, they continue to discuss the circumstances that +have so suddenly turned up; questioning Hawkins, and receiving from him +minuter details of what he and his comrade have seen. + +The additional matter made known but excites them the more, further +intensifying their apprehensions. + +They're at their keenest, as the darkey re-enters the room with the +announcement that Fernand is not to be found! + +"What do you mean, boy?" thunders Dupre, in a voice that well-nigh takes +away the young negro's wits. "Is he not in the house?" + +"Dat's jess what he aint, Mass Looey. De Spanish Indyin's no whar +inside dis buildin'. We hab sarch all oba de place; call out his name +in de store-rooms, an' de coatyard, an' de cattle closure--ebbery wha we +tink of. We shout loud nuf for him to hyeer, ef he war anywha 'bout. +He haint gib no answer. Sartin shoo he no inside o' dis 'tablishment." + +The young planter shows dismay. So also the others, in greater or less +degree, according to the light in which each views the matter. + +For now on the minds of all is an impression, a presentiment, that there +is danger at the bottom of Fernand's doings--how near they know not. + +At any other time his absence would be a circumstance not worth noting. +He might be supposed on a visit to some of the huts appropriated to the +humbler families of the colonist fraternity. Or engaged outside with a +mulatto "wench," of whom there are several, belonging to Dupre's +extensive slave-gang, far from ill-favoured. + +Fernand is rather a handsome fellow, and given to gaiety; which, under +ordinary circumstances, would account for his absenting himself from the +house, and neglecting his duties as its head-servant. But after what +the young surgeon has seen--above all the report just brought in by +Hawkins--his conduct will not convey this trivial interpretation. All +in the room regard it in a more serious light--think the _mestizo_ is a +traitor. + +Having come to this general conclusion, they turn towards the table, to +take a last drink, before initiating action. + +Just as they get their glasses in hand, the refectory door is once more +opened; this time with a hurried violence that causes them to start, as +though a bombshell had rolled into the room. + +Facing towards it, they see it is only the negro boy, who had gone out +again, re-entering. But now with fear depicted on his face, and wild +terror gleaming from his eyes; the latter awry in their sockets, with +little beside the whites seen! + +Their own alarm is not much less than his, on hearing what he has to +say. His words are,-- + +"Oh, Mass Kurnel! Mass Looey! Gemmen all! De place am full ob Indyin +sabbages! Dar outside in de coatyard, more'n a thousan' ob um; an' +murderin' ebbery body!" + +At the dread tidings, glasses drop from the hands holding them, flung +down in fear, or fury. Then all, as one man, make for the door, still +standing open as in his scare the negro lad left it. + +Before they can reach it, his words are too fully confirmed. Outside +they see painted faces, heads covered with black hanging hair, and +plumes bristling above. Only a glimpse they get of these, indistinct +through the obscurity. But if transitory, not the less terrible--not +less like a tableau in some horrid dream--a glance into hell itself. + +The sight brings them to a stand; though, but for an instant. Then, +they rush on towards the doorway, regardless of what may await them +outside. + +Outside they are not permitted to pass. Before they can reach the door, +it is shut to with a loud clash; while another but slighter sound tells +of a key turning in the wards, shooting a bolt into its keeper. + +"Locked in, by God!" exclaims Hawkins, the rest involuntarily echoing +his wild words; which are succeeded by a cry of rage as from one throat, +though all have voice in it. Then silence, as if they were suddenly +struck dumb. + +For several moments they remain paralysed, gazing in one another's faces +in mute despairing astonishment. No one thinks of asking explanation, +or giving it. As by instinct, all realise the situation--a surprise, an +Indian attack. No longer the future danger they have been deeming +probable, but its dread present reality! + +Short while do they stand irresolute. Hawkins, a man of herculean +strength, dashes himself against the door, in hopes of heaving it from +its hinges. Others add their efforts. + +All idle. The door is of stout timber--oaken--massive as that of a +jail; and, opening inward, can only be forced along with its posts and +lintels.--These are set in the thick wall, embedded, firm as the masonry +itself. + +They rush to the windows, in hope of getting egress there. + +Equally to be disappointed, baffled. The strong, iron bar resist every +effort to break or dislodge them. Though weakened with decaying rust, +they are yet strong enough to sustain the shock of shoulders, and the +tug of arms. + +"Trapped, by the Eternal!" despairingly exclaims the hunter. "Yes, +gentlemen, we're caged to a certainty." + +They need not telling. All are now aware of it--too well. They see +themselves shut in--helplessly, hopelessly imprisoned. + +Impossible to describe their thoughts, or depict their looks, in that +anguished hour. No pen, or pencil, could do justice to either. Outside +are their dear ones; near, but far away from any hope of help, as if +twenty miles lay between. And what is being done to them? No one +asks--none likes to tempt the answer; all guessing what it would be, +dreading to hear it spoken. Never did men suffer emotions more +painfully intense, passions more heartfelt and harrowing; not even the +prisoners of Cawnpore, or the Black Hole of Calcutta. + +They are in darkness now--have been from the moment of the door being +closed. For, expecting to be fired at from the outside, they had +suddenly extinguished the lights. They wonder there has been no +shooting, aware that the Comanches carry fire-arms. But as yet there +has been no report, either of pistol, or gun! + +They hear only voices--which they can distinguish as those of the +house-Servants--male and female--all negroes or mulattoes. There are +shrieks, intermingled with speeches, the last in accent of piteous +appealing; there is moaning and groaning. But where are the shouts of +the assailants? Where the Indian yell--the dread slogan of the savage? +Not a stave of it is heard--nought that resembles a warwhoop of +Comanches! + +And soon is nothing heard. For the shrieks of the domestics have +ceased, their cries coming suddenly, abruptly to an end, as if stifled +by blows bringing death. + +Inside the room is a death-like stillness; outside the same. + + + +CHAPTER FIFTY TWO. + +MASSACRE WITHOUT MERCY. + +Pass to the scene outside, than which none more tragical in the history +of Texan colonisation. + +_No_ need to tell who the Indians are that have shown their faces at the +dining-room door, shutting and locking it. They are those seen by +Hawkins and Tucker--the same Dupre's traitorous servant has conducted +through the gap in the garden wall; whence, after making seizure of the +girls, they continued on to the house, the half-blood at their head. + +Under his guidance they passed through the cattle corral, and into the +inner court. Till entering this they were not observed. Then the negro +lad, sent in search of Fernand, seeing them, rushed back for the +refectory. + +With all his haste, as already known, too late in giving the alarm. +Half-a-dozen of the foremost, following, were at the dining-room door +almost soon as he, while others proceeding to the front entrance, closed +the great gate, to prevent any one escaping that way. + +In the courtyard ensues a scene, horrible to behold. The domestics +frightened, screaming, rushing to and fro, are struck down with +tomahawks, impaled upon spears, or hacked and stabbed with long-bladed +knives. At least a half-score of these unhappy creatures fall in the +fearful slaughter. Indiscriminate as to age or sex: for men, women, and +children are among its victims. + +Their shrieks, and piteous appeals, are alike disregarded. One after +another they are struck, or hewn down, like saplings by the _machete_. +A scene of red carnage, resembling a _saturnalia_ of demons, doing +murder! + +Short as terrible; in less than ten minutes after its commencement it is +all over. The victims have succumbed, their bleeding bodies lie along +the pavement. Only those domestics have escaped, who preserved enough +presence of mind to get inside rooms, and barricade the doors behind +them. + +They are not followed; for despite the red murder already done, the +action ensuing, tells of only robbery intended. + +This evident from the way the savages now go to work. Instead of +attempting to reach those they have imprisoned within the dining-room, +they place two of their number to stand guard by its door; another pair +going on to the gate entrance. These steps taken, the rest, with +Fernand still conducting, hurry along the corridor, towards a room which +opens at one of its angles. It is the chamber Dupre has chosen for his +sleeping apartment, and where he has deposited his treasure. Inside it +his cash, at least fifty thousand dollars, most of it in silver, packed +in stout boxes. + +Fernand carries the key, which he inserts into its lock. The door flies +open, and the half-blood enters, closely followed by those who appear +all Indians. They go in with the eagerness of tigers springing upon +prey, or more like the stealthiness of cats. + +Soon they come out again, each bearing a box, of diminutive size, but +weight sufficient to test his strength. + +Laying these down, they re-enter the room, and return from it similarly +loaded. + +And so they go and come, carrying out the little boxes, until nearly a +score are deposited upon the pavement of the courtyard. + +The abstraction of the specie completed, the sentries set by the +dining-room door, as also those sent to guard the entrance-gate, are +called off; and the band becomes reunited by the treasure, as vultures +around a carcass. + +Some words are exchanged in undertone. Then each, laying hold of a +box--there is one each for nearly all of them--and poising it upon his +shoulders, strides off out of the courtyard. + +Silently, and in single file, they pass across the cattle corral, on +into the garden, down the central walk, and out through the gap by which +they came in. + +Then on to the glade where they have left their horses. + +These they remount, after balancing the boxes upon their saddle-bows, +and there securing them with trail-ropes. + +Soon as in the saddle they move silently, but quickly away; the +half-blood going along with them. + +He, too, has a horse, the best in the troop--taken from the stable of +the master he has so basely betrayed, so pitilessly plundered. + +And that master at the moment nearly mad! Raging frantically around the +room where they are left confined, nearly all the others frantic as he. +For scarce any of them who has not like reason. + +In the darkness groping, confusedly straying over the floor, stunned and +stupified, they reel like drunken men; as they come in contact +tremblingly interrogating one another as to what can have occurred. + +By the silence outside it would seem as if everybody were murdered, +massacred--coloured servants within the house, colonists without--all! + +And what of Colonel Armstrong's own daughters? To their father it is a +period of dread suspense--an agony indescribable. Much longer continued +it would drive him mad. Perhaps he is saved from insanity by anger--by +thoughts of vengeance, and the hope of living to accomplish it. + +While mutually interrogating, one starts the suggestion that the whole +affair may be a _travestie_--a freak of the younger, and more +frolicksome members of the colonist fraternity. Notwithstanding its +improbability, the idea takes, and is entertained, as drowning men catch +at straws. + +Only for an instant. The thing is too serious, affecting personages of +too much importance, to be so trifled with. There are none in the +settlement who would dare attempt such practical joking with its chief-- +the stern old soldier, Armstrong. Besides, the sounds heard outside +were not those of mirth, mocking its opposite. The shouts and shrieks +had the true ring of terror, and the accents of despair. + +No. It could not be anything of a merrymaking, but what they at first +supposed it--a tragedy. + +Their rage returns, and they think only of revenge. As before, but to +feel their impotence. The door, again tried, with all their united +strength, refuses to stir from its hinges. As easily might they move +the walls. The window railings alike resist their efforts; and they at +length leave off, despairingly scattering through the room. + +One alone remains, clinging to the window bars. It is Hawkins. He +stays not with any hope of being able to wrench them off. He has +already tested the strength of his arms, and found it insufficient. It +is that of his lungs he now is determined to exert, and does so, +shouting at the highest pitch of his voice. + +Not that he thinks there is any chance of its being heard at the +_rancheria_, nearly a half-mile off, with a grove of thick timber +intervening. Besides, at that late hour the settlers will be asleep. + +But in the grove between, and nearer, he knows there is a tent; and +inside it a man who will be awake, if not dead--his comrade, Cris +Tucker. + +In the hope Cris may still be in the land of the living, Hawkins leans +against the window bars and, projecting his face outward, as far as the +jawbones will allow, he gives utterance to a series of shouts, +interlarded with exclamations, that in the ears of a sober Puritan would +have sounded terribly profane. + + + +CHAPTER FIFTY THREE. + +A HORRID SPECTACLE. + +On a log outside the tent sits Cris Tucker, with the fire before him, +kindled for cooking the turkey. The bird is upon a spit suspended above +the blaze. A fat young "gobbler," it runs grease at every pore, causing +the fire to flare up. Literally is it being broiled by its own grease, +and is now well-nigh done brown. + +Perceiving this, Tucker runs his eyes inquiringly along the path leading +towards the mission, at the same time setting his ears to listen. What +can be keeping his comrade, who promised so soon to be back? + +"Promises are like pie-crust," says Cris in soliloquy; "Old Hawk aint +keeping his, and I guess aint goin' to. I heard they war to have a big +dine up there the night. So I suppose the colonel's axed him in for a +glass o' his whiskey punch. Hawk's jest the one to take it--a dozen, if +they insist. Well, there's no reason I should wait supper any longer. +I'm 'most famished as it is. Besides, that bird's gettin' burnt." + +Rising up from the log, he takes the turkey off the spit, and carries it +inside the tent. Then dishing, he sets it upon the table; the dish a +large platter of split wood rudely whittled into oblong oval shape, the +table a stump with top horizontally hewn, over which the tent has been +erected. + +Placing a "pone" of corn-bread, and some salt alongside, he sits down; +though not yet to commence eating. As certainly his comrade should now +soon be back, he will give him ten minutes' grace. + +The position is agreeable, at the same time having its drawbacks. The +odour pervading the tent is delicious; still there is the sense of taste +to be satisfied, and that of smell but provokes it. The savoury aroma +of the roast turkey is keenly appetising, and Cris can't hold out much +longer. + +Time passes, and no sign of Hawkins returning. Tucker's position +becomes intolerable; the bird is getting cold, its juices drying up, the +repast will be spoilt. + +Besides, his comrade has not kept faith with him. In all probability he +has eaten supper at the house, and at that moment is enjoying a jorum of +whisky punch, quite forgetful of him. Tucker. Cris can stand it no +longer; and, drawing out his knife, he takes the turkey by the leg, and +cuts a large slice from its breast. + +This eaten, another slice of breast is severed and swallowed. Then a +wing is carved off, and lastly a leg, which he polishes to the +smoothness of a drumstick.-- + +The young hunter, now no longer ravenous, proceeds more leisurely, and +completes his repast by tranquilly chewing up the gizzard, and after it +the liver--the last a tit-bit upon the prairies, as in a Strasburg +_pate_. + +Washing all down with a gourd of whisky and water, he lights his pipe; +and, seated by the mangled remains of the gobbler, commences smoking. + +For a time the inhaled nicotine holds him tranquil; though not without +wondering why his comrade is so long in patting in an appearance. + +When over two hours have elapsed, his wonder becomes changed to anxiety. +Not strange it should, recalling the reason why he has been left alone. + +This increasing to keen apprehension, he can no longer stay within the +tent. He will go up to the house, and find out what is detaining +Hawkins. + +Donning his skin cap, and stepping out into the open air, he starts off +towards the mission-building. + +Less than ten minutes' walking brings him to its walls, by their main +front entrance. + +There he pauses, surprised at the stillness surrounding the place. It +is profound, unnatural. + +For some moments he remains in front of the massive pile, looking at it, +and listening. Still no sound, within or without. + +True, it is time for the inmates to be a-bed. + +But if so, where is Hawkins? He may be drinking, but surely not +sleeping within! + +In any case, Cris deems it his duty to look him up; and with this intent +determines to enter. + +He is not on terms of social equality with those who occupy the mission; +still, under the circumstances, he cannot be considered intruding. + +He sees that the great door is closed, but the wicket is ajar; +presumptive proof of Hawkins being inside. There are no lights in the +front windows, but, as Cris knows, those of the dining-room open +backward. + +Hesitating no longer, he steps under the arched portal, passes on +through the _saguan_, and once more emerges into moonlight within the +_patio_. + +There, suddenly stopping, he stands aghast. For he beholds a sight that +almost causes his hair to crisp up, and raise the cap from his head. + +Down into the hollow quadrangle--enclosed on every side, except that +towards heaven--the moonbeams are falling in full effulgence. By their +light he sees forms lying along the pavement in every possible position. +They are human bodies--men and boys, among them some whose drapery +declares them to be women. They are black, brown, or yellow; but all +spotted and spattered with red--with blood! Fresh, but fast freezing in +the chill night air, it is already darkened, almost to the hue of ink. + +The hunter turns faint, sick, as he contemplates this hecatomb of +corpses. A spectacle far more fearful than any ever witnessed upon +battle-field. There men lie in death from wounds given, as received +under the grand, if delusive, idea of glory. Those Cris Tucker sees +must have been struck down by the hand of the assassin! + +For a time he stands gazing upon them, scarce knowing what to do. + +His first impulse is to turn back, rush out of the courtyard, and away +altogether from the place. + +But a thought--a loyal thought or instinct, stays him. Where is +Hawkins? His body may be among the rest--Cris is almost sure it will be +found there--and affection for his friend prompts him to seek for it. +There may still be breath in it--a spark of departing life, capable of +being called back. + +With this hope, however faint, he commences searching among the corpses. + +The spectacle, that has sickened, makes his step feeble. He staggers as +he passes among the prostrate forms, at times compelled to stride over +them. + +He examines one after another, bending low down to each--lower where +they lie in shadow, and it is more difficult to distinguish their +features. + +Going the round of the courtyard, he completes the scrutiny of all. +Living or dead, Hawkins is not among them. + +Nor is there the body of any white man, or woman. The stricken victims +are of every age, and both sexes. But all, male as female, are negroes +or mulattoes--the slaves of the establishment. Many of them he +recognises; knows them to be the house-servants. + +Where are their masters? Where everybody? What terrible tragedy has +occurred to leave such traces behind? The traces of murder--of +wholesale slaughter! + +Who have been the murderers, and where are they now? Where is Hawkins? + +To the young hunter these self-asked interrogatories occur in quick +succession; along with the last a sound reaching his ears which causes +him to start, and stand listening acutely for its repetition. It seemed +a human voice, as of a man in mortal agony shouting for succour. Faint, +as if far off, away at the back of the building. + +Continuing to listen, Tucker hears it again, this time recognising the +voice of Hawkins. + +He does not stay to conjecture why his comrade should be calling in +accents of appeal. That they are so is enough for him to hasten to his +aid. Clearly the cry comes from outside; and, soon as assured of this, +Tucker turns that way, leaps lightly over the dead bodies, glides on +along the saguan, and through the open wicket. + +Outside he stops, and again listens, waiting for the voice to direct +him, which it does. + +As before he hears it, shouting for help, now sure it is Hawkins who +calls. And sure, also, that the cries come from the eastern side of the +building. + +Towards this Tucker rushes, around the angle of the wall, breaking +through the bushes like a chased bear. + +Nor does he again stop till he is under a window, from which the shouts +appear to proceed. + +Looking up he sees a face, with cheeks pressing distractedly against the +bars; at the same time hearing himself hailed in a familiar voice. + +"Is't you, Cris Tucker? Thank the Almighty it is!" + +"Sartin it's me," Hawkins. "What does it all mean?" + +"Mean? That's more'n I can tell; or any o' us inside here; though +there's big ends o' a dozen. We're shut up, locked in, as ye see. +Who's done it you ought to know, bein' outside. Han't you seen the +Indians?" + +"I've seen no Indians; but their work I take it. There's a ugly sight +round t'other side." + +"What sight, Oris? Never mind--don't stay to talk. Go back, and get +something to break open the door of this room. Quick, comrade, quick!" + +Without stayin' for further exchange of speech, the young hunter hurries +back into the _patio_ as rapidly as he had quitted it; and laying hold +of a heavy beam, brings it like a battering-ram, against the dining-room +door. + +Massive as this is, and strongly hung upon its hinges, it yields to his +strength. + +When at length laid open, and those inside released, they look upon a +spectacle that sends a thrill of horror through their hearts. + +In the courtyard lie ten corpses, all told. True they are but the dead +bodies of slaves--to some beholding them scarce accounted as human +beings. Though pitied, they are passed over without delay; the +thoughts, as the glances, of their masters going beyond, in keen +apprehension for the fate of those nearer and dearer. + +Escaped from their imprisonment, they rush to and fro, like maniacs let +out of a madhouse. Giving to the dead bodies only a passing glance, +then going on in fear of finding others by which they will surely stay; +all the time talking, interrogating, wildly gesticulating, now +questioning Oris Tucker, now one another; in the confusion of voices, +some heard inquiring for their wives, some their sisters or sweethearts, +all with like eagerness; hopefully believing their dear ones still +alive, or despairingly thinking them dead; fearing they may find them +with gashed throats and bleeding breasts, like those lying along the +flagstones at their feet. + +The spectacle before their eyes, appalling though it be, is nought to +that conjured up in their apprehensions. What they see may be but a +forecast, a faint symbol, of what ere long they may be compelled to look +upon. + +And amid the many voices shouting for wife, sister, or sweetheart, none +so loud, or sad, as that of Colonel Armstrong calling for his daughters. + + + +CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. + +RIDING DOUBLE. + +With Colonel Armstrong's voice in tone of heartrending anguish, goes up +that of Dupre calling the names "Helen! Jessie!" + +Neither gets response. They on whom they call cannot hear. They are +too far off; though nearer, it would be all the same; for both are at +the moment hooded like hawks. The serapes thrown over their heads are +still on them, corded around their necks, so closely as to hinder +hearing, almost stifle their breathing. + +Since their seizure nearly an hour has elapsed, and they are scarce yet +recovered from the first shock of surprise, so terrible as to have +stupified them. No wonder! What they saw before being blinded, with +the rough treatment received, were enough to deprive them of their +senses. + +From the chaos of thought, as from a dread dream, both are now gradually +recovering. But, alas! only to reflect on new fears--on the dark future +before them. Captive to such captors--red ruthless savages, whose naked +arms, already around, have held them in brawny embrace--carried away +from home, from all they hold dear, into a captivity seeming hopeless as +horrid--to the western woman especially repulsive, by songs sung over +her cradle, and tales told throughout her years of childhood--tales of +Indian atrocity. + +The memory of these now recurring, with the reality itself, not strange +that for a time their thoughts, as their senses, are almost paralysed. + +Slowly they awake to a consciousness of their situation. They remember +what occurred at the moment of their being made captive; how in the +clear moonlight they stood face to face with Fernand, listened to his +impertinent speeches, saw the savages surrounding them; then, suddenly +blinded and seeing no more, felt themselves seized, lifted from their +feet, carried off, hoisted a little higher, set upon the backs of +horses, and there tied, each to a man already mounted. All these +incidents they remember, as one recalls the fleeting phantasmagoria of a +dream. But that they were real, and not fanciful, they now too surely +know; for the hoods are over their heads, the horses underneath; and the +savages to whom they were strapped still there, their bodies in +repulsive contact with their own! + +That there are only two men, and as many horses, can be told by the +hoof-strokes rebounding from the turf; the same sounds proclaiming it a +forest path through thick timber, at intervals emerging into open +ground, and again entering among trees. + +For over an hour this continues; during all the while not a word being +exchanged between the two horsemen, or if so, not heard by their +captives. + +Possibly they may communicate with one another by signs or whispers; as +for most part the horses have been abreast, going in single file only +where the path is narrow. + +At length a halt; of such continuance, as to make the captives suppose +they have arrived at some place where they are to pass the remainder of +the night. Or it may be but an obstruction; this probable from their +hearing a sound, easily understood--the ripple of running water. They +have arrived upon the bank of a river. + +The San Saba, of course; it cannot be any other. Whether or not, 'tis +the same to them. On the banks of the San Saba they are now no safer, +than if it were the remotest stream in all the territory of Texas. + +Whatever be the river whose waters they can hear coursing past, their +guards, now halted upon its bank, have drawn their horses' heads +together, and carry on a conversation. It seems in a strange tongue; +but of this the captives cannot be sure, for it is in low tone--almost a +whisper--the words indistinguishable amid the rush of the river's +current. If heard, it is not likely they would understand. The two men +are Indians, and will talk in the Indian tongue. For this same reason +they need have no fear of freely conversing with one another, since the +savages will be equally unable to comprehend what they say. + +To Helen this thought first presents itself; soon as it does, leading +her to call, though timidly and in subdued tone, "Jess!" + +She is answered in the same way, Jessie saying, "Helen, I hear you." + +"I only wanted to say a word to cheer you. Have courage. Keep up your +heart. It looks dark now; but something may may arise up to save us." + + + +CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE. + +TIRED TRAVELLERS. + +The lower crossing of the San Saba, so frequently referred to, calls for +topographical description. + +At this point the stream, several hundred yards wide, courses in smooth, +tranquil current, between banks wooded to the water's edge. The trees +are chiefly cottonwoods, with oak, elm, tulip, wild China, and pecan +interspersed; also the _magnolia grandiflora_; in short, such a forest +as may be seen in many parts of the Southern States. On both sides of +the river, and for some distance up and down, this timbered tract is +close and continuous, extending nearly a mile back from the banks; where +its selvedge of thinner growth becomes broken into glades, some of them +resembling flower gardens, others dense thickets of the _arundo +gigantea_, in the language of the country, "cane-brakes." Beyond this, +the bottom-land is open meadow, a sea of green waving grass--the +_gramma_ of the Mexicans--which, without tree or bush, sweeps in to the +base of the bluffs. On each side of the crossing the river is +approached by a path, or rather an avenue-like opening in the timber, +which shows signs of having been felled; doubtless, done by the former +proprietors of the mission, or more like, the soldiers who served its +garrison; a road made for military purposes, running between the +_presidio_ itself and the town of San Antonio de Bejar. Though again +partially overgrown, it is sufficiently clear to permit the passage of +wheeled vehicles, having been kept open by roving wild horses, with +occasionally some that are tamed and ridden--by Indians on raid. + +On its northern side the river is approached by two distinct trails, +which unite before entering the wooded tract--their point of union being +just at its edge. One is the main road coming from the Colorado; the +other only an Indian trace, leading direct to the bluffs and the high +land above them. It was by the former that Colonel Armstrong's train +came up the valley, while the latter was the route taken by Hawkins and +Tucker in their bootless excursion after buffalo. + +On the same evening, when the hunters, returning from their unsuccessful +search, repassed the ford, only at a later hour, a party of horsemen is +seen approaching it--not by the transverse trace, but the main up-river +road. In all there are five of them; four upon horseback, the fifth +riding a mule. It is the same party we have seen crossing the Sabine-- +Clancy and his comrades--the dog still attached to it, the ex-jailer +added. They are travelling in haste--have been ever since entering the +territory of Texas. Evidence of this in their steeds showing jaded, +themselves fatigued. Further proof of it in the fact of their being now +close to the San Saba ford, within less than a week after Armstrong's +party passing over, while more than two behind it at starting from the +Sabine. + +There has been nothing to delay them along the route--no difficulty in +finding it. The wheels of the loaded waggons, denting deep in the turf, +have left a trail, which Woodley for one could take up on the darkest +hour of the darkest night that ever shadowed a Texan prairie. It is +night now, about two hours after sundown, as coming up the river road +they enter the timber, and approach the crossing place. When within +about fifty yards of the ford at a spot where the path widens, they pull +up, Woodley and Clancy riding a little apart from the others, as if to +hold consultation whether they shall proceed across the stream, or stay +where they are for the night. + +Clancy wishes to go forward, but Woodley objects, urging fatigue, and +saying:-- + +"It can't make much diff'rence now, whether we git up thar the night, or +take it leezyurly in the cool o' the mornin'. Since you say ye don't +intend showin' yourself 'bout the mission buildin', it'll be all the +better makin' halt hyar. We kin steal nearer; an' seelect a campin' +place at the skreek o' day jest afore sun-up. Arter thet me an' Ned 'll +enter the settlement, an' see how things stand." + +"Perhaps you're right," responds Clancy, "If you think it better for us +to halt here, I shan't object; though I've an idea we ought to go on. +It may appear very absurd to you, Sime, but there's something on my +mind--a sort of foreboding." + +"Forebodin' o' what?" + +"In truth I can't tell what or why. Yet I can't get it out of my head +that there's some danger hanging over--" + +He interrupts himself, holding back the name--Helen Armstrong. For it +is over her he fancies danger may be impending. No new fancy either; +but one that has been afflicting him all along, and urging him so +impatiently onward. Not that he has learnt anything new since leaving +the Sabine. On its banks the ex-jailer discharged his conscience in +full, by confessing all he could. At most not much; since his late +associates, seeing the foolish fellow he was, had never made him sharer +in their greatest secret. Still he had heard and reported enough to +give Clancy good reason for uneasiness. + +"I kin guess who you're alludin' to," rejoins Woodley, without waiting +for the other to finish, "an' ef so, yur forebodin', as ye call it, air +only a foolish notion, an' nothin' more. Take Sime Woodley's word for +it, ye'll find things up the river all right." + +"I hope so." + +"Ye may be sure o't. Kalklate, ye don't know Planter Armstrong 's +well's I do, tho' I admit ye may hev a better knowledge o' one that +bears the name. As for the ole kurnel hisself, this chile's kampayned +wi' him in the Cherokee wars, an' kin say for sartin he aint a-goin' to +sleep 'ithout keepin' one o' his peepers skinned. Beside, his party air +too strong, an' the men composin' it too exparienced, to be tuk by +surprise, or attacked by any enemy out on these purayras, whether red +Injuns or white pirates. Ef thar air danger it'll come arter they've +settled down, an' growed unsurspishus. Then thar mout be a chance o' +circumventin' them. But then we'll be thar to purvent it. No fear o' +our arrivin' too late. We'll get up to the ole mission long afore noon +the morrow, whar ye'll find, what ye've been so long trackin' arter, +soun' an' safe. Trust Sime Woodley for that." + +The comforting words tranquillise Clancy's fears, at the same time +checking his impatience. Still is he reluctant to stay, and shows it by +his answer. + +"Sime, I'd rather we went on." + +"Wal, ef ye so weesh it, on let's go. Your the chief of this party an' +kin command. For myself I'm only thinkin' or them poor, tired +critters." + +The hunter points to the horses, that for the last hour have been +dragging their limbs along like bees honey-laden. + +"To say nothin' o' ourselves," he adds, "though for my part I'm riddy to +keep on to the Rio Grand, if you insist on goin' thar." + +Notwithstanding his professed willingness, there is something in the +tone of Sime's speech which contradicts it--just a _soupcon_ of +vexation. + +Perceiving it, Clancy makes rejoinder with the delicacy becoming a +gentleman. Though against his will and better judgment, his habitual +belief in, and reliance on Woodley's wisdom, puts an end to his +opposition; and in fine yielding, he says:-- + +"Very well; we shall stay. After all, it can't make much difference. A +truce to my presentiments. I've often had such before, that came to +nothing. Hoping it may be the same now, we'll spend our night this side +the river." + +"All right," responds the backwoodsman. "An' since it's decided we're +to stay, I see no reezun why we shedn't make ourselves as comfortable as +may be unner the circumstances. As it so chances, I know this hyar San +Saba bottom 'most as well as that o' our ole Massissip. An' ef my +mem'ry don't mistake, thar's a spot not far from hyar that'll jest suit +for us to camp in. Foller me; I'll find it." + +Saying this, he kicks his heels against the ribs of his horse, and +compels the tired steed once more into reluctant motion, the rest riding +after in silence. + + + +CHAPTER FIFTY SIX. + +SPECTRAL EQUESTRIANS. + +But a short distance from where the travellers made stop, a side trace +leads to the left, parallel to the direction of the river. Into this +Woodley strikes, conducting the others. + +It is so narrow they cannot go abreast, but in single file. + +After proceeding thus for some fifty yards, they reach a spot where the +path widens, debouching upon an open space--a sort of terrace that +overhangs the channel of the stream, separated from it by a fringe of +low trees and bushes. + +Pointing to it, Sime says:-- + +"This chile hev slep on that spread o' grass, some'at like six yeern +ago, wi' nothin' to disturb his rest 'ceptin the skeeters. Them same +seems nasty bad now. Let's hope we'll git through the night 'ithout +bein' clar eat up by 'em. An', talkin' o' eatin', I reckin we'll all be +the better o' a bit supper. Arter thet we kin squat down an' surrender +to Morpheus." + +The meal suggested is speedily prepared, and, soon as despatched, the +"squatting" follows. + +In less than twenty minutes after forsaking the saddle, all are astretch +along the ground, their horses "hitched" to trees, themselves seemingly +buried in slumber--bound in its oblivious embrace. + +There is one, however, still awake--Clancy. + +He has slept but little any night since entering the territory of! +Texas. On this he sleeps not at all--never closes eye--cannot. On the +contrary, he turns restlessly on his grassy couch, fairly writhing with +the presentiment he has spoken of, still upon him, and not to be cast +off. + +There are those who believe in dreams, in the reality of visions that +appear to the slumbering senses. To Clancy's, awake, on this night, +there seems a horrid realism, almost a certainty, of some dread danger. +And too certain it is. If endowed with the faculty of clairvoyance, he +would know it to be so--would witness a series of incidents at that +moment occurring up the river--scarce ten miles from the spot where he +is lying--scenes that would cause him to start suddenly to his feet, +rush for his horse, and ride off, calling upon his companions to follow. +Then, plunging into the river without fear of the ford, he would gallop +on towards the San Saba mission, as if the house were in names, and he +only had the power to extinguish them. + +Not gifted with second-sight, he does not perceive the tragedy there +being enacted. He is only impressed with a prescience of some evil, +which keeps him wide awake, while the others around are asleep; soundly, +as he can tell by their snoring. + +Woodley alone sleeps lightly; the hunter habituated, as he himself +phrases it, "allers to do the possum bizness, wi' one eye open." + +He has heard Clancy's repeated shiftings and turnings, coupled with +involuntary exclamations, as of a man murmuring in his dreams. One of +these, louder than the rest, at length startling, causes Woodley to +enquire what his comrade wants; and what is the matter with him. + +"Oh, nothing," replies Clancy; "only that I can't sleep--that's all." + +"Can't sleep! Wharfore can't ye? Sure ye oughter be able by this time. +Ye've had furteeg enuf to put you in the way o' slumberin' soun' as a +hummin' top." + +"I can't to-night, Sime." + +"Preehaps ye've swallered somethin', as don't sit well on your stummuk! +Or, it may be, the klimat o' this hyar destrict. Sartin it do feel a +leetle dampish, 'count o' the river fog; tho', as a general thing, the +San Sabre bottom air 'counted one o' the healthiest spots in Texas. +S'pose ye take a pull out o' this ole gourd o' myen. It's the best +Monongaheely, an' for a seedimentary o' the narves thar ain't it's +eequal to be foun' in any drug-shop. I'll bet my bottom dollar on thet. +Take a suck, Charley, and see what it'll do for ye." + +"It would have no effect. I know it wouldn't. It isn't nervousness +that keeps me awake--something quite different." + +"Oh!" grunts the old hunter, in a tone that tells of comprehension. +"Something quite diff'rent? I reck'n I kin guess what thet somethin' +air--the same as keeps other young fellurs awake--thinkin' o' thar +sweethearts. Once't in the arms o' Morpheous, ye'll forgit all about +your gurl. Foller my deevice; put some o' this physic inside yur skin, +an' you'll be asleep in the shakin' o' a goat's tail." + +The dialogue comes to a close by Clancy taking the prescribed physic. + +After which he wraps his blanket around him, and once more essays to +sleep. + +As before, he is unsuccessful. Although for a while tranquil and +courting slumber, it will not come. He again tosses about; and at +length rises to his feet, his hound starting up at the same time. + +Woodley, once more awakened, perceives that the potion has failed of +effect, and counsels his trying it again. + +"No," objects Clancy; "'tis no use. The strongest soporific in the +world wouldn't give me sleep this night. I tell you, Sime, I have a +fear upon me." + +"Fear o' what?" + +"_That we'll be too late_." + +The last words, spoken solemnly, tell of apprehension keenly felt-- +whether false, or prophetic. + +"That air's all nonsense," rejoins Woodley, wishing to reason his +comrade out of what he deems an idle fancy. "The height o' nonsense. +Wheesh!" + +The final exclamation, uttered in an altered tone, is accompanied by a +start--the hunter suddenly raising his head from the saddle on which it +rests. Nor has the act any relation to his previous speeches. It comes +from his hearing a sound, or fancying he hears one. At the same +instant, the hound pricks up its ears, giving utterance to a low growl. + +"What is't, I wonder?" interrogates Woodley, in a whisper, placing +himself in a kneeling posture, his eyes sharply set upon the dog. + +Again the animal jerks its ears, growling as before. + +"Take clutch on the critter, Charley! Don't let it gie tongue." + +Clancy lays hold of the hound, and draws it against his knees, by speech +and gesture admonishing it to remain silent. + +The well-trained animal sees what is wanted; and, crouching down by its +master's feet, ceases making demonstration. + +Meanwhile Woodley has laid himself flat along the earth, with ear close +to the turf. + +There is a sound, sure enough; though not what he supposed he had heard +just before. That was like a human voice--some one laughing a long way +off. It might be the "too-who-ha" of the owl, or the bark of a prairie +wolf. The noise now reaching his ears is less ambiguous, and he has no +difficulty in determining its character. It is that of water violently +agitated--churned, as by the hooves of horses. + +Clancy, standing erect, hears it, too. + +The backwoodsman does not remain much longer prostrate; only a second to +assure himself whence the sound proceeds. It is from the ford. The dog +looked that way, on first starting up; and still keeps sniffing in the +same direction. + +Woodley is now on his feet, and the two men standing close together, +intently listen. + +They have no need to listen long; for their eyes are above the tops of +the bushes that border the river's bank, and they see what is disturbing +the water. + +Two horses are crossing the stream. They have just got clear of the +timber's shadow on the opposite side, and are making towards mid-water. + +Clancy and Woodley, viewing them from higher ground, can perceive their +forms, in _silhouette_, against the shining surface. + +Nor have they any difficulty in making out that they are mounted. What +puzzles them is the manner. Their riders do not appear to be anything +human! + +The horses have the true equine outline; but they upon their backs seem +monsters, not men; their bodies of unnatural breadth, each with two +heads rising above it! + +There is a haze overhanging the river, as gauze thrown over a piece of +silver plate. It is that white filmy mist which enlarges objects beyond +their natural size, producing the mystery of _mirage_. By its +magnifying effect the horses, as their riders, appear of gigantic +dimensions; the former seeming Mastodons, the latter Titans bestriding +them! + +Both appear beings not of Earth, but creatures of some weird +wonder-world--existences not known to our planet, or only in ages past! + + + +CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN. + +PLANNING A CAPTURE. + +Speechless with surprise, the two men stand gazing at the odd +apparition; with something more than surprise, a supernatural feeling, +not unmingled with fear. Such strange unearthly sight were enough to +beget this in the stoutest hearts; and, though none stouter than theirs, +for a time both are awed by it. + +Only so long as the spectral equestrians were within the shadow of the +trees on the opposite side. But soon as arriving at mid-stream the +mystery is at an end; like most others, simple when understood. Their +forms, outlined against the moonlit surface of the water, show a very +natural phenomenon--two horses carrying double. + +Woodley is the first to announce it, though Clancy has made the +discovery at the same instant of time. + +"Injuns!" says the backwoodsman, speaking in a whisper. "Two astride o' +each critter. Injuns, for sure. See the feathers stickin' up out o' +their skulls! Them on the krupper look like squaws; though that's +kewrous too. Out on these Texas parayras the Injun weemen hez generally +a hoss to theirselves, an' kin ride 'most as well as the men. What seem +queerier still is thar bein' only two kupple; but maybe there's more +comin' on ahint. An' yet thar don't appear to be. I don't see stime o' +anythin' on tother side the river. Kin you?" + +"No. I think there's but the two. They'd be looking back if there were +others behind. What ought we to do with them?" + +"What every white man oughter do meetin' Injuns out hyar--gie 'em a wide +berth: that's the best way." + +"It may not in this case; I don't think it is." + +"Why?" + +"On my word, I scarce know. And yet I have an idea we ought to have a +word with them. Likely they've been up to the settlement and will be +able to tell us something of things there. As you know, Sime, I'm +anxious to hear about--" + +"I know all that. Wal, ef you're so inclined, let it be as ye say. We +kin eezy stop 'em, an' hear what they've got to say for theirselves. By +good luck, we've the devantage o' 'em. They're bound to kum 'long the +big trail. Tharfor, ef we throw ourselves on it, we'll intercep' an' +take 'em as in a trap. Jess afore we turned in hyar, I noticed a spot +whar we kin ambuskade." + +"Let us do so; but what about these?" Clancy points to the other three, +still seemingly asleep. "Hadn't we better awake them? At all events, +Heywood: we may need him." + +"For that matter, no. Thar's but two buck Injuns. The does wont count +for much in a skrimmage. Ef they show thar teeth I reckin we two air +good for uglier odds than that. Howsomever, it'll be no harm to hev +Ned. We kin roust him up, lettin' Harkness an' the mulattar lie. +Ye'es; on second thinkin' it'll be as well to hev him along. Ned! +Ned!" + +The summons is not spoken aloud, but in a whisper, Woodley stooping down +till his lips touch Heywood's ear. The young hunter hearing him, +starts, then sits up, and finally gets upon his feet, rubbing his eyes +while erecting himself. He sees at once why he has been awakened. A +glance cast upon the river shows him the strangely ridden horses; still +visible though just entering the tree-shadow on its nether bank. + +In a few hurried words Woodley makes known their intention; and for some +seconds the three stand in consultation, all having hold of their +rifles. + +They do not deem it necessary to rouse either the ex-jailer or Jupiter. +It is not advisable, in view of the time that would be wasted. Besides, +any noise, now, might reach the ears of the Indians, who, if alarmed, +could still retreat to the opposite side, and so escape. Woodley, at +first indifferent about their capture, has now entered into the spirit +of it. It is just possible some information may be thus obtained, of +service to their future designs. At all events, there can be no harm in +knowing why the redskins are travelling at such an untimely hour. + +"As a gen'ral rule," he says, "Tair best let Injuns go thar own way when +thar's a big crowd thegitter. When thar aint, as it chances hyar, it +may be wisest to hev a leetle palaver wi' them. They're putty sure to a +been arter some diviltry anyhow. 'S like 's not this lot's been a +pilferin' somethin' from the new settlement, and air in the act o' +toatin' off thar plunder. Ef arter gruppin' 'em, we find it aint so, we +kin let go again, an' no dammidge done. But first, let's examine 'em, +an' see." + +"Our horses?" suggests Heywood, "oughtn't we to take them along?" + +"No need," answers Woodley. "Contrarywise, they'd only hamper us. If +the redskins make to rush past, we kin eezy shoot down thar animals, an' +so stop 'em. Wi' thar squaws along, they ain't like to make any +resistance. Besides, arter all, they may be some sort that's friendly +to the whites. Ef so, 'twould be a pity to kill the critters. We kin +capter 'em without sheddin' thar blood." + +"Not a drop of it," enjoins Clancy, in a tone of authority. "No, +comrades. I've entered Texas to spill blood, but not that of the +innocent--not that of Indians. When it comes to killing I shall see +before me--. No matter; you know whom I mean." + +"I guess we do," answers Woodley. "We both o' us understand your +feelins, Charley Clancy; ay, an' respect 'em. But let's look sharp. +Whilst we stan' palaverin the Injuns may slip past. They've arready +reech'd the bank, an'--Quick, kum along!" + +The three are about starting off, when a fourth figure appears standing +erect. It is Jupiter. A life of long suffering has made the mulatto a +light sleeper, and he has been awake all the time they were talking. +Though they spoke only in whispers, he has heard enough to suspect +something about to be done, in which there may be danger to Clancy. The +slave, now free, would lay down his life for the man who has manumitted +him. + +Coming up, he requests to be taken along, and permitted to share their +exploit, however perilous. + +As there can be no great objection, his request is granted, and he is +joined to the party. + +But this necessitates a pause, for something to be considered. What is +to be done with the ex-jailer? Though not strictly treated as a +prisoner, still all along they have been keeping him under surveillance. +Certainly, there was something strange in his making back for the +States, in view of what he might there expect to meet for his +misdemeanour; and, considering this, they have never been sure whether +he may not still be in league with the outlaws, and prove twice traitor. + +Now that they are approaching the spot where events may be expected, +more than ever is it thought necessary to keep an eye on him. + +It will not do to leave him alone, with their horses. What then? + +While thus hesitating, Woodley cuts the Gordian knot by stepping +straight to where Harkness lies, grasping the collar of his coat, and +rudely arousing him out of his slumber, by a jerk that brings him erect +upon his feet. Then, without waiting word of remonstrance from the +astonished man, Sime hisses into his ear:-- + +"Kum along, Joe Harkness! Keep close arter us, an' don't ask any +questyuns. Thar, Jupe; you take charge o' him!" + +At this, he gives Harkness a shove which sends him staggering into the +arms of the mulatto. + +The latter, drawing a long stiletto-like knife, brandishes it before the +ex-jailer's eyes, as he does so, saying: + +"Mass Harkness; keep on afore me; I foller. If you try leave the track +look-out. This blade sure go 'tween your back ribs." + +The shining steel, with the sheen of Jupiter's teeth set in stern +determination, is enough to hold Harkness honest, whatever his intent. +He makes no resistance, but, trembling, turns along the path. + +Once out of the glade, they fall into single file, the narrow trace +making this necessary; Woodley in the lead; Clancy second, holding his +hound in leash; Heywood third; Harkness fourth; Jupiter with bared +knife-blade bringing up the rear. + +Never marched troop having behind it a more inexorable file-closer, or +one more determined on doing his duty. + + + +CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT. + +ACROSS THE FORD. + +No need to tell who are the strange equestrians seen coming across the +river; nor to say, that those on the croup are not Indian women, but +white ones--captives. The reader already knows they are Helen and +Jessie Armstrong. + +Had Charles Clancy or Sime Woodley but suspected this at the time, they +would not have waited for Heywood, or stood dallying about the duplicity +of Harkness. Instead, they would have rushed right on to the river, +caring little what chances might be against them. Having no suspicion +of its being ought save two travelling redskins, accompanied by their +squaws, they acted otherwise. + +The captives themselves know they are not in charge of Indians. After +hearing that horrid laughter they are no longer in doubt. It came from +the throats of white men: for only such could have understood the +speeches that called it forth. + +This discovery affords them no gratification, but the opposite. Instead +of feeling safer in the custody of civilised men, the thought of it but +intensifies their fears. From the red savage, _pur sang_, they might +look for some compassion; from the white one they need not expect a +spark of it. + +And neither does; both have alike lost heart and sunk into deepest +dejection. Never crossed Acheron two spirits more despairing--less +hopeful of happiness beyond. + +They are silent now. To exchange speech would only be to tempt a fresh +peal of that diabolical laughter yet ringing in their ears. Therefore, +they do not speak a word--have not since, nor have their captors. They, +too, remain mute, for to converse, and be heard, would necessitate +shouting. The horses are now wading knee-deep, and the water, in +continuous agitation, makes a tumultuous noise; its cold drops dashed +back, clouting against the blankets in which the forms of the captives +are enfolded. + +Though silent, these are busy with conjectures. Each has her own about +the man who is beside her. Jessie thinks she is sharing the saddle with +the traitor, Fernand. She trembles at recalling his glances from time +to time cast upon her--ill-understood then, too well now. And now in +his power, soon to be in his arms! Oh, heavens--it is horror.-- +Something like this she exclaims, the wild words wrung from her in her +anguish. They are drowned by the surging noise. + +Almost at the same instant, Helen gives out an ejaculation. She, too, +is tortured with a terrible suspicion about him whose body touches her +own. She suspects him to be one worse than traitor; is almost sure he +is an assassin! + +If so, what will be her fate? Reflecting on it, no wonder she cries out +in agony, appealing to heaven--to God! + +Suddenly there is silence, the commotion in the water having ceased. +The hoofs strike upon soft sand, and soon after with firmer rebound from +the bank. + +For a length or two the horses strain upward; and again on level ground +are halted, side by side and close together. The man who has charge of +Helen, speaking to the other, says:-- + +"You'd better go ahead, Bill. I aint sure about the bye-path to the big +tree. I've forgotten where it strikes off. You know, don't you?" + +"Yes, lootenant; I guess I kin find where it forks." + +No thought of Indians now--nor with Jessie any longer a fear of Fernand. +By his speech, the man addressed as Bill cannot be the half-blood. It +is something almost to reassure her. But for Helen--the other voice! +Though speaking in undertone, and as if with some attempt at disguise, +she is sure of having heard it before; then with distrust, as now with +loathing. She hears it again, commanding:--"Lead on!" + +Bill does not instantly obey, but says in rejoinder:-- + +"Skuse me, lootenant, but it seems a useless thing our goin' up to the +oak. I know the Cap' sayed we were to wait for them under it. Why cant +we just as well stay heer? 'Taint like they'll be long now. They wont +dally a minute, I know, after they've clutched the shiners, an' I guess +they got 'em most as soon as we'd secured these pair o' petticoats. +Besides they'll come quicker than we've done, seeing as they're more +like to be pursooed. It's a ugly bit o' track 'tween here an' the big +tree, both sides thorny bramble that'll tear the duds off our backs, to +say nothin' o' the skin from our faces. In my opinion we oughter stay +where we air till the rest jeins us." + +"No," responds the lieutenant, in tone more authoritative, "We mustn't +remain here. Besides, we cant tell what may have happened to them. +Suppose they have to fight for it, and get forced to take the upper +crossing. In that case--" + +The speaker makes pause, as if perceiving a dilemma. + +"In that case," interpolates the unwilling Bill, "we'd best not stop +heer at all, but put straight for head-quarters on the creek. How d'ye +incline to that way of it?" + +"Something in what you say," answers the lieutenant. Then adding, after +a pause, "It isn't likely they'll meet any obstruction. The half-breed +Indian said he had arranged everything clear as clock-work. They're +safe sure to come this way, and 'twont do for us to go on without them. +Besides, there's a reason you appear not to think of. Neither you nor I +know the trail across the upper plain. We might get strayed there, and +if so, we'd better be in hell?" + +After the profane utterance succeeds a short interval of silence, both +men apparently cogitating. The lieutenant is the first to resume. + +"Bosley," he says, speaking in a sage tone, and for the first time +addressing the subordinate by his family name. "On the prairies, as +elsewhere, one should always be true to a trust, and keep it when one +can. If there were time, I could tell you a curious story of one who +tried but couldn't. It's generally the wisest way, and I think it's +that for us now. We might make a mess of it by changing from the +programme understood--which was for us to wait under the oak. Besides +I've got a reason of my own for being there a bit--something you can't +understand, and don't need telling about. And time's precious too; so +spin ahead, and find the path." + +"All right," rejoins the other, in a tone of assumed resignation. +"Stayin' or goin's jest the same to me. For that matter I might like +the first way best. I kin tell ye I'm precious tired toatin this burden +at my back, beauty though she be; an' by remainin' heer I'll get the +sooner relieved. When Cap' comes he'll be wantin' to take her off my +hands; to the which I'll make him welcome as the flowers o' May." + +With his poetical wind-up, the reluctant robber sets his horse in +motion, and leads on. Not far along the main road. When a few yards +from the ford, he faces towards a trail on his left, which under the +shadow is with difficulty discernible. For all this, he strikes into it +with the confidence of one well acquainted with the way. + +Along it they advance between thick standing trees, the path arcaded +over by leafy branches appearing as dark as a tunnel. As the horses +move on, the boughs, bent forward by their breasts, swish back in +rebound, striking against the legs of their riders; while higher up the +hanging _llianas_, many of them beset with spines, threaten to tear the +skin from their faces. + +Fortunately for the captives, theirs are protected by the close-woven +serapes. Though little care they now: thorns lacerating their cheeks +were but trivial pain, compared to the torture in their souls. They +utter no complaint, neither speaking a word. Despair has stricken them +dumb; for, moving along that darksome path, they feel as martyrs being +conducted to stake or scaffold. + + + +CHAPTER FIFTY NINE. + +A FOILED AMBUSCADE. + +Almost at the same instant the double-mounted steeds are turning off the +main road, Woodley and those with him enter upon it; only at a point +further away from the ford. + +Delayed, first in considering what should be done with Harkness, and +afterwards by the necessity of going slowly, as well as noiselessly +along the narrow trace, they have arrived upon the road's edge just in +time to be too late. + +As yet they are not aware of this, though Woodley has his apprehensions; +these becoming convictions, after he has stood for a time listening, and +hears no sound, save that of the water, which comes in hoarse hiss +between the trees, almost deafening the ear. For at this point the +stream, shallowing, runs in rapid current over a pebbly bed, here and +there breaking into crests. + +Woodley's fear has been, that before he and his companions reach the +road, the Indians might get past. If so, the chances of taking them +will be diminished perhaps gone altogether. For, on horseback, they +would have an advantage over those following afoot; and their capture +could only be effected by the most skilful stalking, as such travellers +have the habit of looking behind. + +The question is--Have they passed the place, where it was intended to +waylay them? + +"I don't think they hev," says Woodley, answering it. "They have hardly +hed time. Besides 'tain't nat'ral they'd ride strait on, jest arter +kimmin' acrosst the river. It's a longish wade, wi' a good deal o' work +for the horses. More like they've pulled up on reachin' the bank, an' +air thar breathin' the critters a bit." + +None of the others offering an opinion, he adds-- + +"Thur's a eezy way to make sure, an' the safest, too. Ef they've good +by hyar, they can't yet be very far off. Ridin' as they air they won't +think o' proceedin' at a fast pace. Therefore, let's take a scout 'long +the road outwards. Ef they're on it, we'll soon sight 'em, or we may +konklude they're behind on the bank o' the river. They're bound to pass +this way, ef they hain't arready. So we'll eyther overtake, or meet 'em +when returnin', or what mout be better'n both, ketch 'em a campin' by +the water's edge. In any case our surest way air first to follow up the +road. Ef that prove a failure, we kin 'bout face, an' back to the +river." + +"Why need we all go?" asks Heywood. "Supposing the rest of you stay +here, while I scout up the road, and see whether they've gone along it." + +"What ud be the use o' that?" demands Sime. "S'posin' ye did, an' +sighted 'em, ye ain't goin' to make thar capture all o' yourself. Look +at the time lost whiles ye air trottin' back hyar to tell us. By then, +they'd get out into the clear moonlight, whar ther'd be no chance o' our +comin' up to them without thar spyin' us. No, Ned: your idee won't do. +What do you think, Charley?" + +"That your plan seems best. You're sure there's no other way for them +to pass out from the river?" + +"This chile don't know o' any, ceptin' this trace we've ourselves kum +off o'." + +"Then, clearly, our best plan is first to try along the road--all +together." + +"Let's on, then!" urges Woodley. "Thar's no time to waste. While we +stan' talkin' hyar, them redskins may ride to the jumpin'-off place o' +creashun." + +So saying, the hunter turns face to the right, and goes off at a run, +the others moving in like manner behind him. + +After proceeding some two or three hundred yards, they arrive at a place +where the trees, standing apart, leave an open space between. There a +saddle-like hollow intersects the road, traversing it from side to side. +It is the channel of a rivulet when raining; but now nearly dry, its +bed a mortar of soft mud. They had crossed it coming in towards the +river, but without taking any notice of it, further than the necessity +of guiding their tired steeds to guard against their stumbling. It was +then in darkness, the twilight just past, and the moon not risen. Now +that she is up in mid heaven, it is flooded by her light, so that the +slightest mark in the mud can be clearly distinguished. + +Running their eyes over its surface, they observe tracks they have not +been looking for, and more than they have reason to expect. Signs to +cause them surprise, if not actual alarm. Conspicuous are two deep +parallel ruts, which they know have been made by the wheels of the +emigrant wagons. A shower of rain, since fallen, has not obliterated +them; only washed off their sharp angles, having done the same with the +tracks of the mule teams between, and those of the half hundred horses +ridden alongside, as also the hoof-marks of the horned cattle driven +after. + +It is not any of these that gives them concern. But other tracks more +recent, made since the ram--in fact, since the sun lose that same +morning--made by horses going towards the river, and with riders on +their backs. Over twenty in all, without counting their own; some of +them shod, but most without iron on the hoof. To the eyes of Sime +Woodley--to Clancy's as well--these facts declare themselves at a single +glance; and they only dwell upon further deductions. But not yet. For +while scanning the slough they see two sets of horse tracks going in the +opposite direction--outward from the river. Shod horses, too; their +hoof-prints stamped deep in the mud, as if both had been heavily +mounted. + +This is a matter more immediate. The redskins, riding double, have gone +past. If they are to be overtaken, nor a moment must be spent thinking +of aught else. + +Clancy has risen erect, ready to rush on after them. So Heywood and the +rest. But not Woodley, who, still stooping over the slough, seems +unsatisfied. And soon he makes a remark, which not only restrains the +others, but causes an entire change in their intention. + +"They aint fresh," he says, speaking of the tracks last looked at. +"Thet is, they hain't been made 'ithin the hour. Tharfor, it can't be +them as hev jest crossed the stream. Take a squint at 'em, Charley." + +Clancy, thus called upon, lowering his eyes, again looks at the tracks. +Not for long. A glance gives him evidence that Woodley is right. The +horses which made these outgoing tracks cannot be the same seen coming +across. + +And now, the others being more carefully scrutinised, these same two are +discovered among them, with the convexity of the hoof turned towards the +river! + +In all this there is strangeness, though it is not the time to inquire +into it. That must be left till later. Their only thought now is, +where are the Indians; for they have certainly not come on along the +road. + +"Boys!" says Woodley, "we've been makin' a big roundabout 'ithout +gainin' a great deal by it. Sartin them redskins hev stopped at the +river, an' thar mean squatting for the remainder o' this night. That'll +suit our purpiss to a teetotum. We kin capter 'em in thar camp eezier +than on the backs o' thar critters. So, let's go right on an' grup +'em!" + +With this he turns, and runs back along the road, the others keeping +close after. + +In ten minutes more they are on the river's bank, where it declined to +the crossing. They see no Indians there--no human creatures of any +kind--nor yet any horses! + + + +CHAPTER SIXTY. + +"THE LIVE-OAK." + +At a pace necessarily slow, from the narrowness of the path and its +numerous obstructions, the painted robbers, with their captives, have +continued on; reaching their destination about the time Clancy and his +comrades turned back along the ford road. + +From this they are now not more than three hundred yards distant, halted +in the place spoken of as a rendezvous. + +A singular spot it is--one of those wild forest scenes by which nature +oft surprises and delights her straying worshipper. + +It is a glade of circular shape, with a colossal tree standing in its +centre,--a live-oak with trunk full forty feet in girth, and branches +spreading like a banyan. Though an evergreen, but little of its own +foliage can be seen, only here and there a parcel of leaves at the +extremity of a protruding twig; all the rest, great limbs and lesser +branches, shrouded under Spanish moss, this in the moonlight showing +white as flax. + +Its depending garlands, stirred by the night breeze, sway to and fro, +like ghosts moving in a minuet; when still, appearing as the water of a +cataract suddenly frozen in its fall, its spray converted into hoar +frost, the jets to gigantic icicles. + +In their midst towers the supporting stem, thick and black, its bark +gnarled and corrugated as the skin of an alligator. + +This grim Titan of the forest, o'ertopping the other trees like a giant +among men, stands alone, as though it had commanded them to keep their +distance. And they seem to obey. Nearer than thirty yards to it none +grow, nor so much as an underwood. It were easy to fancy it their +monarch, and them not daring to intrude upon the domain it has set apart +for itself. + +With the moon now in the zenith, its shadow extends equally on all sides +of its huge trunk, darkening half the surface of the glade--the other +half in light, forming an illuminated ring around it. There could be no +mistaking it for other than the "big tree," referred to in the dialogue +between the two robbers; and that they recognise it as such is evident +by their action. Soon as sighting it, they head straight towards its +stem, and halting, slip down out of their saddles, having undone the +cords by which the captives were attached to them. + +When dismounted, the lieutenant, drawing Bosley a step or two apart, +says:-- + +"You stay here, Bill, and keep your prisoner company. I want a word +with mine before our fellows come up, and as it's of a private nature, +I'm going to take her to the other side of the tree." + +The direction is given in tone so low the captives cannot hear it; at +the same time authoritatively, to secure Bill's obedience. He has no +intention of refusing it. On the contrary, he responds with +alacrity:--"All right. I understand." This spoken as if implying +consent to some sinister purpose on the part of his superior. Without +further words, the lieutenant lays hold of his horse's rein, and leads +the animal round to the other side of the live-oak, his captive still in +the saddle. Thus separated, the two men are not only out of each +other's sight, but beyond the chance of exchanging speech. Between them +is the buttressed trunk many yards in breadth, dark and frowning as the +battlements of a fortress. Besides, the air is filled with noises, the +skirling of tree-crickets, and other sounds of animated nature that +disturb the tranquillity of the southern night. They could only +communicate with one another by shouting at the highest pitch of their +voices. Just now they have no need, and each proceeds to act for +himself. + +Bosley, soon as left alone with his captive, bethinks him what he had +best do with her. He knows he must treat her tenderly, even +respectfully. He has had commands to this effect from one he dare not +disobey. Before starting, his chief gave him instructions, to be +carried out or disregarded at peril of his life. He has no intention to +disobey them--indeed, no inclination. A stern old sinner, his weakness +is not woman--perhaps for this very reason selected for the delicate +duty now intrusted to him. Instead of paying court to his fair captive, +or presuming to hold speech with her, he only thinks how he can best +discharge it to the satisfaction of his superior. No need to keep her +any longer on the horse. She must be fatigued; the attitude is irksome, +and he may get blamed; for not releasing her from it. Thus reflecting, +he flings his arms around her, draws her down, and lays her gently along +the earth. + +Having so disposed of her, he pulls out his pipe, lights it, and +commences smoking, apparently without, further thought of the form at +his feet. That spoil is not for him. + +But there is another, upon which he has set his mind. One altogether +different from woman. It is Dupre's treasure, of which he is to have +his share; and he speculates how much it will come to on partition. He +longs to feast his eyes with a sight of the shining silver of which +there has been so much talk among the robbers; and grand expectations +excited; its value as I usual exaggerated. + +Pondering upon it, he neither looks at his captive, nor thinks of her. +His glances are toward the river ford, which he sees not, but I hears; +listening amid the water's monotone for the plunging of horses hoofs. +Impatiently, too, as between the puffs from his pipe, he ever and anon +utters a grunt of discontent at the special duty imposed upon him, which +may hinder him from getting his full share of the spoils. + +Unlike is the behaviour of him on the other side of the oak. He, too, +has dismounted his captive, and laid her along the ground. But not to +stand idly over. Instead, he leaves her, and walks away from the spot, +having attached his horse to the trunk of the tree, by hooking the +bridle-rein over a piece of projecting bark. He has no fear that she +will make her escape, or attempt it. Before parting he has taken +precautions against that, by lashing her limbs together. + +All this without saying a word--not even giving utterance to an +exclamation! + +In like silence he leaves her, turning his face toward the river, and +striking along a trace that conducts to it. + +Though several hundred yards from the ford, the bank is close by; for +the path by which they approached the glade has been parallel to the +trend of the stream. The live-oak overlooks it, with only a bordering +of bushes between. + +Through this runs a narrow trace made by wild animals, the forest +denizens that frequent the adjacent timber, going down to their drinking +place. + +Parting the branches, that would sweep the plumed tiara from his head, +the lieutenant glides along it, not stealthily, but with confidence, and +as if familiar with the way. Once through the thicket, he sees the +river broad and bright before him: its clear tranquil current in +contrast with the dark and stormy passions agitating his own heart. He +is not thinking of this, nor is there any sentiment in his soul, as he +pauses by the side of the stream. He has sought it for a most prosaic +purpose--to wash his face. For this he has brought with him a piece of +soap and a rag of cotton cloth, taken out of a haversack carried on the +pommel of his saddle. + +Stepping down the slope, he stoops to perform his ablutions. In that +water-mirror many a fierce ugly face has been reflected but never one +fiercer or uglier than his, under its garish panoply of paint. Nor is +it improved, when this, sponged off shows the skin to be white; on the +contrary, the sinister passions that play upon his features would better +become the complexion of the savage. + +Having completed his lavatory task, he throws soap and rag into the +river; then, turning, strides back up the bank. At its summit he stops +to readjust his plumed head-dress, as he does so, saying in soliloquy:-- + +"I'll give her a surprise, such as she hasn't had since leaving the +States. I'd bet odds she'll be more frightened at my face now, than +when she saw it in the old garden. She didn't recognise it then; she +will now. And now for her torture, and my triumph: for the revenge I've +determined to take. Won't it be sweet!" + +At the close of his exultant speech, he dives into the dark path, and +gliding along it, soon re-enters the glade. + +He perceives no change, for there has been none. + +Going on to her from whom he had separated, he again places himself by +her recumbent form, and stands gazing upon, gloating over it, like a +panther whose prey lies disabled at its feet, to be devoured at leisure. + +Only an instant stays he in this attitude; then stooping till his head +almost touches hers, he hisses into her ear:-- + +"So, Helen, at length and at last, I have you in my power, at my mercy, +sure, safe, as ever cat had mouse! Oh! it is sweet--sweet--sweet!" + +She has no uncertainty now. The man exclaiming sweet, is he who has +caused all her life's bitterness. The voice, no longer disguised, is +that of Richard Darke! + + + +CHAPTER SIXTY ONE. + +A RUFFIAN TRIUMPHANT. + +Wild thoughts has Helen Armstrong, thus apostrophised, with not a word +to say in return. She knows it would be idle; but without this, her +very indignation holds her dumb--that and despair. + +For a time he, too, is silent, as if surrendering his soul to delightful +exultation. + +Soon he resumes speech in changed tone, and interrogatively:--"Do you +know who's talking to you? Or must I tell you, Nell? You'll excuse +familiarity in an old friend, won't you?" Receiving no response, he +continues, in the same sneering style: "Yes, an old friend, I say it; +one you should well remember, though it's some time since we met, and a +good way from here. To assist your recollection, let me recall an +incident occurring at our last interview. Perhaps 'twill be enough to +name the place and time? Wall, it was under a magnolia, in the State of +Mississippi; time ten o'clock of night, moonlight, if I rightly +remember, as now. It matters not the day of the month being different, +or any other trivial circumstance, so long as the serious ones are so. +And they are, thank God for it! Beneath the magnolia I knelt at your +feet, under this tree, which is a live-oak, you lie at mine." + +He pauses, but not expecting reply. The woman, so tortured speaks not; +neither stirs she. The only _motion_ visible throughout her frame is +the swell and fall of her bosom--tumultuously beating. + +He who stands, over well knows it is throbbing in pain. But no +compassion has he for that; on the contrary, it gives gratification; +again drawing from him the exultant exclamation--"Sweet--sweet!" + +After another interval of silence, he continues, banteringly as before: + +"So, fair Helen, you perceive how circumstances have changed between us, +and I hope you'll have the sense to suit yourself to the change. +Beneath the Mississippian tree you denied me: here under the Texan, +you'll not be so inexorable--will you?" + +Still no response. + +"Well; if you won't vouchsafe an answer, I must be content to go without +it; remembering the old saw--`Silence consents.' Perhaps, ere long your +tongue will untie itself; when you've got over grieving for him who's +gone--your great favourite, Charley Clancy. I take it, you've heard of +his death; and possibly a report, that some one killed him. Both +stories are true; and, telling you so, I may add, no one knows better +than myself; since 'twas I sent the gentleman to kingdom come--Richard +Darke." + +On making the fearful confession, and in boastful emphasis, he bends +lower to observe its effect. Not in her face, still covered with the +serape, but her form, in which he can perceive a tremor from head to +foot. She shudders, and not strange, as she thinks:-- + +"He murdered _him_. He may intend the same with _me_. I care not now." + +Again the voice of the self-accused assassin: + +"You know me now?" + +She is silent as ever, and once more motionless; the convulsive spasm +having passed. Even the beating of her heart seems stilled. + +Is she dead? Has his fell speech slain her? In reality it would appear +so. + +"Ah, well;" he says, "you won't recognise me? Perhaps you will after +seeing my face. Sight is the sharpest of the senses, and the most +reliable. You shall no longer be deprived of it. Let me take you to +the light." + +Lifting, he carries her out to where the moonbeams meet the tree's +shadow, and there lays her along. Then dropping to his knees, he draws +out something that glistens. Two months before he stooped over the +prostrate form of her lover, holding a photograph before his eyes--her +own portrait. In her's he is about to brandish a knife! + +One seeing him in this attitude would suppose he intended burying its +blade in her breast. Instead, he slits open the serape in front of her +face, tossing the severed edges back beyond her cheeks. + +Her features exposed to the light, show wan and woeful; withal, lovely +as ever; piquant in their pale beauty, like those of some rebellious nun +hating the hood, discontented with cloister and convent. + +As she sees him stooping beside, with blade uplifted, she feels sure he +designs killing her. But she neither shrinks, nor shudders now. She +even wishes him to end her agony with a blow. Were the knife in her own +hand, she would herself give it. + +It is not his intention to harm her that way. Words are the weapons by +which he intends torturing her. With these he will lacerate her heart +to its core. + +For he is thinking of the time when he threw himself at her feet, and +poured forth his soul in passionate entreaty, only to have his passion +spurned, and his pride humiliated. It is her turn to suffer +humiliation, and he has determined she shall. Recalling his own, every +spark of pity, every pulsation of manhood, is extinguished within him. +The cup of his scorned love has become a chalice filled with the passion +of vengeance. + +Sheathing the knife, he says: + +"I've been longing for a good look at you. Now that I've got it, I +should say you're pretty as ever, only paler. That will come right, and +the roses return to your cheeks, in this recuperative climate of Texas; +especially in the place where I intend taking you. But you hav'nt yet +looked at my face. It's just had a washing for your sake. Come give it +a glance! I want you to admire it, though it may not be quite so +handsome as that of Charley Clancy." + +She averts her eyes, instinctively closing them. + +"Oh, well, you won't? Never mind, now. There's a time coming when +you'll not be so coy, and when I shan't any longer kneel supplicating +you. For know, Nell, you're completely in my power, and I can command, +do with you what I will. I don't intend any harm, nor mean to be at all +unkind. It'll be your own fault if you force me to harshness. And +knowing that, why shouldn't there be truce between us? What's the use +of fretting about Clancy? He's dead as a door nail, and your lamenting +won't bring him to life again. Better take things as they are, and +cheer up. If you've lost one sweetheart, there's another left, who +loves you more than ever did he. I do, Helen Armstrong; by God, I do!" + +The ruffian gives emphasis to his profane assertion, by bending before +her, and laying his hand upon his heart. + +Neither his speech nor attitude moves her. She lies as ever, still, +silent. Wrapped in the Mexican blanket--whose pattern of Aztec design +bears striking resemblance to the hieroglyphs of Egypt--this closed and +corded round her figure, she might easily be mistaken for a mummy, one +of Pharaoh's daughters taken out of the sarcophagus in which for +centuries she has slept. Alone, the face with its soft white skin, +negatives the comparison: though it appears bloodless, too. The eyes +tell nought; their lids are closed, the long dark lashes alone showing +in crescent curves. With difficulty could one tell whether she be +asleep, or dead. + +Richard Darke does not suppose she is either; and, incensed at receiving +no reply, again apostrophises her in tone more spiteful than ever. He +has lost control of his temper, and now talks unfeelingly, brutally, +profanely. + +"Damn you!" he cries. "Keep your tongue in your teeth, if you like. +Ere long I'll find a way to make it wag; when we're man and wife, as we +shall soon be--after a fashion. A good one, too, practised here upon +the prairies of Texas. Just the place for a bridal, such as ours is to +be. The nuptial knot tied, according to canons of our own choice, +needing no sanction of church, or palaver of priests, to make it +binding." + +The ruffian pauses in his ribald speech. Not that he has yet sated his +vengeance, for he intends continuing the torture of his victim unable to +resist. He has driven the arrow deep into her heart, and leaves it to +rankle there. + +For a time he is silent, as if enjoying his triumph--the expression on +his countenance truly satanic. It is seen suddenly to change, +apprehension taking its place, succeeded by fear. + +The cause: sounds coming from the other side of the tree; human voices! + +Not those of Bosley, or his captive; but of strange men speaking +excitedly! + +Quick parting from his captive, and gliding up to the trunk, he looks +cautiously around it. + +In the shadow he sees several figures clustering around Bosley and his +horse; then hears names pronounced, one which chills the blood within +his veins--almost freezing it. + +He stands transfixed; cowering as one detected in an act of crime, and +by a strong hand held in the attitude in which caught! Only for a short +while thus; then, starting up, he rushes to regain his horse, jerks the +bridle from the back, and drags the animal in the direction of his +captive. Tossing her upon the pommel of the saddle, he springs into it. +But she too has heard names, and now makes herself heard, shouting, +"Help--help!" + + + +CHAPTER SIXTY TWO. + +"HELP! HELP!" + +Baulked in their attempt to ambuscade the supposed Indians, Clancy and +his companions thought not of abandoning the search for them. On the +contrary, they continued it with renewed eagerness, their interest +excited by the unexplained disappearance of the party. + +And they have succeeded in finding it, for it is they who surround +Bosley, having surprised him unsuspectingly puffing away at his pipe. +How they made approach, remains to be told. + +On reaching the river's bank, and there seeing nought of the strange +equestrians, their first feeling was profound astonishment. On +Woodley's part, also, some relapse to a belief in the supernatural; +Heywood, to a certain degree, sharing it. + +"Odd it air!" mutters Sime, with an ominous shake of the head. +"Tarnashun odd! Whar kin they hev been, an' whar hev they goed?" + +"Maybe back, across the river?" suggests Heywood. + +"Unpossible. Thar ain't time. They'd be wadin' now, an' we'd see 'em. +No. They're on this side yit, if anywhar on airth; the last bein' the +doubtful." + +"Supposin' they've taken the trace we came by? They might while we were +up the road." + +"By the jumpin' Jeehosofat!" exclaims Woodley, startled by this second +suggestion, "I never thought o' that. If they hev, thar's our horses, +an' things. Let's back to camp quick as legs kin take us." + +"Stay!" interposes Clancy, whose senses are not confused by any +unearthly fancies. "I don't think they could have gone that way. There +may be a trail up the bank, and they've taken it. There must be, Sime. +I never knew a stream without one." + +"Ef there be, it's beyont this child's knowledge. I hain't noticed +neery one. Still, as you say, sech is usooal, ef only a way for the +wild beasts. We kin try for it." + +"Let us first make sure whether they came out here at all. We didn't +watch them quite in to the shore." + +Saying this, Clancy steps down to the water's edge, the others with him. + +They have no occasion to stoop. Standing erect they can see hoof-marks, +conspicuous, freshly made, filled with water that has fallen from the +fetlocks. + +Turning, they easily trace them up the shelving bank; but not so easily +along the road, though certain they continue that way. It is black as +pitch beneath the shadowing trees. Withal, Woodley is not to be thus +baffled. His skill as a tracker is proverbial among men of his calling; +moreover, he is chagrined at their ill success so far; and, but for +there being no time, the ex-jailer, its cause, would catch it. He does +in an occasional curse, which might be accompanied by a cuff, did he not +keep well out of the backwoodsman's way. + +Dropping on all fours, Sime feels for hoof-prints of the horses that +have just crossed, groping in darkness. He can distinguish them from +all others by their being wet. And so does, gaining ground, bit by bit, +surely if slowly. + +But Clancy has conceived a more expeditious plan, which he makes known, +saying: + +"No need taking all that trouble, Sime. You may be the best trailer in +Texas; and no doubt you are, for a biped: still here's one can beat +you." + +"Who?" asks the backwoodsman, rising erect, "show me the man." + +"No man," interrupts the other with a smile. "For our purpose something +better. There stands your competitor." + +"You're right; I didn't think o' the dog. He'll do it like a breeze. +Put him on, Charley!" + +"Come, Brasfort!" says Clancy, apostrophising the hound, while +lengthening the leash, and setting the animal on the slot. "You tell us +where the redskin riders have gone." + +The intelligent creature well understands what is wanted, and with nose +to the ground goes instantly off. But for the check string it would +soon outstrip them for its eager action tells it has caught scent of a +trail. + +At first lifting it along the ford road, but only for a few yards. Then +abruptly turning left, the dog is about to strike into the timber, when +the hand of the master restrains it. + +The instinct of the animal is no longer needed. They perceive the +embouchure of a path, that looks like the entrance to a cave, dark and +forbidding as the back door of a jail. But surely a trace leading in +among the trees, which the plumed horsemen have taken. + +After a second or two spent in arranging the order of march, they also +take it, Clancy now assuming command. + +They proceed with caution greater than ever; more slowly too, because +along a path, dark, narrow, unknown, shaggy with thorns. They have to +grope every inch of their way; all the while in surprise at the Indians +having chosen it. There must be a reason, though none of them can think +what it is. + +They are not long left to conjectures. A light before their eyes throws +light upon the enigma that has been baffling their brains. There is a +break in the timber, where the moonbeams fall free to the earth. + +Gliding on, silently, with undiminished caution, they arrive on the edge +of an opening, and there make stop, but inside the underwood that skirts +it. + +Clancy and Woodley stand side by side, crouchingly; and in this attitude +interrogate the ground before them. + +They see the great tree, with its white shroud above, and deep obscurity +beneath--the moonlit ring around it. But at first nothing more, save +the fire-flies scintillating in its shadow. + +After a time, their eyes becoming accustomed to the cross light, they +see something besides; a group of figures close in to the tree's trunk, +apparently composed of horses and men. They can make out but one of +each, but they take it there are two, with two women as well. While +scanning the group, they observe a light larger and redder than that +emitted by the winged insects. Steadier too; for it moves not from its +place. They might not know it to be the coal upon a tobacco pipe, but +for the smell of the burning "weed" wafted their way. + +Sniffing it, Sime says: + +"That's the lot, sure; tho' thar appears but the half o't. I kin only +make out one hoss, an' one man, wi' suthin' astreetch long the groun-- +one o' the squaws in coorse. The skunk on his feet air smokin'. +Strange they hain't lit a fire! True 'tain't needed 'ceptin' for the +cookin' o' thar supper. Maybe they've hed it, an' only kim hyar to get +a spell o' sleep. But ef thet's thar idee why shed yon 'un be stannin' +up. Wal; I guess, he's doin' sentry bizness, the which air allers +needcessary out hyar. How shell we act, Charley? Rush right up an' +tackle 'em? That's your way, I take it." + +"It is--why not?" + +"Because thar's a better--leastwise a surer to prevent spillin' thar +blood. Ye say, you don't want that?" + +"On no account. If I thought there was a likelihood of it, I'd go +straight back to our camp, and leave them alone. They may be harmless +creatures, on some innocent errand. If it prove so, we musn't molest +them." + +"Wal; I'm willin', for thet," rejoins Woodley, adding a reservation, "Ef +they resist, how are we to help it? We must eyther kill, or be kilt." + +There is reason in this, and Clancy perceives it. While he is +cogitating what course to take, Woodley, resuming speech, points it out. + +"'Thar's no use for us to harm a hair on thar beads, supposin' them to +be innercent. For all thet, we shed make sure, an' take preecaushin in +case o' them cuttin' up ugly. It air allers the best way wi redskins." + +"How do you propose, Sime?" + +"To surround 'em. Injuns, whether it be bucks or squaws, air slickery +as eels. It's good sixty yurds to whar they're squatted yonner. Ef we +push strait torst 'em, they'll see us crossin' that bit o' moonshine, +an' be inter the timmer like greased lightnin' through the branches o' a +gooseberry bush. Tho' out o' thar seddles now, an' some o' 'em +streetched 'long the airth, apparently sleepin', they'd be up an' off in +the shakin' o' a goat's tail. Tharefor, say I, let's surround 'em." + +"If you think that the better way," rejoins Clancy, "let us. But it +will take time, and call for the greatest caution. To get around the +glade, without their seeing us, we must keep well within the timber. +Through that underwood it won't be easy. On second thoughts, Sime, I'm +inclined to chance it the other way. They can't possibly escape us. If +they do take to their horses, they couldn't gallop off beyond reach of +our rifles. We can easily shoot their animals down. Besides, remember +there's two to get mounted on each. We may as well run right up, and +determine the thing at once. I see no difficulty." + +"Wheesht!" exclaims Woodley, just as Clancy ceases speaking. + +"What is it? Do you hear anything, Sime?" + +"Don't you, Charley?" + +Clancy sets himself to listen, but at first hears nothing, save the +usual sounds of the forest, of which it is now full. A spring night, a +sultry one, the tree-crickets are in shrillest cry, the owls and +goatsuckers joining in the chorus. + +But in the midst of its continuous strain there is surely a sound, not +animal, but human? Surely the voice of a man? + +After a time, Clancy can distinguish it. + +One is talking, in tone not loud, but with an accent which appears to be +that of boasting or triumph. And the voice is not like an Indian's, +while exclamations, at intervals uttered, are certainly such as could +only proceed from the lips of a white man. + +All this is strange, and causes astonishment to the travellers--to +Clancy something more. But before he has time to reflect upon, or form +conjectures about it, he hears that which compels him to cast aside +every restraint of prudence; and springing forward, he signals the +others to follow him. + +They do, without a word; and in less than twenty seconds' time, they +have entered the shadowed circle, and surrounded the group at which they +have been so long gazing. + +Only three figures after all! A man, a horse, with what may be woman, +but looks less like one living than dead! + +The man, Indian to all appearance, thus taken by surprise, plucks the +pipe from between his teeth. It is struck out of his hand, the sparks +flying from it, as Woodley on one side and Heywood the other, clutching, +drag him toward the light. + +When the moon shines on it, they behold a face which both have seen +before. + +Under its coating of charcoal and chalk they might not recognise it, but +for the man making himself known by speech, which secures his +identification. For he, too, sees a familiar face, that of Simeon +Woodley; and under the impression he is himself recognised, mechanically +pronounces the backwoodsman's name. + +"Bill Bosley!" shouts the astonished Sime, "Good Lord! Painted Injun! +What's this for? Some devil's doings ye're arter as ye allers war. +Explain it, Bill! Tell the truth 'ithout preevaricashun. Ef ye lie, +I'll split your thrapple like I wud a water-millyun." + +"Sime Woodley! Ned Heywood! Joe Harkness!" gaspingly ejaculates the +man, as in turn the three faces appear before him. "God Almighty! +what's it mean?" + +"We'll answer that when we've heern _your_ story. Quick, tell it." + +"I can't; your chokin' me. For God's sake, Heywood, take your hand off +my throat. O Sime! sure you don't intend killin' me?--ye won't, ye +won't." + +"That depends--" + +"But I aint to blame. Afore heaven, I swear I aint. You know that, +Harkness? You heard me protest against their ugly doin's more than +once. In this business, now, I'm only actin' under the captin's order. +He sent me 'long with the lootenant to take care of--" + +"The lieutenant!" interrupts Clancy. "What name?" + +"Phil Quantrell, we call him; though I guess he's got another--" + +"Where is he?" inquires Clancy, tortured with a terrible suspicion. + +"He went t'other side the tree, takin' the young lady along." + +At that moment comes a cry from behind the oak--a woman's voice calling +"Help! help!" + +Clancy stays not to hear more, but rushes off with the air of a man +struck with sudden phrenzy! + +On turning the trunk, he sees other forms, a horse with man mounted, a +woman before him he endeavours to restrain, who, struggling, thirsts for +succour. + +It is nigh, though near being too late. But for a fortunate +circumstance, it would be. The horse, headed towards the forest, is +urged in that direction. But, frayed by the conflict on his back, he +refuses to advance; instead, jibbing and rearing, he returns under the +tree. + +Clancy, with rifle raised, is about to shoot the animal down. But at +thought of danger to her calling "help!" he lowers his piece; and +rushing in, lays hold of the bridle-rein. This instantly let go, to +receive in his arms the woman, released from the ruffian's grasp, who +would otherwise fall heavily to the earth. + +The horse, disembarrassed, now obeying the rein, shoots out from under +the oak, and headed across the moonlit belt makes straight for the +timber beyond. + +In the struggle Clancy has let go his gun, and now vainly gropes for it +in the darkness. But two others are behind, with barrels that bear upon +the retreating horseman. In an instant all would be over with him, but +for Clancy himself; who, rushing between, strikes up the muzzles, +crying:-- + +"Don't shoot, Sime! Hold your fire, Heywood! His life belongs to me!" + +Strange forbearance; to the backwoodsmen, incomprehensible! But they +obey; and again Richard Darke escapes chastisement for two great crimes +he intended, but by good fortune failed to accomplish. + + + +CHAPTER SIXTY THREE. + +AN OATH TO BE KEPT. + +No pen could portray the feelings of Helen Armstrong, on recognising her +rescuer. Charles Clancy alive! Is she dreaming? Or is it indeed he +whose arms are around, folding her in firm but tender embrace? Under +the moonbeams, that seem to have suddenly become brighter, she beholds +the manly form and noble features of him she believed dead, his cheeks +showing the hue of health, his eyes late glaring in angry excitement, +now glowing with the softer light of love. Yes: it is indeed her lover +long mourned, living, breathing, beautiful as ever! + +She asks not if he be still true, that doubt has been long since +dissipated. It needs not his presence there, nor what he has just done, +to reassure her. + +For a time she asks no questions; neither he. Both are too absorbed +with sweet thoughts to care for words. Speech could not heighten their +happiness, in the midst of caresses and kisses. + +On his side there is no backwardness now; on hers no coyness, no mock +modesty. They come together not as at their last interview, timid +sweethearts, but lovers emboldened by betrothal. For she knows, that he +proposed to her; as he, that her acceptance was sent, and miscarried. +It has reached him nevertheless; he has it upon his person now--both the +letter and portrait. About the last are his first words. Drawing it +out, and holding it up to the light, he asks playfully: + +"Helen; was it meant fo' me?" + +"No," she evasively answers, "it was meant for me." + +"Oh! the likeness, yes; but the inscript--these pleasant words written +underneath?" + +"Put it back into; our pocket, Charles. And now tell me all. Am I +dreaming? Or is it indeed reality?" + +No wonder she should so exclaim. Never was transformation quicker, or +more complete. But a few seconds before she was, as it were, in the +clutches of the devil; now an angel is by her side, a seraph with soft +wings to shelter, and strong arms to protect her. She feels as one, +who, long lingering at the door of death, has health suddenly and +miraculously restored, with the prospect of a prolonged and happy life. + +Clancy replies, by again flinging his arms around, and rapturously +kissing her: perhaps thinking it the best answer he can give. If that +be not reality, what is? + +Jessie has now joined them, and after exchanged congratulations, there +succeed mutual inquiries and explanations. Clancy has commenced giving +a brief account of what has occurred to himself, when he is interrupted +by a rough, but kindly voice; that of Sime, saying:-- + +"Ye kin tell them all that at some other time, Charley; thar aint a +minnit to be throwed away now." Then drawing Clancy aside, speaking so +as not to be heard by the others. "Thar's danger in dallyin' hyar. +I've jest been puttin' thet jail bird, Bosley, through a bit o' +catechism; an' from what he's told me the sooner we git out o' hyar the +better. Who d'ye spose is at the bottom o' all this? I needn't ask ye; +ye're boun to guess. I kin see the ugly brute's name bulgin' out yur +cheeks." + +"Borlasse!" + +"In course it's he. Bosley's confessed all. Ked'nt well help it, wi' +my bowie threetenin' to make a red stream run out o' him. The gang-- +thar's twenty o' 'em all counted--goed up to the Mission to plunder it-- +a sort o' burglarious expedishun; Borlasse hevin' a understandin' wi' a +treetur that's inside--a sort o' sarvint to the Creole, Dupray, who only +late engaged him. Wal; it seems they grupped the gurls, as they war +makin' for the house--chanced on 'em outside in the garden. Bosley an' +the other hev toated 'em this far, an' war wait in for the rest to come +on wi' the stolen goods. They may be hyar at any minnit; an', wi' Jim +Borlasse at thar head, I needn't tell ye what that means. Four o' us +agin twenty--for we can't count on Harkness--it's ugly odds. We'd hev +no show, howsomever. It 'ud end in their again grabbin' these pretty +critters, an' 's like 's not end our own lives." + +Clancy needs no further speech to convince him of the danger. After +what has occurred, an encounter with the robbers would, indeed, be +disastrous. Richard Darke, leagued with Jim Borlasse, a noted pirate of +the prairies; their diabolical plans disclosed, and only defeated by the +merest accident of circumstances. + +"You're right, Sime. We mustn't be caught by the scoundrels. As you +say, that would be the end of everything. How are we to avoid them?" + +"By streakin' out o' hyar quick as possible." + +"Do you propose our taking to the timber, and lying hid till they go +past?" + +"No. Our better plan 'll be to go on to the Mission, an' get thar +soon's we kin." + +"But we may meet them in the teeth?" + +"We must, ef we take the main road up tother side--pretty sure to meet +'em. We shan't be sech fools. I've thought o' all that, an' a way to +get clear of the scrape." + +"What way?" + +"That road we kim in by, ye see, leads on'ard up the bank this side. I +reckin' it goes to the upper crossin', the which air several miles above +the buildin's. We kin take it, an' foller it without any fear o' +encounterin' them beauties. I've sent Jupe and Harkness to bring up the +hosses. Ned's tother side the tree in charge o' Bosley." + +"You've arranged it right. Nothing could be better. Take the trail up +this side. I can trust you for seeing them safe into their father's +arms--if he still live." + +Woodley wonders at this speech. He is about to ask explanation, when +Clancy adds, pointing to the elder sister-- + +"I want a word with her before parting. While you are getting ready the +horses--" + +"Before partin'!" interrupts Sime with increased surprise, "Surely you +mean goin' along wi' us?" + +"No, I don't." + +"But why, Charley?" + +"Well, I've something to detain me here." + +"What somethin'?" + +"You ought to know without my telling you." + +"Dog-goned ef I do." + +"Richard Darke, then." + +"But he's goed off; ye don't intend follerin' him?" + +"I do--to the death. If ever I had a fixed determination in my life, +'tis that." + +"Wal, but you won't go all by yerself! Ye'll want some o' us wi' ye?" + +"No." + +"Not me, nor Ned?" + +"Neither. You'll both be needed to take care of them." + +Clancy nods towards the sisters, adding:-- + +"You'll have your hands full enough with Bosley and Harkness. Both will +need looking after--and carefully. Jupe I'll take with me." + +Woodley remonstrates, pointing out the danger of the course his comrade +intends pursuing. He only yields as Clancy rejoins, in a tone of +determination, almost command:-- + +"You must do as I tell you, Sime; go on to the Mission, and take them +with you. As for me, I've a strong reason for remaining behind by +myself; a silly sentiment some might call it, though I don't think you +would." + +"What is't? Let's hear it, an' I'll gie ye my opeenyun strait an' +square." + +"Simply, that in this whole matter from first to last, I've een making +mistakes. So many, it's just possible my courage may be called in +question; or; if not that, my ability. Now, do you understand me?" + +"Darned ef I do." + +"Well; a man must do something to prove himself worthy of the name; at +least one deed during his lifetime. There's one I've got to do--must do +it, before I can think of anything else." + +"That is?" + +"_Kill Richard Darke_, As you know, I've sworn it, and nothing shall +come between me and my oath. No, Sime, not even she who stands yonder; +though I can't tell how it pains me to separate from her, now." + +"Good Lord! that will be a painful partin'! Poor gurl! I reckin her +heart's been nigh broke arready. She hasn't the peach colour she used +to hev. It's clean faded out o' her cheeks, an' what your goin' to do +now aint the way to bring it back agin." + +"I cannot help it, Sime. I hear my mother calling me. Go, now! I wish +it; I insist upon it!" + +Saying this, he turns towards Helen Armstrong to speak a word, which he +knows will be sad as was ever breathed into the ear of woman. + + + +CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR. + +A WILD FAREWELL. + +On Clancy and the hunter becoming engaged in their serious deliberation, +the sisters also exchange thoughts that are troubled. The first bright +flash of joy at their release from captivity, with Helen's added +gratification, is once more clouded over, as they think of what may have +befallen their father. Now, knowing who the miscreants are, their +hearts are heavy with apprehension. Jessie may, perhaps, feel it the +more, having most cause--for her dread is of a double nature. There is +her affianced, as well as her father! + +But for Helen there is also another agony in store, soon to be suffered. +Little thinks she, as Clancy coming up takes her hand, that the light +of gladness, which so suddenly shone into her heart, is to be with like +suddenness extinguished; and that he who gave is about to take it away. +Gently leading her apart, and leaving Jessie to be comforted by Sime, he +says-- + +"Dearest! we've arranged everything for your being taken back to the +Mission. The brave backwoodsmen, Woodley and Heywood, will be your +escort. Under their protection you'll have nothing to fear. Either +would lay down his life for you or your sister. Nor need you be uneasy +about your father. From what this fellow, Bosley, says, the ruffians +only meant robbery, and if they have not been resisted it will end in +that only. Have courage, and be cheered; you'll find your father as you +left him." + +"And you?" she asks in surprise. "Do you not go with us?" + +He hesitates to make answer, fearing the effect. But it must be made; +and he at length rejoins, appealingly: + +"Helen! I hope you won't be aggrieved, or blame me for hat I am going +to do." + +"What?" + +"Leave you." + +"Leave me!" she exclaims, her eyes interrogating his in wild +bewilderment. + +"Only for a time, love; a very short while." + +"But why any time? Charles; you are surely jesting with me?" + +"No, indeed. I am in earnest. Never more in my life, and never more +wishing I were not. Alas! it is inevitable!" + +"Inevitable! I do not understand. What do you mean?" + +With her eyes fixed oh his, in earnest gaze, she anxiously awaits his +answer. + +"Helen Armstrong!" he says, speaking in a tone of solemnity that sounds +strange, almost harsh despite its gentleness; "you are to me the dearest +thing on earth. I need not tell you that, for surely you know it. +Without you I should not value life, nor care to live one hour longer. +To say I love you, with all my heart and soul, were but to repeat the +assurance I've already given you. Ah! now more than ever, if that were +possible; now that I know how true you've been, and what you've suffered +for my sake. But there's another--one far away from here, who claims a +share of my affections--" + +She makes a movement interrupting him, her eyes kindling up with an +indescribable light, her bosom rising and falling as though stirred by +some terrible emotion. + +Perceiving her agitation, though without suspecting its cause, he +continues: + +"If this night more than ever I love you, this night greater than ever +is my affection for her. The sight of that man, with the thought I've +again permitted him to escape, is fresh cause of reproach--a new cry +from the ground, commanding me to avenge my murdered mother." + +Helen Armstrong, relieved, again breathes freely. Strange, but natural; +in consonance with human passions. For it was jealousy that for the +moment held sway in her thoughts. Ashamed of the suspicion, now known +to be unworthy, she makes an effort to conceal it, saying in calm tone-- + +"We have heard of your mother's death." + +"Of her murder," says Clancy, sternly, and through set teeth. "Yes; my +poor mother was murdered by the man who has just gone off. He won't go +far, before I overtake him. I've sworn over her grave, she shall be +avenged; his blood will atone for her's. I've tracked him here, shall +track him on; never stop, till I stand over him, as he once stood over +me, thinking--. But I won't tell you more. Enough, for you to know why +I'm now leaving you. I must--I must!" + +Half distracted, she rejoins:-- + +"You love your mother's memory more than you love me!" + +Without thought the reproach escapes--wrung from her in her agony. Soon +as made, she regrets, and would recall it. For she sees the painful +effect it has produced. + +He anticipates her, saying:-- + +"You wrong me, Helen, in word, as in thought. Such could not be. The +two are different. You should know that. As I tell you, I've sworn to +avenge my mother's death--sworn it over her grave. Is that not an oath +to be kept? I ask--I appeal to you!" + +Her hand, that has still been keeping hold of his, closes upon it with +firmer grasp, while her eyes become fixed upon him in look more relying +than ever. + +The selfishness of her own passion shrinks before the sacredness of that +inspiring him, and quick passes away. With her love is now mingled +admiration. Yielding to it, she exclaims: + +"Go--go! Get the retribution you seek. Perhaps 'tis right. God +shielding you, you'll succeed, and come back to me, true as you've been +to your mother. If not, I shall soon be dead." + +"If not, you may know I am. Only death can hinder my return. And now, +for a while, farewell!" + +Farewell! And so soon. Oh! it is afflicting! So far she has borne +herself with the firmness derived from a strong, self-sustaining nature. +But hearing this word--wildest of all--she can hold out no longer. Her +strength gives way, and flinging herself on his breast, she pours forth +a torrent of tears. + +"Come, Helen!" he says, kissing them from her cheeks, "be brave, and +don't fear for me. I know my man, and the work cut out for me. By +sheer carelessness I've twice let him have his triumph over me. But he +won't the third time. When we next meet 'twill be the last hour of his +life. Something whispers this--perhaps the spirit of my mother? Keep +up your courage, sweet! Go back with Sime, who'll see you safe into +your father's arms. When there, you can offer up a prayer for my +safety, and if you like, one for the salvation of Dick Darke's soul. +For sure as I stand here, ere another sun has set it will go to its +God." + +With these solemn words the scene ends, only one other exchanged between +them--the wild "Farewell!" + +This in haste, for at the moment Woodley comes forward, exclaiming:-- + +"Be quick, Charley! We must git away from hyar instanter. A minuit +more in this gleed, an' some o' us may niver leave it alive." + +Jupiter and Harkness have brought up the horses, and are holding them in +readiness. Soon they are mounted, Heywood taking Jessie on his croup, +Helen having a horse to herself--that late belonging to Bosley--while +the latter is compelled to share the saddle with Harkness. + +Heywood leads off; the suspected men ordered to keep close after; while +Woodley reserves the rear-guard to himself and his rifle. Before +parting, he spurs alongside Clancy, and holds out his hand, saying:-- + +"Gi'e me a squeeze o' yur claws, Charley. May the Almighty stan' your +frien' and keep you out o' Ole Nick's clutches. Don't hev' any +dubiousness 'bout us. Tho' we shed kum across Satan hisself wi' all his +hellniferous host, Sime Woodley 'll take care o' them sweet gurls, or go +to grass trying." With this characteristic wind-up, he puts the spur to +his horse, and closes upon the rest already parted from the spot. + +Alone remain under the live-oak, Clancy and the mulatto, with horse, +hound, and mule. + +Varied the emotions in Clancy's mind, as he stands looking after; but +all dark as clouds coursing across a winter's sky. For they are all +doubts and fears; that most felt finding expression in the desponding +soliloquy. + +"I may never see her again!" + +As the departing cavalcade is about to enter among the trees, and the +floating drapery of her dress is soon to pass out of sight, he half +repents his determination, and is almost inclined to forego it. + +But the white skirt disappears, and the dark thought returning, becomes +fixed as before. Then, facing towards Jupiter, he directs:-- + +"Mount your mule, Jupe. We've only one more journey to make; I hope a +short one. At its end we'll meet your old master, and you'll see him +get what he deserves--his _death shot_!" + + + +CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE. + +FOR THE RENDEZVOUS. + +Stillness is again restored around the crossing of the San Saba, so far +as it has been disturbed by the sound of human voices. Nature has +resumed her reign, and only the wild creatures of her kingdom can be +heard calling, in tones that tell not of strife. + +But for a short while does this tranquillity continue. Soon once more +upon the river's bank resound rough voices, and rude boisterous +laughter, as a band of mounted men coming from the Mission side, spur +their horses down into its channel, and head to go straight across. +While under the shadow of the fringing timber, no one could tell who +these merry riders are; and, even after they have advanced into the open +moonlight, it would be difficult to identify them. Seeing their plumed +heads with their parti-coloured complexions, a stranger would set them +down as Indians; while a Texan might particularise their tribe, calling +them Comanches. But one who is no stranger to them--the reader--knows +they are not Indians of any kind, but savages who would show skins of a +tripe colour, were the pigment sponged off. For it is the band of +Borlasse. + +They have brought their booty thus far, _en route_ for their rendezvous. + +Gleeful they are, one and all. Before them on their saddle-bows, or +behind on the croups, are the boxes of silver coin; enough, as they +know, to give them a grand spree in the town of San Antonio, whither +they intend proceeding in due time. + +But first for their lair, where the spoil is to be partitioned, and a +change made in their toilet; there to cast off the costume of the +savage, and resume the garb of civilisation. + +Riding in twos across the river, on reaching its bank they make halt. +There is barely room for all on the bit of open ground by the embouchure +of the ford road; and they get clumped into a dense crowd--in its midst +their chief, Borlasse, conspicuous from his great bulk of body. + +"Boys!" he says, soon as all have gained the summit of the slope, and +gathered around him, "it ain't no use for all o' us going to where I +told Quantrell an' Bosley to wait. The approach to the oak air a bit +awkward; therefore, me an' Luke Chisholm 'll slip up thar, whiles the +rest o' ye stay hyar till we come back. You needn't get out of your +saddles. We won't be many minutes, for we mustn't. They'll be a +stirrin' at the Mission, though not like to come after us so quick, +seeing the traces we've left behind. That'll be a caution to them, I +take it. And from what our friend here says," Borlasse nods to the +half-blood, Fernand, who is seen seated on horseback beside him, "the +settlers can't muster over forty fightin' men. Calculatin' there's a +whole tribe o' us Comanches, they'll be too scared to start out all of a +suddint. Besides, they'll not find that back trail by the bluff so +easy. I don't think they can before mornin'. Still 'twont do to hang +about hyar long. Once we get across the upper plain we're safe. +They'll never set eyes on these Indyins after. Come, Luke! let you an' +me go on to the oak, and pick up the stragglers. An' boys! see ye +behave yourselves till we come back. Don't start nail, or raise lid, +from any o' them boxes. If there's a dollar missin', I'll know it; an' +by the Eternal--well, I guess, you understan' Jim Borlasse's way wi' +treeturs." + +Leaving this to be surmised, the robber chief spurs out from their +midst, with the man he has selected to accompany him; the rest, as +enjoined, remaining. + +Soon he turns into the up-river trace, which none of those who have +already travelled it, knew as well as he. Despite his greater size, +neither its thorns, nor narrowness, hinders him from riding rapidly +along it. He is familiar with its every turn and obstruction, as is +also Chisholm. Both have been to the big oak before, time after time; +have bivouacked, slept under it, and beside booty. Approaching it now +for a different purpose, they are doomed to disappointment. There is no +sign of creature beneath its shade--horse, man, or woman! + +Where is Quantrell? Where Bosley? What has become of them, and their +captives? + +They are not under the oak, or anywhere around it. They are nowhere! + +The surprise of the robber chief instantly changes to anger. For a +suspicion flashes across his mind, that his late appointed lieutenant +has played false to him. + +He knows that Richard Darke has only been one of his band by the +exigency of sinister circumstances; knows, also, of the other, and +stronger lien that has kept Clancy's assassin attached to their +confederacy--his love for Helen Armstrong. Now that he has her--the +sister too--why may he not have taken both off, intending henceforth to +cut all connection with the prairie pirates? Bosley would be no bar. +The subordinate might remain faithful, and to the death; still Quantrell +could kill him. + +It is all possible, probable; and Borlasse, now better acquainted with +the character of Richard Darke, can believe it so. Convinced of his +lieutenant's treachery, he rages around the tree like a tiger deprived +of its prey. + +Little cares he what has become of Darke himself, or Helen Armstrong. +It is Jessie he misses; madly loving her in his course carnal fashion. +He had hoped to have her in his arms, to carry her on to the rendezvous, +to make her his wife in the same way as Darke threatened to do with her +sister. + +Fortunately for both, the sky has become clouded, and the moon is +invisible; otherwise he might see that the ground has been trodden by a +half-dozen horses, and discover the direction these have taken. Though +Simeon Woodley, with his party, is now a good distance off, it would +still be possible to overtake them, the robbers being well mounted and +better knowing the way. Woe to Helen and Jessie Armstrong were the moon +shining, as when they parted from that spot! + +Neither Borlasse nor his confederate have a thought that any one has +been under the oak, save Quantrell, Bosley, and the captives. How could +they? And now they think not that these have been there; for, calling +their names aloud, they get no response. Little do the two freebooters +dream of the series of exciting incidents that in quick succession, and +so recently, have occurred in that now silent spot. They have no +suspicion of aught, save that Bosley has betrayed his trust, Phil +Quantrell instigating him, and that both have forsaken the band, taking +the captives along. + +At thought of their treachery Borlasse's fury goes beyond bounds, and he +stamps and storms. + +To restrain him, Chisholm says, suggestingly, "Like as not, Cap', +they're gone on to head-quarters. I guess, when we get there we'll find +the whole four." + +"You think so?" + +"I'm good as sure of it. What else could they do, or would they? +Quantrell darn't go back to the States, with that thing you spoke of +hangin' over him. Nor is he like to show himself in any o' the +settlements of Texas. And what could the two do by themselves out on +the wild prairie?" + +"True; I reckon you're about right, Luke. In any case we musn't waste +more time here. It's getting well on to morning and by the earliest +glint of day the settlers 'll take trail after us. We must on to the +upper plain." + +At this he heads his horse back into the narrow trail; and, hurrying +along it, rejoins his followers by the ford. + +Soon as reaching them, he gives the command for immediate march; +promptly obeyed, since every robber in the ruck has pleasant +anticipation of what is before, with ugly recollection of what is, and +fears of what may be, behind him. + + + +CHAPTER SIXTY SIX. + +A SCOUTING PARTY. + +Throughout all this time, the scene of wild terror, and frenzied +excitement, continues to rage around the Mission. Its walls, while +echoing voices of lamentation, reverberate also the shouts of revenge. + +It is some time ere the colonists can realise the full extent of the +catastrophe, or be sure it is at an end. The gentlemen, who dined with +Colonel Armstrong, rushing back to their own homes in fearful +anticipation, there find everything, as they left it; except that their +families and fellow settlers are asleep. For all this, the fear does +not leave their hearts. If their houses are not aflame, as they +expected to see them--if their wives and children are not butchered in +cold blood--they know not how soon this may be. The Indians--for +Indians they still believe them--would not have attacked so strong a +settlement, unless in force sufficient to destroy it. The ruin, +incomplete, may still be impending. True, the interlude of inaction is +difficult to understand; only intelligible, on the supposition that the +savages are awaiting an accession to their strength, before they assault +the _rancheria_. They may at the moment be surrounding it? + +Under this apprehension, the settlers are hastily, and by loud shouts, +summoned from their beds. Responding to the rude arousal, they are soon +out of them, and abroad; the women and children frantically screaming; +the men more calm; some of them accustomed to such surprises, issuing +forth armed, and ready for action. + +Soon all are similarly prepared, each with gun, pistol, and knife borne +upon his person. + +After hearing the tale of horror brought from the Mission-building, they +hold hasty council as to what they should do. + +Fear for their own firesides restrains them from starting off; and some +time elapse before they feel assured that the _rancheria_ will not be +attacked, and need defending. + +Meanwhile, they despatch messengers to the Mission; who, approaching it +cautiously, find no change there. + +Colonel Armstrong is still roaming distractedly around, searching for +his daughters, Dupre by his side, Hawkins and Tucker assisting in the +search. + +The girls not found, and the frantic father settling down to the +conviction that they are gone--lost to him forever! + +Oh! the cruel torture of the truth thus forced upon him! His children +carried off captive, that were enough. But to such captivity! To be +the associates of savages, their slaves, their worse than slaves--ah! a +destiny compared with which death were desirable. + +So reasons the paternal heart in this supreme moment of its affliction. + +Alike, distressed is he, bereaved of his all but bride. The young +Creole is well-nigh beside himself. Never has he known such bitter +thoughts; the bitterest of all--a remembrance of something said to him +by his betrothed that very day. A word slight but significant, relating +to the half-blood, Fernand; a hint of some familiarity in the man's +behaviour towards her, not absolute boldness, but presumption: for +Jessie did not tell all. Still enough to be now vividly recalled to +Dupre's memory, with all that exaggeration the circumstances are +calculated to suggest to his fancy and fears. Yes; his trusted servant +has betrayed him, and never did master more repent a trust, or suffer +greater pain by its betrayal. + +The serpent he warmed has turned and stung him, with sting so venomous +as to leave little of life. + +Within and around the Mission-building are other wailing voices, besides +those of its owners. Many of the domestics have like cause for +lamentation, some even more. Among the massacred, still stretched in +their gore, one stoops over a sister; another sees his child; a wife +weeps by the side of her husband, her hot tears mingling with his yet +warm blood; while brother bends down to gaze into the eyes of brother, +which, glassy and sightless, cannot reciprocate the sorrowing glance! + +It is not the time to give way to wild grief. The occasion calls for +action, quick, immediate. Colonel Armstrong commands it; Dupre urges +it. Soon as their first throes of surprise and terror have subsided, +despair is replaced by anger, and their thoughts turn upon retaliation. + +All is clear now. Those living at the _rancheria_ have not been +molested. The savages have carried off Dupre's silver. Despoiled of +his far more precious treasure, what recks he of that? Only as telling +that the object of the attacking party was robbery more than murder; +though they have done both. Still it is certain, that, having achieved +their end, they are gone off with no intention to renew the carnage of +which all can see such sanguinary traces. Thus reasoning, the next +thought is pursuit. + +As yet the other settlers are at the _rancheria_, clinging to their own +hearths, in fear of a fresh attack, only a few having come up to the +Mission, to be shocked at what they see there. + +But enough for Dupre's purpose; which receives the sanction of Colonel +Armstrong, as also that of the hunters, Hawkins and Tucker. + +It is decided not to wait till all can be ready; but for a select party +to start off at once, in the capacity of scouts; these to take up the +trail of the savages, and send back their report to those coming after. + +To this Colonel Armstrong not only gives consent, but deems it the most +prudent course, and likeliest to secure success. Despite his anxious +impatience, the strategy of the old soldier tells him, that careless +haste may defeat its chances. + +In fine, a scouting party is dispatched, Hawkins at its head as guide, +the Creole commanding. + +Armstrong himself remains behind, to organise the main body of settlers +getting ready for pursuit. + + + +CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN. + +A STRAYING TRAVELLER. + +A man on horseback making his way through a wood. Not on road, or +trodden path, or trace of any kind. For it is a tract of virgin forest, +in which settler's axe has never sounded, rarely traversed by ridden +horse; still more rarely by pedestrian. + +He, now passing through it, rides as fast as the thick standing trunks, +and tangle of undergrowth will allow. The darkness also obstructs him; +for it is night. Withal he advances rapidly, though cautiously; at +intervals glancing back, at longer ones, delaying to listen, with chin +upon his shoulder. + +His behaviour shows fear; so, too, his face. Here and there the +moonbeams shining through breaks in the foliage, reveal upon his +features bewilderment, as well as terror. By their light he is guiding +his course, though he does not seem sure of it. The only thing +appearing certain is, that he fears something behind, and is fleeing +from it. + +Once he pauses, longer than usual; and, holding his horse in check, sits +listening attentively. While thus halted, he hears a noise, which he +knows to be the ripple of a river. It seems oddly to affect him, +calling forth an exclamation, which shows he is dissatisfied with the +sound. + +"Am I never to get away from it? I've been over an hour straying about +here, and there's the thing still--not a quarter of a mile off, and +timber thick as ever. I thought that last shoot would have taken me out +of it. I must have turned somewhere. No help for it, but try again." + +Making a half-face round, he heads his horse in a direction opposite to +that from which comes the sound of the water. He has done so +repeatedly, as oft straying back towards the stream. It is evident he +has no wish to go any nearer; but a strong desire to get away from it. + +This time he is successful. The new direction followed a half-mile +further shows him clear sky ahead, and in a few minutes more he is at +the forest's outmost edge. Before him stretches an expanse of plain +altogether treeless, but clothed with tall grass, whose culms stirred by +the night breeze, and silvered by the moonbeams, sway to and fro, like +the soft tremulous wavelets of a tropic sea; myriads of fire-flies +prinkling among the spikes, and emitting a gleam, as phosphorescent +_medusae_, make the resemblance complete. + +The retreating horseman has no such comparison in his thoughts, nor any +time to contemplate Nature. The troubled expression in his eyes, tells +he is in no mood for it. His glance is not given to the grass, nor the +brilliant "lightning bugs," but to a dark belt discernible beyond, +apparently a tract of timber, similar to that he has just traversed. +More carefully scrutinised, it is seen to be rocks, not trees; in short +a continuous line of cliff, forming the boundary of the bottom-land. + +He viewing it, well knows what it is, and intends proceeding on to it. +He only stays to take bearings for a particular place, at which he +evidently aims. His muttered words specify the point. + +"The gulch must be to the right. I've gone up-river all the while. +Confound the crooked luck! It may throw me behind them going back; and +how am I to find my way over the big plain! If I get strayed there--Ha! +I see the pass now; yon sharp shoulder of rock--its there." + +Once more setting his horse in motion, he makes for the point thus +identified. Not now in zig-zags, or slowly--as when working his way +through the timber--but in a straight tail-on-end gallop, fast as the +animal can go. + +And now under the bright moonbeams it may be time to take a closer +survey of the hastening horseman. In garb he is Indian, from the +mocassins on his feet to the fillet of stained feathers surmounting his +head. But the colour of his skin contradicts the idea of his being an +aboriginal. His face shows white, but with some smut upon it, like that +of a chimney-sweep negligently cleansed. And his features are +Caucasian, not ill-favoured, except in their sinister expression; for +they are the features of Richard Darke. + +Knowing it is he, it will be equally understood that the San Saba is the +stream whose sough is so dissonant in his ears, as also, why he is so +anxious to put a wide space between himself and its waters. On its bank +he has heard a name, and caught sight of him bearing it--the man of all +others he has most fear. The backwoodsman who tracked him in the +forests of Mississippi, now trailing him upon the prairies of Texas, +Simeon Woodley ever pursuing him! If in terror he has been retreating +through the trees, not less does he glide over the open ground. Though +going in a gallop, every now and then, as before, he keeps slewing round +in the saddle and gazing back with apprehensiveness, in fear he may see +forms issuing from the timber's edge, and coming on after. + +None appear, however; and, at length, arriving by the bluffs base, he +draws up under its shadow, darker now, for clouds are beginning to +dapple the sky, making the moon's light intermittent. Again, he appears +uncertain about the direction he should take; and seated in his saddle, +looks inquiringly along the facade of the cliff, scrutinising its +outline. + +Not long before his scrutiny is rewarded. A dark disc of triangular +shape, the apex inverted, proclaims a break in the escarpment. It is +the embouchure of a ravine, in short the pass he has been searching for, +the same already known to the reader. Straight towards it he rides, +with the confidence of one who has climbed it before. In like manner he +enters between its grim jaws, and spurs his horse up the slope under the +shadow of rocks overhanging right and left. He is some twenty minutes +in reaching its summit, on the edge of the upland plain. There he +emerges into moonlight; for Luna has again looked out. + +Seated in his saddle he takes a survey of the bottom-land below. Afar +off, he can distinguish the dark belt of timber, fringing the river on +both sides, with here and there a reach of water between, glistening in +the moon's soft light like molten silver. His eyes rest not on this, +but stray over the open meadow, land in quest of something there. + +There is nothing to fix his glance, and he now feels safe, for the first +time since starting on that prolonged retreat. + +Drawing a free breath he says, soliloquising:-- + +"No good my going farther now. Besides I don't know the trail, not a +foot farther. No help for it but stay here till Borlasse and the boys +come up. They can't be much longer, unless they've had a fight to +detain them; which I don't think at all likely, after what the +half-blood told us. In any case some of them will be this way. Great +God! To think of Sime Woodley being here! And after me, sure, for the +killing of Clancy! Heywood, too, and Harkness along with them! How is +that, I wonder? Can they have met my old jailer on the way, and brought +him back to help in tracing me? What the devil does it all mean? It +looks as if the very Fates were conspiring for my destruction. + +"And who the fellow that laid hold of my horse? So like Clancy! I +could swear 'twas he, if I wasn't sure of having settled him. If ever +gun-bullet gave a man his quietus, mine did him. The breath was out of +his body before I left him. + +"Sime Woodley's after me, sure! Damn the ugly brute of a backwoodsman! +He seems to have been created for the special purpose of pursuing me? + +"And she in my power, to let her so slackly go again! I may never have +another such chance. She'll get safe back to the settlements, there to +make mock of me! What a simpleton I've been to let her go alive! I +should have driven my knife into her. Why didn't I do it? Ach!" + +As he utters the harsh exclamation there is blackness on his brow, and +chagrin in his glance; a look, such as Satan may have cast back at +Paradise on being expelled from it. + +With assumed resignation, he continues:-- + +"No good my grieving over it now. Regrets won't get her back. There +may be another opportunity yet. If I live there shall be, though it +cost me all my life to bring it about." + +Another pause spent reflecting what he ought to do next. He has still +some fear of being followed by Sime Woodley. Endeavouring to dismiss +it, he mutters:-- + +"'Tisn't at all likely they'd find the way up here. They appeared to be +afoot. I saw no horses. They might have them for all that. But they +can't tell which way I took through the timber, and anyhow couldn't +track me till after daylight. Before then Borlasse will certainly be +along. Just possible he may come across Woodley and his lot. They'll +be sure to make for the Mission, and take the road up t'other side. A +good chance of our fellows encountering them, unless that begging fool, +Bosley, has let all out. Maybe they killed him on the spot? I didn't +hear the end of it, and hope they have." + +With this barbarous reflection he discontinues his soliloquy, bethinking +himself, how he may best pass the time till his comrades come on. At +first he designs alighting, and lying down: for he has been many hours +in the saddle, and feels fatigued. But just as he is about to dismount, +it occurs to him the place is not a proper one. Around the summit of +the pass, the plain is without a stick of timber, not even a bush to +give shade or concealment, and of this last he now begins to recognise +the need. For, all at once, he recalls a conversation with Borlasse, in +which mention was made of Sime Woodley; the robber telling of his having +been in Texas before, and out upon the San Saba--the very place where +now seen! Therefore, the backwoodsman will be acquainted with the +locality, and may strike for the trail he has himself taken. He +remembers Sime's reputation as a tracker; he no longer feels safe. In +the confusion of his senses, his fancy exaggerates his fears, and he +almost dreads to look back across the bottom-land. + +Thus apprehensive, he turns his eyes towards the plain, in search of a +better place for his temporary bivouac, or at all events a safer one. +He sees it. To the right, and some two or three hundred yards off is a +_motte_ of timber, standing solitary on the otherwise treeless expanse. +It is the grove of black-jacks, where Hawkins and Tucker halted that +same afternoon. + +"The very place!" says Richard Darke to himself, after scrutinising it. +"There I'll be safe every way; can see without being seen. It commands +a view of the pass, and, if the moon keep clear, I'll be able to tell +who comes up, whether friends or foes." + +Saying this, he makes for the _motte_. + +Reaching it, he dismounts, and, drawing the rein over his horse's head, +leads the animal in among the trees. + +At a short distance from the grove's edge is a glade. In this he makes +stop, and secures the horse, by looping the bridle around a branch. + +He has a tin canteen hanging over the horn of his saddle, which he lifts +off. It is a large one,--capable of holding a half-gallon. It is three +parts full, not of water, but of whisky. The fourth part he has drunk +during the day, and earlier hours of the night, to give him courage for +the part he had to play. He now drinks to drown his chagrin at having +played it so badly. Cursing his crooked luck, as he calls it, he takes +a swig of the whisky, and then steps back to the place where he entered +among the black-jacks. There taking stand, he awaits the coming of his +confederates. + +He keeps his eyes upon the summit of the pass. They cannot come up +without his seeing them, much less go on over the plain. + +They must arrive soon, else he will not be able to see them. For he has +brought the canteen along, and, raising it repeatedly to his lips, his +sight is becoming obscured, the equilibrium of his body endangered. + +As the vessel grows lighter, so does his head; while his limbs refuse to +support the weight of his body, which oscillates from side to side. + +At length, with an indistinct perception of inability to sustain himself +erect, and a belief he would feel better in a recumbent attitude, he +gropes his way back to the glade, where, staggering about for a while, +he at length settles down, dead drunk. In ten seconds he is asleep, in +slumber so profound, that a cannon shot--even the voice of Simeon +Woodley--would scarce awake him. + + + +CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT. + +"BRASFORT." + +"Brasfort has caught scent!" + +The speech comes from one of two men making their way through a wood, +the same across which Richard Darke has just retreated. But they are +not retreating as he; on the contrary pursuing, himself the object of +their pursuit. For they two men are Charles Clancy, and Jupiter. + +They are mounted, Clancy on his horse--a splendid animal--the mulatto +astride the mule. + +The hound is with them, not now trotting idly after, but in front, with +nose to the earth. They are on Darke's trail. The animal has just +struck, and is following it, though not fast. For a strap around its +neck, with a cord attached, and held in Clancy's hand, keeps it in +check, while another buckled about its jaws hinders it from giving +tongue. Both precautions show Clancy's determination to take pains with +the game he is pursuing, and not again give it a chance to get away. +Twice has his mother's murderer escaped him. It will not be so a third +time. + +They are trailing in darkness, else he would not need assistance from +the dog. For it is only a short while since his separation from the +party that went on to the Mission. Soon as getting into their saddles, +Clancy and his faithful follower struck into the timber, at the point +where Darke was seen to enter, and they are now fairly on his tracks. +In the obscurity they cannot see them; but the behaviour of the hound +tells they are there. + +"Yes; Brasfort's on it now," says Clancy, calling the animal by a name +long ago bestowed upon it. + +"He's on it strong, Jupe. I can tell by the way he tugs upon the +string." + +"All right, Masser Charle. Give him plenty head. Let him well out. +Guess we can keep up with him. An' the sooner we overtake the nigger +whipper, the better it be for us, an' the worser for him. Pity you let +him go. If you'd 'lowed Mass Woodley to shoot down his hoss--" + +"Never mind about that. You'll see himself shot down ere long, or--" + +"Or what, masser?" + +"Me!" + +"Lor forbid! If I ever see that, there's another goes down long side +you; either the slave-catcher or the slave." + +"Thanks, my brave fellow! I know you mean it. But now to our work; and +let us be silent. He may not have gone far, and's still skulking in +this tract of timber. If so, he stands a chance to hear us. Speak only +in a whisper." + +Thus instructed, Jupe makes a gesture to signify compliance; Clancy +turning his attention to the hound. + +By this, Brasfort is all eagerness, as can be told by the quick +vibration of his tail, and spasmodic action of the body. A sound also +proceeds from his lips, an attempt at baying; which, but for the +confining muzzle would make the forest echoes ring around. Stopped by +this his note can be heard only a short distance off, not far enough for +them to have any fear. If they but get so near the man they are in +chase of, they will surely overtake him. + +In confidence the trackers keep on; but obstructed by the close standing +trunks, with thick underwood between, they make but slow progress. They +are more than an hour in getting across the timbered tract; a distance +that should not have taken quarter the time. + +At length, arriving on its edge, they make stop; Clancy drawing back the +dog. Looking across the plain he sees that, which tells him the +instinct of the animal will be no longer needed--at least for a time. + +The moon, shining upon the meadow grass, shows a list differently +shaded; where the tall culms have been bent down and crushed by the hoof +of some heavy quadruped, that has made its way amidst them. And +recently too, as Clancy, skilled in tracking, can tell; knowing, also, +it is the track of Dick Darke's horse. + +"You see it?" he says, pointing to the lighter shaded line. "That's the +assassin's trail. He's gone out here, and straight across the bottom. +He's made for the bluff yonder. From this he's been putting his animal +to speed; gone in a gallop, as the stretch between the tracks show. He +may go that way, or any other, 'twill make no difference in the end. He +fancies himself clever, but for all his cleverness he'll not escape me +now." + +"I hope not, Masser Charle; an' don't think he will; don't see how he +can." + +"He can't." + +For some time Clancy is silent, apparently absorbed in serious +reflection. At length, he says to his follower:-- + +"Jupe, my boy, in your time you have suffered much yourself, and should +know something of what it is to feel vengeful. But not a vengeance like +mine. That you can't understand, and perhaps may think me cruel." + +"You, Masser Charle!" + +"I don't remember ever having done a harsh thing in my life, or hurt to +anyone not deserving it." + +"I am sure you never did, masser." + +"My dealing with this man may seem an exception. For sure as I live, +I'll kill him, or he shall kill me." + +"There'd be no cruelty in that. He deserve die, if ever man did." + +"He shall. I've sworn it--you know when and where. My poor mother sent +to an untimely grave! Her spirit seems now speaking to me--urging me to +keep my oath. Let us on!" + +They spur out into the moonlight, and off over the open plain, the hound +no longer in the lead. His nose is not needed now. The slot of Darke's +galloping horse is so conspicuous they can clearly see it, though going +fast as did he. + +Half an hour at this rapid pace, and they are again under shadow. It is +that of the bluff, so dark they can no longer make out the hoof-marks of +the retreating horseman. + +For a time they are stayed, while once more leashing the hound, and +setting it upon the scent. + +Brasfort lifts it with renewed spirit; and, keeping in advance, conducts +them to an opening in the wall of rock. It is the entrance to a gorge +going upward. They can perceive a trodden path, upon which are the +hoof-prints of many horses, apparently an hundred of them. + +Clancy dismounts to examine them. He takes note, that they are of +horses unshod; though there are some with the iron on. Most of them are +fresh, among others of older date. Those recently made have the +convexity of the hoof turned towards the river. Whoever rode these +horses came down the gorge, and kept on for the crossing. He has no +doubt, but that they are the same, whose tracks were observed in the +slough, and at the ford--now known to have been made by the freebooters. +As these have come down the glen, in all likelihood they will go up it +in return. + +The thought should deter him from proceeding farther in that direction. + +But it does not. He is urged on by his oath--by a determination to keep +it at all cost. He fancies Darke cannot be far ahead, and trusts to +overtaking, and settling the affair, before his confederates come up. + +Reflecting thus, he enters the ravine, and commences ascending its +slope, Jupiter and Brasfort following. + +On reaching the upland plain, they have a different light around, from +that below on the bottom-land. The moon is clouded over, but her +silvery sheen is replaced by a gloaming of grey. There are streaks of +bluish colour, rose tinted, along the horizon's edge. It is the dawn, +for day is just breaking. + +At first Clancy is gratified by a sight, so oft gladdening hearts. +Daylight will assist him in his search. + +Soon, he thinks otherwise. Sweeping his eyes over the upland plain, he +sees it is sterile and treeless. A thin skirting of timber runs along +the bluff edge; but elsewhere all is open, except a solitary grove at no +great distance off. + +The rendezvous of the robbers would not be there, but more likely on the +other side of the arid expanse. Noting a trail which leads outwards, he +suspects the pursued man to have taken it. But to follow in full +daylight may not only defeat all chance of overtaking him, but expose +them to the danger of capture by the freebooters coming in behind. + +Clancy casts his eye across the plain, then back towards the +bottom-land. He begins to repent his imprudence in having ventured up +the pass. But now to descend might be more dangerous than to stay. +There is danger either way, and in every direction. So thinking, he +says: + +"I fear, Jupe, we've been going too fast, and it may be too far. If we +encounter these desperadoes, I needn't tell you we'll be in trouble. +What ought we to do, think you?" + +"Well Masser Charle, I don't jest know. I'se a stranger on these Texas +prairies. If 'twar in a Massissip swamp, I might be better able to +advise. Hyar I'se all in a quandairy." + +"If we go back we may meet them in the teeth. Besides, I shan't--can't +now. I must keep on, till I've set eyes on Dick Darke." + +"Well, Masser Charle, s'pose we lie hid durin' the day, an' track him +after night? The ole dog sure take up the scent for good twenty-four +hours to come. There's a bunch of trees out yonner, that'll give us a +hidin' place; an' if the thieves go past this way, we sure see 'em. +They no see us there." + +"But if they go past, it will be all over. I could have little hope of +finding him alone. Along with them he would--" + +Clancy speaks as if in soliloquy. + +Abruptly changing tone, he continues:-- + +"No, Jupe; we must go on, now. I'll take the risk, if you're not afraid +to follow me." + +"Masser Charle, I ain't afraid. I'se told you I follow you anywhere--to +death if you need me die. I'se tell you that over again." + +"And again thanks, my faithful friend! We won't talk of death, till +we've come up with Dick Darke. Then you shall see it one way or other. +He, or I, hasn't many hours to live. Come, Brasfort! you're wanted once +more." + +Saying this, he lets the hound ahead, still keeping hold of the cord. + +Before long, Brasfort shows signs that he has again caught scent. His +ears crisp up, while his whole body quivers along the spinal column from +neck to tail. There is a streak of the bloodhound in the animal; and +never did dog of this kind make after a man, who more deserved hunting +by a hound. + + + +CHAPTER SIXTY NINE. + +SHADOWS BEHIND. + +When once more upon the trail of the man he intends killing, Clancy +keeps on after his hound, with eager eyes watching every movement of the +animal. That Brasfort is dead upon the scent can be told by his excited +action, and earnest whimpering. + +All at once he is checked up, his master drawing him back with sudden +abruptness. + +The dog appears surprised at first, so does Jupiter. The latter, +looking round, discovers the cause: something which moves upon the +plain, already observed by Clancy. Not clearly seen, for it is still +dark. + +"What goes yonder?" he asks, eagerly scanning it, with hands over his +eyes. + +"It don't go, Masser Charle, whatever it is. Dat thing 'pears comin'." + +"You're right. It is moving in this direction. A dust-cloud; something +made it. Ah! horses! Are there men on their backs? No. Bah! it's but +a drove of mustangs. I came near taking them for Comanches; not that we +need care. Just now the red gentry chance to be tied by a treaty, and +are not likely to harm us. We've more to fear from fellows with white +skins. Yes, the wild horses are heading our way; scouring along as if +all the Indians in Texas were after them. What does that signify? +Something, I take it." + +Jupiter cannot say. He is, as he has confessed, inexperienced upon the +prairies, ill understanding their "sign." However well acquainted with +the craft of the forest, up in everything pertaining to timber, upon the +treeless plains of Texas, an old prairie man would sneeringly pronounce +him a "greenhorn." + +Clancy, knowing this, scarce expects reply; or, if so, with little hope +of explanation. + +He does not wait for it, having himself discovered why the wild horses +are going at such a rate. Besides the dust stirred up by their hooves, +is another cloud rising in the sky beyond. The black belt just looming +along the horizon proclaims the approach of a "norther." The scared +horses are heading southward, in the hope to escape it. + +They come in full career towards the spot where the two have pulled up-- +along a line parallel to the trend of the cliff, at some distance from +its edge. Neighing, snorting, with tossed manes, and streaming tails, +they tear past, and are soon wide away on the other side. + +Clancy keeping horse and hound in check, waits till they are out of +sight. Then sets Brasfort back upon the scent, from which he so +unceremoniously jerked him. + +Though without dent of hoof on the dry parched grass, the hound easily +retakes it, straining on as before. + +But he is soon at fault, losing it. They have come upon the tracks of +the mustangs, these having spoiled the scent--killed it. + +Clancy, halting, sits dissatisfied in the saddle; Jupiter sharing his +dissatisfaction. + +What are they to do now? The mulatto suggests crossing the ground +trodden by the mustangs, and trying on the other side. + +To this Clancy consents. It is the only course that seems rational. + +Again moving forward, they pass over the beaten turf; and, letting +Brasfort alone, look to him. The hound strikes ahead, quartering. + +Not long till the vibration of his tail tells he is once more on the +scent. + +Now stiffer than ever, and leading in a straight line. He goes direct +for the copse of timber, which is now only a very short distance off. + +Again Clancy draws the dog in, at the same time reining up his horse. + +Jupe has done the same with his mule; and both bend their eyes upon the +copse--the grove of black-jack oaks--scanning it with glances of +inquiry. If Clancy but knew what is within, how in a glade near its +centre, is the man they are seeking, he would no longer tarry for +Brasfort's trailing, but letting go the leash altogether, and leaping +from his horse, rush in among the trees, and bring to a speedy reckoning +him, to whom he owes so much misery. + +Richard Darke dreams not of the danger so near him. He is in a deep +sleep--the dreamless, helpless slumber of intoxication. + +But a like near danger threatens Clancy himself, of which he is +unconscious. With face towards the copse, and eyes eagerly scrutinising +it, he thinks not of looking behind. + +By the way his hound still behaves, there must be something within the +grove. What can it be? He does not ask the question. He suspects--is, +indeed, almost certain--his enemy is that something. Muttering to the +mulatto, who has come close alongside, he says:-- + +"I shouldn't wonder, Jupe, if we've reached our journey's end. Look at +Brasfort! See how he strains! There's man or beast among those +black-jacks--both I take it." + +"Looks like, masser." + +"Yes; I think we'll there find what we're searching for. Strange, too, +his making no show. I can't see sign of a movement." + +"No more I." + +"Asleep, perhaps? It won't do for us to go any nearer, till sure. He's +had the advantage of me too often before. I can't afford giving it +again. Ha! what's that?" + +The dog has suddenly slewed round, and sniffs in the opposite direction. +Clancy and Jupe, turning at the same time, see that which draws their +thoughts from Richard Darke, driving him altogether out of their minds. + +Their faces are turned towards the east, where the Aurora reddens the +sky, and against its bright background several horsemen are seen _en +silhouette_, their number each instant increasing. Some are already +visible from crown to hoof; others show only to the shoulders; while the +heads of others can just be distinguished surmounting the crest of the +cliff. In the spectacle there is no mystery, nor anything that needs +explanation. Too well does Charles Clancy comprehend. A troop of +mounted men approaching up the pass, to all appearance Indians, +returning spoil-laden from a raid on some frontier settlement. But in +reality white men, outlawed desperadoes, the band of Jim Borlasse, long +notorious throughout South-Western Texas. + +One by one, they ascend _en echelon_, as fiends through a stage-trap in +some theatric scene, showing faces quite as satanic. Each, on arriving +at the summit, rides into line alongside their leader, already up and +halted. And on they come, till nineteen can be counted upon the plain. + +Clancy does not care to count them. There could be nothing gained by +that. He sees there are enough to make resistance idle. To attempt it +were madness. + +And must he submit? There seems no alternative. + +There is for all that; one he is aware of--flight. His horse is strong +and swift. For both these qualities originally chosen, and later +designed to be used for a special purpose--pursuit. Is the noble animal +now to be tried in a way never intended--retreat? + +Although that dark frowning phalanx, at the summit of the pass, would +seem to answer "yes," Clancy determines "no." Of himself he could still +escape--and easily. In a stretch over that smooth plain, not a horse in +their troop would stand the slightest chance to come up with him, and he +could soon leave all out of sight. But then, he must needs also leave +behind the faithful retainer, from whose lips has just issued a +declaration of readiness to follow him to the death. + +He cannot, will not; and if he thinks of flight, it is instinctively, +and but for an instant; the thought abandoned as he turns towards the +mulatto, and gives a glance at the mule. On his horse he could yet ride +away from the robbers, but the slow-footed hybrid bars all hope for +Jupiter. The absconding slave were certain to be caught, now; and slave +or free, the colour of his skin would ensure him cruel treatment from +the lawless crew. + +But what better himself taken? How can he protect poor Jupe, his own +freedom--his life--equally imperilled? For he has no doubt but that +Borlasse will remember, and recognise, him. It is barely twelve months +since he stood beside that whipping-post in the town of Nacogdoches, and +saw the ruffian receive chastisement for the stealing of his horse--the +same he is now sitting upon. No fear of the horse-thief having +forgotten that episode of his life. + +He can have no doubt but that Borlasse will retaliate; that this will be +his first thought, soon as seeing him. It needs not for the robber +chief to know what has occurred by the big oak; that Bosley is a +prisoner, Quantrell a fugitive, their prisoners released, and on their +way back to the Mission. It is not likely he does know, as yet. But +too likely he will soon learn. For Darke will be turning up ere long, +and everything will be made clear. Then to the old anger of Borlasse +for the affair of the scourging, will be added new rage, while that of +Darke himself will be desperate. + +In truth, the prospect is appalling; and Charles Clancy, almost as much +as ever in his life, feels that life in peril. + +Could he look into the courtyard of the San Saba Mission, and see what +is there, he might think it even more so. Without that, there is +sufficient to shake his resolution about standing his ground; enough to +make him spur away from the spot, and leave Jupiter to his fate. + +"No--never!" he mentally exclaims, closing all reflection. "As a coward +I could not live. If I must die, it shall be bravely. Fear not, Jupe! +We stand or fall together!" + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTY. + +SURROUNDED AND DISARMED. + +Borlasse, riding at the head of his band, has been the first to arrive +at the upper end of the gorge. + +Perceiving some figures upon the plain, he supposes them to be Quantrell +and Bosley with the captives. For his face is toward the west, where +the sky is still night-shadowed, and he can but indistinctly trace the +outlines of horses and men. As their number corresponds to that of his +missing comrades, he has no thought of its being other than they. How +could he, as none other are likely to be encountered there? + +Congratulating himself on his suspicions of the lieutenant's defection +proving unfounded, and that he will now clutch the prize long coveted, +he gives his horse the spur, and rides gaily out of the gorge. + +Not till then does he perceive that the men before him are in civilised +costume, and that but one is on horseback, the other bestriding a mule. +And they have no captives, the only other thing seen beside them being a +dog! + +They are not Quantrell and Bosley! + +"Who can they be?" he asks of Chisholm, who has closed up behind him. + +"Hanged if I know, cap. Judgin' by their toggery, they must be whites; +though 'gainst that dark sky one can't make sure about the colour of +their hides. A big dog with them. A couple of trappers I take it; or, +more likely, Mexican mustangers." + +"Not at all likely, Luke. There's none o' them 'bout here--at least +I've not heard of any since we came this side the Colorado. Cannot be +that. I wonder who--" + +"No use wonderin', cap. We can soon settle the point by questioning +them. As there's but the two, they'll have to tell who they are, or +take the consequences." + +By this, the other robbers have come up out of the ravine. Halted in a +row, abreast, they also scan the two figures in front, interrogating one +another as to who and what they are. All are alike surprised at men +there, mounted or afoot; more especially white men, as by their garb +they must be. But they have no apprehension at the encounter, seeing +there are so few. + +The chief, acting on Chisholm's suggestion, moves confidently forward, +the others, in like confidence, following. + +In less than sixty seconds they are up to the spot occupied by Clancy +and Jupiter. + +Borlasse can scarce believe his eyes; and rubs them to make sure they +are not deceiving him. If not they, something else has been--a +newspaper report, and a tale told by one confessing himself a murderer, +boastfully proclaiming it. And now, before him is the murdered man, on +horseback, firmly seated in the saddle, apparently in perfect health! + +The desperado is speechless with astonishment--only muttering to +himself:--"What the devil's this?" + +Were the question addressed to his, comrades, they could not answer it; +though none of them share his astonishment, or can tell what is causing +it. All they know is that two men are in their midst, one white, the +other a mulatto, but who either is they have not the slightest idea. +They see that the white man is a handsome young fellow--evidently a +gentleman--bestriding a steed which some of them already regard with +covetous glances; while he on the mule has the bearing of a +body-servant. + +None of them has ever met or seen Clancy before, nor yet the fugitive +slave. Their leader alone knows the first, too much of him, though +nothing of the last. But no matter about the man of yellow skin. He +with the white one is his chief concern. + +Recovering from his first surprise, he turns his thoughts towards +solving the enigma. He is not long before reaching its solution. He +remembers that the newspaper report said: "the body of the murdered man +has not been found." Ergo, Charles Clancy hasn't been killed after all; +for there he is, alive, and life-like as any man among them; mounted +upon a steed which Jim Borlasse remembers well--as well as he does his +master. To forget the animal would be a lapse of memory altogether +unnatural. There are weals on the robber's back,--a souvenir of +chastisement received for stealing that horse,--scars cicatrised, but +never to be effaced. + +Deeper still than the brand on his body has sunk the record into his +soul. He was more than disappointed--enraged--on hearing that Richard +Darke had robbed him of a premeditated vengeance. For he knew Clancy +was again returning to Texas, and intended taking it on his return. +Now, discovering he has not been forestalled, seeing his prosecutor +there, unexpectedly in his power, the glance he gives to him is less +like that of man than demon. + +His followers take note that there is a strangeness in his manner, but +refrain from questioning him about it. He seems in one of his moods, +when they know it is not safe to intrude upon, or trifle with him. In +his belt he carries a "Colt," which more than once has silenced a too +free-speaking subordinate. + +Having surrounded the two strangers, in obedience to his gesture, they +await further instructions how to deal with them. + +His first impulse is to make himself known to Clancy; then indulge in an +ebullition of triumph over his prisoner. Put a thought restraining him, +he resolves to preserve his incognito a little longer. Under his Indian +travestie he fancies Clancy cannot, and has not, recognised him. Nor is +it likely he would have done so, but for the foreknowledge obtained +through Bosley. Even now only by his greater bulk is the robber chief +distinguishable among his subordinates, all their faces being alike +fantastically disfigured. + +Drawing back behind his followers, he whispers some words to Chisholm, +instructing him what is to be done, as also to take direction of it. + +"Give up yer guns!" commands the latter, addressing himself to the +strangers. + +"Why should we?" asks Clancy. + +"We want no cross-questionin', Mister. 'Tain't the place for sech, nor +the time, as you'll soon larn. Give up yer guns! Right quick, or +you'll have them taken from ye, in a way you won't like." + +Clancy still hesitates, glancing hastily around the ring of mounted men. +He is mad at having permitted himself to be taken prisoner, for he +knows he is this. He regrets not having galloped off while there was +yet time. It is too late now. There is not a break in the enfilading +circle through which he might make a dash. Even if there were, what +chance ultimately to escape? None whatever. A score of guns and +pistols are around him, ready to be discharged should he attempt to stir +from the spot. Some of them are levelled, their barrels bearing upon +him. It would be instant death, and madness in him to seek it so. He +but says:-- + +"What have we done, that you should disarm us? You appear to be +Indians, yet talk the white man's tongue. In any case, and whoever you +are, we have no quarrel with you. Why should you wish to make us +prisoners?" + +"We don't do anything of the sort. That would be wastin' wishes. +You're our pris'ners already." + +It is Chisholm who thus facetiously speaks, adding in sterner tone:-- + +"Let go yer guns, or, by God! we'll shoot you out of your saddles. +Boys! in upon 'em, and take their weepuns away!" + +At the command several of the robbers spring their horses forward, and, +closing upon Clancy, seize him from all sides; others serving Jupiter +the same. Both see that resistance were worse than folly--sheer +insanity--and that there is no alternative but submit. + +Their arms are wrested from them, though they are allowed to retain +possession of their animals. That is, they are left in their saddles-- +compelled to stay in them by ropes rove around their ankles, attaching +them to the stirrup-leathers. + +Whatever punishment awaits them, that is not the place where they are to +suffer it. For, soon as getting their prisoners secured, the band is +again formed into files, its leader ordering it to continue the march, +so unexpectedly, and to him satisfactorily, interrupted. + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE. + +A PATHLESS PLAIN. + +The plain across which the freebooters are now journeying, on return to +what they call their "rendyvoo," is one of a kind common in +South-western Texas. An arid steppe, or table-land, by the Mexicans +termed _mesa_; for the most part treeless, or only with such +arborescence as characterises the American desert. "Mezquite," a name +bestowed on several trees of the acacia kind, "black-jack," a dwarfed +species of oak, with _Prosopis_, _Fouquiera_, and other spinous shrubs, +are here and there found in thickets called "chapparals," interspersed +with the more succulent vegetation of _cactus_ and _agave_, as also the +_yucca_, or dragon-tree of the Western Hemisphere. + +In this particular section of it almost every tree and plant carries +thorns. Even certain grasses are armed with prickly spurs, and sting +the hand that touches them; while the reptiles crawling among them are +of the most venomous species; scorpions and centipedes, with snakes +having ossified tails, and a frog furnished with horns! The last, +however, though vulgarly believed to be a batrachian, is in reality a +lizard--the _Agama cornuta_. + +This plain, extending over thirty miles from east to west, and twice the +distance in a longitudinal direction, has on one side the valley of the +San Saba, on the other certain creeks tributary to the Colorado. On one +of these the prairie pirates have a home, or haunt, to which they retire +only on particular occasions, and for special purposes. Under +circumstances of this kind they are now _en route_ for it. + +Its locality has been selected with an eye to safety, which it serves to +perfection. A marauding party pursued from the lower settlements of the +Colorado, by turning up the valley of the San Saba, and then taking +across the intermediate plain, would be sure to throw the pursuers off +their tracks, since on the table-land none are left throughout long +stretches where even the iron heel of a horse makes no dent in the dry +turf, nor leaves the slightest imprint. At one place in particular, +just after striking this plain from the San Saba side, there is a broad +belt, altogether without vegetation or soil upon its surface, the ground +being covered with what the trappers call "cut-rock," presenting the +appearance of a freshly macadamised road. Extending for more than a +mile in width, and ten times as much lengthways, it is a tract no +traveller would care to enter on who has any solicitude about the hooves +of his horse. But just for this reason is it in every respect suitable +to the prairie pirates. They may cross it empty-handed, and recross +laden with spoil, without the pursuers being able to discover whence +they came, or whither they have gone. + +Several times has this happened; settlers having come up the Colorado in +pursuit of a marauding party--supposed to be Comanche Indians--tracked +them into the San Saba bottom-land, and on over the bluff--there to lose +their trail, and retire disheartened from the pursuit. + +Across this stony stretch proceed the freebooters, leaving no more trace +behind, than one would walking on a shingled sea-beach. + +On its opposite edge they make stop to take bearings. For although they +have more than once passed that way before, it is a route which always +requires to be traversed with caution. To get strayed on the +inhospitable steppe would be attended with danger, and might result in +death. + +In clear weather, to those acquainted with the trail, there is little +chance of losing it. For midway between the water courses runs a ridge, +bisecting the steppe in a longitudinal direction; and on the crest of +this is a tree, which can be seen from afar off on either side. The +ridge is of no great elevation, and would scarce be observable but for +the general level from which it rises, a mere comb upon the plain, such +as is known northward by the term _coteau de prairie_--a title bestowed +by trappers of French descent. + +The tree stands solitary, beside a tiny spring, which bubbles out +between its roots. This, trickling off, soon sinks into the desert +sand, disappearing within a few yards of the spot where it has burst +forth. + +In such situation both tree and fountain are strange; though the one +will account for the other, the former being due to the latter. But +still another agency is needed to explain the existence of the tree. +For it is a "cottonwood"--a species not found elsewhere upon the same +plain; its seed no doubt transported thither by some straying bird. +Dropped by the side of the spring in soil congenial, it has sprouted up, +nourished, and become a tall tree. Conspicuous for long leagues around, +it serves the prairie pirates as a finger-post to direct them across the +steppe; for by chance it stands right on their route. It is visible +from the edge of the pebble-strewn tract, but only when there is a +cloudless sky and shining sun. Now, the one is clouded, the other +unseen, and the tree cannot be distinguished. + +For some minutes the robbers remain halted, but without dismounting. +Seated in the saddle, they strain their eyes along the horizon to the +west. + +The Fates favour them; as in this world is too often the case with +wicked men, notwithstanding many saws to the contrary. The sun shoots +from behind a cloud, scattering his golden gleams broad and bright over +the surface of the plain. Only for an instant, but enough to show the +cottonwood standing solitary on the crest of the ridge. + +"Thank the Lord for that glimp o' light!" exclaims Borlasse, catching +sight of the tree, "Now, boys; we see our beacon, an' let's straight to +it. When we've got thar I'll show ye a bit of sport as 'll make ye +laugh till there wont be a whole rib left in your bodies, nor a button +on your coats--if ye had coats on." + +With this absurd premonition he presses on--his scattered troop +reforming, and following. + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO. + +THE PRAIRIE STOCKS. + +Silent is Clancy, sullen as a tiger just captured and encaged. As the +moments pass, and he listens to the lawless speech of his captors, more +than ever is he vexed with himself for having so tamely submitted to be +taken. + +Though as yet no special inhumanity has been shown him, he knows there +will ere long. Coarse jests bandied between the robbers, whispered +innuendoes, forewarn him of some fearful punishment about to be put upon +him. Only its nature remains unknown. + +He does not think they intend killing him outright. He has overheard +one of his guards muttering to the other, that such is not the chiefs +intention, adding some words which make the assurance little +consolatory. "Worse than death" is the fragment of a sentence borne +ominously to his ears. + +Worse than death! Is it to be torture? + +During all this time Borlasse has not declared himself, or given token +of having recognised his prisoner. But Clancy can tell he has done so. +He saw it in the Satanic glance of his eye as they first came face to +face. Since, the robber has studiously kept away from him, riding at +the head of the line, the prisoners having place in its centre. + +On arrival at the underwood, all dismount; but only to slake their +thirst, as that of their horses. The spring is unapproachable by the +animals; and leathern buckets are called into requisition. With these, +and other marching apparatus, the freebooters are provided. While one +by one the horses are being watered, Borlasse draws off to some +distance, beckoning Chisholm to follow him; and for a time the two seem +engaged in earnest dialogue, as if in discussion. The chief promised +his followers a spectacle,--a "bit of sport," as he facetiously termed +it. Clancy has been forecasting torture, but in his worst fear of it +could not conceive any so terrible as that in store for him. It is in +truth a cruelty inconceivable, worthy a savage, or Satan himself. Made +known to Chisholm, though hardened this outlaw's heart, he at first +shrinks from assisting in its execution--even venturing to remonstrate. + +But Borlasse is inexorable. He has no feelings of compassion for the +man who was once the cause of his being made to wince under the whip. +His vengeance is implacable; and will only be satisfied by seeing Clancy +suffer all that flesh can. By devilish ingenuity he has contrived a +scheme to this intent, and will carry it out regardless of consequences. + +So says he, in answer to the somewhat mild remonstrance of his +subordinate. + +"Well, cap," rejoins the latter, yielding, "if you're determined to have +it that way, why, have it. But let it be a leetle privater than you've +spoke o'. By makin' it a public spectacle, an' lettin' all our fellars +into your feelins, some o' 'em mightn't be so much amused. An some +might get to blabbin' about it afterwards, in such a way as to breed +trouble. The originality an' curiousness o' the thing would be sure to +'tract attention, an' the report o't would run through all Texas, like a +prairie on fire. 'Twould never sleep as long's there's a soger left in +the land; and sure as shootin' we'd have the Rangers and Regulators hot +after us. Tharfore, if you insist on the bit o' interment, take my +advice, and let the ceremony be confined to a few friends as can be +trusted wi' a secret." + +For some seconds Borlasse is silent, pondering upon what Chisholm has +said. Then responds:-- + +"Guess you're about right, Luke. I'll do as you suggest. Best way will +be to send the boys on ahead. There's three can stay with us we can +trust--Watts, Stocker, and Driscoll. They'll be enough to do the +grave-digging. The rest can go on to the rendezvous. Comrades!" he +adds, moving back towards his men, who have just finished watering their +horses, "I spoke o' some sport I intended givin' you here. On second +thinkin' it'll be better defarred till we get to head-quarters. So into +your saddles and ride on thar--takin' the yeller fellow along wi' ye. +The other I'll look after myself. You, Luke Chisholm, stay; with Watts, +Stocker, and Driscoll. I've got a reason for remaining here a little +longer. We'll soon be after, like enough overtake ye 'fore you can +reach the creek. If not, keep on to camp without us. An', boys; once +more I warn ye about openin' them boxes. I know what's in them to a +dollar. Fernand! you'll see to that." + +The half-blood, of taciturn habit, nods assent, Borlasse adding:-- + +"Now, you damned rascals! jump into your saddles and be off. Take the +nigger along. Leave the white gentleman in better company, as befits +him." + +With a yell of laughter at the coarse sally, the freebooters spring upon +their horses. Then, separating Clancy from Jupe, they ride off, taking +the latter. On the ground are left only the chief, Chisholm, and the +trio chosen to assist at some ceremony, mysteriously spoken of as an +"interment." + +After all it is not to be there. On reflection, Borlasse deems the +place not befitting. The grave he is about to dig must not be +disturbed, nor the body he intends burying disinterred. + +Though white traveller never passes that solitary tree, red ones +sometimes seek relaxation under its shade. Just possible a party of +Comanches may come along; and though savages, their hearts might still +be humane enough to frustrate the nefarious scheme of a white man more +savage than they. To guard against such contingency Borlasse has +bethought him of some change in his programme, which he makes known to +Chisholm, saying:-- + +"I won't bury him here, Luke. Some strayin' redskin might come along, +and help him to resurrection. By God! he shan't have that, till he +hears Gabriel's trumpet. To make sure we must plant him in a safer +place." + +"Can we find safer, cap?" + +"Certainly we can." + +"But whar?" + +"Anywhare out o' sight of here. We shall take him to some distance off, +so's they can't see him from the spring. Up yonder'll do." + +He points to a part of the plain northward, adding:-- + +"It's all alike which way, so long's we go far enough." + +"All right!" rejoins Chisholm, who has surrendered his scruples about +the cruelty of what they intend doing, and only thinks of its being done +without danger. + +"Boys!" shouts Borlasse to the men in charge of Clancy, "bring on your +prisoner! We're going to make a leetle deflection from the course--a +bit o' a pleasure trip--only a short un." + +So saying, he starts off in a northerly direction, nearly at right +angles to that they have been hitherto travelling. + +After proceeding about a mile, the brigand chief, still riding with +Chisholm in the advance, comes to a halt, calling back to the others to +do the same--also directing them to dismount their prisoner. + +Clancy is unceremoniously jerked out of his saddle; and, after having +his arms pinioned, and limbs lashed together, laid prostrate along the +earth. This leaves them free for the infernal task, they are now +instructed to perform. One only, Watts, stays with the prisoner; the +other two, at the chiefs command, coming on to where he and Chisholm +have halted. Then all four cluster around a spot he points out, giving +directions what they are to do. + +With the point of his spear Borlasse traces a circle upon the turf, some +twenty inches in diameter; then tells them to dig inside it. + +Stocker and Driscoll draw their tomahawks, and commence hacking at the +ground; which, though hard, yields to the harder steel of hatchets +manufactured for the cutting of skulls. As they make mould, it is +removed by Chisholm with the broad blade of his Comanche spear. + +As all prairie men are accustomed to making _caches_, they are expert at +this; and soon sink a shaft that would do credit to the "crowing" of a +South African Bosjesman. It is a cylinder full five feet in depth, with +a diameter of less than two. Up to this time its purpose has not been +declared to either Stocker, or Driscoll, though both have their +conjectures. They guess it to be the grave of him who is lying along +the earth--his living tomb! + +At length, deeming it deep enough, Borlasse commands them to leave off +work, adding, as he points to the prisoner: "Now, plant your saplin'! +If it don't grow there it ought to." + +The cold-blooded jest extorts a smile from the others, as they proceed +to execute the diabolical order. + +And they do it without show of hesitation--rather with alacrity. Not +one of the five has a spark of compassion in his breast--not one whose +soul is unstained with blood. + +Clancy is dragged forward, and plunged feet foremost into the cavity. +Standing upright, his chin is only an inch or two above the surface of +the ground. A portion of the loose earth is pushed in, and packed +around him, the ruffians trampling it firm. What remains they kick and +scatter aside; the monster, with horrible mockery, telling them to make +a "neat job of it." + +During all this time Brasfort has been making wild demonstrations, +struggling to free himself, as if to rescue his master. For he is also +bound, tied to the stirrup of one of the robber's horses. But the +behaviour of the faithful animal, instead of stirring them to +compassion, only adds to their fiendish mirth. + +The interment complete, Borlasse makes a sign to the rest to retire; +then, placing himself in front, with arms akimbo, stands looking Clancy +straight in the face. No pen could paint that glance. It can only be +likened to that of Lucifer. + +For a while he speaks not, but in silence exults over his victim. Then, +bending down and tossing back his plumed bonnet, he asks, "D'ye know me, +Charley Clancy?" + +Receiving no reply, he continues, "I'll lay a hundred dollars to one, ye +will, after I've told ye a bit o' a story, the which relates to a +circumstance as happened jest twelve months ago. The scene o' that +affair was in the public square o' Nacodosh, whar a man was tied to a +post an--" + +"Whipped at it, as he deserved." + +"Ha!" exclaims Borlasse, surprised, partly at being recognised, but as +much by the daring avowal. "You do remember that little matter? And me +too?" + +"Perfectly; so you may spare yourself the narration. You are Jim +Borlasse, the biggest brute and most thorough scoundrel in Texas." + +"Curse you!" cries the ruffian enraged, poising his spear till its point +almost touches Clancy's head, "I feel like driving this through your +skull." + +"Do so!" is the defiant and desperate rejoinder. It is what Clancy +desires. He has no hope of life now. He wishes death to come at once, +and relieve him from the long agony he will otherwise have to endure. + +Quick catching this to be his reason, Borlasse restrains himself, and +tosses up the spear, saying:-- + +"No, Mister; ye don't die that eesy way--not if I know it. You and +yours kept me two days tied like a martyr to the stake, to say nothin' +of what came after. So to make up for't I'll give you a spell o' +confinement that'll last a leetle longer. You shall stay as ye are, +till the buzzarts peck out your eyes, an' the wolves peel the skin from +your skull--ay, till the worms go crawlin' through your flesh. How'll +ye like that, Charley Clancy?" + +"There's no wolf or vulture on the prairies of Texas ugly as yourself. +Dastardly dog!" + +"Ah! you'd like to get me angry? But you can't. I'm cool as a +cowkumber--aint I? Your dander's up, I can see. Keep it down. No good +your gettin' excited. I s'pose you'd like me to spit in your face. +Well, here goes to obleege ye." + +At this he stoops down, and does as said. After perpetrating the +outrage, he adds:-- + +"Why don't ye take out your handkercher an' wipe it off. It's a pity to +see such a handsome fellow wi' his face in that fashion. Ha! ha! ha!" + +His four confederates, standing apart, spectators of the scene, echo his +fiendish laughter. + +"Well, well, my proud gentleman;" he resumes, "to let a man spit in your +face without resentin' it! I never expected to see you sunk so low. +Humiliated up to the neck--to the chin! Ha! ha! ha!" + +Again rings out the brutal cachinnation, chorused by his four followers. + +In like manner the monster continues to taunt his helpless victim; so +long, one might fancy his spite would be spent, his vengeance sated. + +But no--not yet. There is still another arrow in his quiver--a last +shaft to be shot--which he knows will carry a sting keener than any yet +sent. + +When his men have remounted, and are ready to ride off, he returns to +Clancy, and, stooping, hisses into his ear:-- + +"Like enough you'll be a goodish while alone here, an' tharfore left to +your reflections. Afore partin' company, let me say somethin' that may +comfort you. _Dick Darke's got your girl; 'bout this time has her in +his arms_!" + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE. + +HELPLESS AND HOPELESS. + +"O God!" + +Charles Clancy thus calls upon his Maker. Hitherto sustained by +indignation, now that the tormentor has left him, the horror of his +situation, striking into his soul in all its dread reality, wrings from +him the prayerful apostrophe. + +A groan follows, as his glance goes searching over the plain. For there +is nothing to gladden it. His view commands the half of a circle--a +great circle such as surrounds you upon the sea; though not as seen from +the deck of a ship, but by one lying along the thwarts of a boat, or +afloat upon a raft. + +The robbers have ridden out of sight, and he knows they will not return. +They have left him to die a lingering death, almost as if entombed +alive. Perhaps better he were enclosed in a coffin; for then his +sufferings would sooner end. + +He has not the slightest hope of being succoured. There is no +likelihood of human creature coming that way. It is a sterile waste, +without game to tempt the hunter, and though a trail runs across it, +Borlasse, with fiendish forethought, has placed him so far from this, +that no one travelling along it could possibly see him. He can just +descry the lone cottonwood afar off, outlined against the horizon like a +ship at sea. It is the only tree in sight; elsewhere not even a bush to +break the drear monotony of the desert. + +He thinks of Simeon Woodley, Ned Heywood, and those who may pursue the +plunderers of the settlement. But with hopes too faint to be worth +entertaining. For he has been witness to the precautions taken by the +robbers to blind their trail, and knows that the most skilled tracker +cannot discover it. Chance alone could guide the pursuit in that +direction, if pursuit there is to be. But even this is doubtful. For +Colonel Armstrong having recovered his daughters, and only some silver +stolen, the settlers may be loath to take after the thieves, or postpone +following them to some future time. Clancy has no knowledge of the +sanguinary drama that has been enacted at the Mission, else he would not +reason thus. Ignorant of it, he can only be sure, that Sime Woodley and +Ned Heywood will come in quest of, but without much likelihood of their +finding them. No doubt they will search for days, weeks, months, if +need be; and in time, but too late, discover--what? His head-- + +"Ha!" + +His painful reflections are interrupted by that which but intensifies +their painfulness: a shadow he sees flitting across the plain. + +His eyes do not follow it, but, directed upward, go in search of the +thing which is causing it. "A vulture!" + +The foul bird is soaring aloft, its black body and broad expanded wings +outlined against the azure sky. For this is again clear, the clouds and +threatening storm having drifted off without bursting. And now, while +with woe in his look he watches the swooping bird, well knowing the +sinister significance of its flight, he sees another, and another, and +yet another, till the firmament seems filled with them. + +Again he groans out, "O God!" + +A new agony threatens, a new horror is upon him. Vain the attempt to +depict his feelings, as he regards the movements of the vultures. They +are as those of one swimming in the sea amidst sharks. For, although +the birds do not yet fly towards him, he knows they will soon be there. +He sees them sailing in spiral curves, descending at each gyration, +slowly but surely stooping lower, and coming nearer. He can hear the +swish of their wings, like the sough of an approaching storm, with now +and then a raucous utterance from their throats--the signal of some +leader directing the preliminaries of the attack, soon to take place. + +At length they are so close, he can see the ruff around their naked +necks, bristled up; the skin reddened as with rage, and their beaks, +stained with bloody flesh of some other banquet, getting ready to feast +upon his. Soon he will feel them striking against his skull, pecking +out his eyes. O, heavens! can horror be felt further? + +Not by him. It adds not to his, when he perceives that the birds +threatening to assail him will be assisted by beasts. For he now sees +this. Mingling with the shadows flitting over the earth, are things +more substantial--the bodies of wolves. As with the vultures, at first +only one; then two or three; their number at each instant increasing, +till a whole pack of the predatory brutes have gathered upon the ground. + +Less silent than their winged allies--their competitors, if it come to a +repast. For the coyote is a noisy creature, and those now assembling +around Clancy's head--a sight strange to them--give out their triple +bark, with its prolonged whine, in sound so lugubrious, that, instead of +preparing for attack, one might fancy them wailing a defeat. + +Clancy has often heard that cry, and well comprehends its meaning. It +seems his death-dirge. While listening to it no wonder he again calls +upon God--invokes Heaven to help him! + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR. + +COYOTE CREEK. + +A stream coursing through a canoned channel whose banks rise three +hundred feet above its bed. They are twin cliffs that front one +another, their _facades_ not half so far apart. Rough with projecting +points of rock, and scarred by water erosion, they look like angry +giants with grim visages frowning mutual defiance. In places they +approach, almost to touching; then, diverging, sweep round the opposite +sides of an ellipse; again closing like the curved handles of callipers. +Through the spaces thus opened the water makes its way, now rushing in +hoarse torrent, anon gently meandering through meadows, whose vivid +verdure, contrasting with the sombre colour of the enclosing cliffs, +gives the semblance of landscape pictures set in rustic frame. + +The traveller who attempts to follow the course of the stream in +question will have to keep upon the cliffs above: for no nearer can he +approach its deeply-indented channel. And here he will see only the +sterile treeless plain; or, if trees meet his eye, they will be such as +but strengthen the impression of sterility--some scrambling mezquite +bushes, clumps of cactaceae, perhaps the spheroidal form of a +melocactus, or yucca, with its tufts of rigid leaves--the latter +resembling bunches of bayonets rising above the musket "stacks" on a +military parade ground. + +He will have no view of the lush vegetation that enlivens the valley a +hundred yards below the hoofs of his horse. He will not even get a +glimpse of the stream itself; unless by going close to the edge of the +precipice, and craning his neck over. And to do this, he must needs +diverge from his route to avoid the transverse rivulets, each trickling +down the bed of its own deep-cut channel. + +There are many such streams in South-Western Texas; but the one here +described is that called _Arroyo de Coyote_--Anglice, "Coyote Creek"--a +tributary of the Colorado. + +In part it forms the western boundary of the table-land, already known +to the reader, in part intersecting it. Approaching it from the San +Saba side, there is a stretch of twenty miles, where its channel cannot +be reached, except by a single lateral ravine leading down to it at +right angles, the entrance to which is concealed by a thick chapparal of +thorny mezquite trees. Elsewhere, the traveller may arrive on the +bluff's brow, but cannot go down to the stream's edge. He may see it +far below, coursing among trees of every shade of green, from clearest +emerald to darkest olive, here in straight reaches, there sinuous as a +gliding snake. Birds of brilliant plumage flit about through the +foliage upon its banks, some disporting themselves in its pellucid wave; +some making the valley vocal with their melodious warblings, and others +filling it with harsh, stridulous cries. Burning with thirst, and faint +from fatigue, he will fix his gaze on the glistening water, to be +tortured as Tantalus, and descry the cool shade, without being able to +rest his weary limbs beneath it. + +But rare the traveller, who ever strays to the bluffs bounding Coyote +Creek: rarer still, those who have occasion to descend to the +bottom-land through which it meanders. + +Some have, nevertheless, as evinced by human sign observable upon the +stream's bank, just below where the lateral ravine leads down. There +the cliffs diverging, and again coming near, enclose a valley of ovoidal +shape, for the most part overgrown with pecan-trees. On one side of it +is a thick umbrageous grove, within which several tents are seen +standing. They are of rude description, partly covered by the skins of +animals, partly scraps of old canvas, here and there eked out with a bit +of blanket, or a cast coat. No one would mistake them for the tents of +ordinary travellers, while they are equally unlike the wigwams of the +nomadic aboriginal. To whom, then, do they appertain? + +Were their owners present, there need be no difficulty in answering the +question. But they are not. Neither outside, nor within, is soul to be +seen. Nor anywhere near. No human form appears about the place; no +voice of man, woman, or child, reverberates through the valley. Yet is +there every evidence of recent occupation. In an open central space, +are the ashes of a huge fire still hot, with fagots half-burnt, and +scarce ceased smoking; while within the tents are implements, utensils, +and provisions--bottles and jars of liquor left uncorked, with stores of +tobacco unconsumed. What better proof that they are only temporarily +deserted, and not abandoned? Certainly their owners, whether white men +or Indians, intend returning to them. + +It need scarce be told who these are. Enough to say, that Coyote Creek +is the head-quarters of the prairie pirates, who assaulted the San Saba +settlement. + +Just as the sun is beginning to decline towards the western horizon, +those of them sent on ahead arrive at their rendezvous; the chief, with +Chisholm and the other three, not yet having come up. + +On entering the encampment, they relieve their horses of the precious +loads. Then unsaddling, turn them into a "corral" rudely constructed +among the trees. A set of bars, serving as a gate, secures the animals +against straying. + +This simple stable duty done, the men betake themselves to the tents, +re-kindle the fire, and commence culinary operations. By this, all are +hungry enough, and they have the wherewithal to satisfy their appetites. +There are skilful hunters among them, and the proceeds of a chase, that +came off before starting out on their less innocent errand, are seen +hanging from the trees, in the shape of bear's hams and haunches of +venison. These taken down, are spitted, and soon frizzling in the +fire's blaze; while the robbers gather around, knives in hand, each +intending to carve for himself. + +As they are about to commence their Homeric repast, Borlasse and the +others ride up. Dismounting and striding in among the tents, the chief +glances inquiringly around, his glance soon changing to disappointment. +What he looks for is not there! "Quantrell and Bosley," he asks, "ain't +they got here?" + +"No, capting," answers one. "They hain't showed yet." + +"And you've seen nothin' of them?" + +"Nary thing." + +His eyes light up with angry suspicion. Again doubts he the fidelity of +Darke, or rather is he now certain that the lieutenant is a traitor. + +Uttering a fearful oath, he steps inside his tent, taking Chisholm along +with him. + +"What can it mean, Luke?" he asks, pouring out a glass of brandy, and +gulping it down. + +"Hanged if I can tell, cap. It looks like you was right in supposin' +they're gin us the slip. Still it's queery too, whar they could a goed, +and wharf ore they should." + +"There's nothing so strange about the wherefore; that's clear enough to +me. I suspected Richard Darke, _alias_ Phil Quantrell, would play me +false some day, though I didn't expect it so soon. He don't want his +beauty brought here, lest some of the boys might be takin' a fancy to +her. That's one reason, but not all. There's another--to a man like +him 'most as strong. He's rich, leastaways his dad is, an' he can get +as much out o' the old 'un as he wants,--will have it all in time. He +guesses I intended squeezin' him; an' thar he was about right, for I +did. I'd lay odds that's the main thing has moved him to cut clear o' +us." + +"A darned mean trick if it is. You gied him protection when he was +chased by the sheriffs, an' now--" + +"Now, he won't need it; though he don't know that; can't, I think. If +he but knew he ain't after all a murderer! See here, Luke; he may turn +up yet. An' if so, for the life o' ye, ye mustn't tell him who it was +we dibbled into the ground up thar. I took care not to let any of them +hear his name. You're the only one as knows it." + +"Ye can trust me, cap. The word Clancy won't pass through my teeth, +till you gie me leave to speak it." + +"Ha!" exclaims Borlasse, suddenly struck with an apprehension. "I never +thought of the mulatto. He may have let it out?" + +"He mayn't, however!" + +"If not, he shan't now. I'll take care he don't have the chance." + +"How are ye to help it? You don't intend killin' him?" + +"Not yet; thar's a golden _egg_ in that goose. His silence can be +secured without resortin' to that. He must be kep' separate from the +others." + +"But some o' them 'll have to look after him, or he may cut away from +us." + +"Fernandez will do that. I can trust him with Clancy's name,--with +anything. Slip out, Luke, and see if they've got it among them. If +they have, it's all up, so far as that game goes. If not, I'll fix +things safe, so that when we've spent Monsheer Dupre's silver, we may +still draw cheques on the bank of San Antonio, signed Ephraim Darke." + +Chisholm obeying, brings back a satisfactory report. + +"The boys know nothin' o' Clancy's name, nor how we disposed o' him. In +coorse, Watts, Stocker, an' Driscoll, haint sayed anything 'bout that. +They've told the rest we let him go, not carin' to keep him; and that +you only wanted the yellow fellow to wait on ye." + +"Good! Go again, and fetch Fernandez here." + +Chisholm once more turns out of the tent, soon after re-entering it, the +half-blood behind him. + +"Nandy," says Borlasse; calling the latter by a name mutually +understood. "I want you to take charge of that mulatto, and keep him +under your eye. You musn't let any of the boys come nigh enough to hold +speech wi' him. You go, Luke, and give them orders they're not to." +Chisholm retires. + +"And, Nandy, if the nigger mentions any name--it may be that of his +master--mind you it's not to be repeated to any one. You understand +me?" + +"I do, _capitan_." + +"All serene. I know I can depend on ye. Now, to your duty." + +Without another word, the taciturn mestizo glides out of the tent, +leaving Borlasse alone. Speaking to himself, he says:-- + +"If Quantrell's turned traitor, thar's not a corner in Texas whar he'll +be safe from my vengeance. I'll sarve the whelp as I've done 'tother,-- +a hound nobler than he. An' for sweet Jessie Armstrong, he'll have +strong arms that can keep her out o' mine. By heavens! I'll hug her +yet. If not, hell may take me!" + +Thus blasphemously delivering himself, he clutches at the bottle of +brandy, pours out a fresh glass, and drinking it at a gulp, sits down to +reflect on the next step to be taken. + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE. + +A TRANSFORMATION. + +Night has spread its sable pall over the desert plain, darker in the +deep chasm through which runs Coyote Creek. There is light enough in +the encampment of the prairie pirates; for the great fire kindled for +cooking their dinners still burns, a constant supply of resinous +pine-knots keeping up the blaze, which illuminates a large circle +around. By its side nearly a score of men are seated in groups, some +playing cards, others idly carousing. No one would suppose them the +same seen there but a few hours before; since there is not the semblance +of Indian among them. Instead, they are all white men, and wearing the +garb of civilisation; though scarce two are costumed alike. There are +coats of Kentucky jeans, of home-wove copperas stripe, of blanket-cloth +in the three colours, red, blue, and green; there are blouses of brown +linen, and buckskin dyed with dogwood ooze; there are Creole jackets of +Attakapas "cottonade," and Mexican ones of cotton velveteen. Alike +varied is the head, leg, and foot-wear. There are hats of every shape +and pattern; pantaloons of many a cut and material, most of them tucked +into boots with legs of different lengths, from ankle to mid-thigh. +Only in the under garment is there anything like uniformity; nine out of +ten wearing shirts of scarlet flannel--the fashion of the frontier. + +A stranger entering the camp now, would suppose its occupants to be a +party of hunters; one acquainted with the customs of South-Western +Texas, might pronounce them _mustangers_--men who make their living by +the taking and taming of wild horses. And if those around the fire were +questioned about their calling, such would be the answer.--In their +tents are all the paraphernalia used in this pursuit; lassoes for +catching the horses; halters and hobbles for confining them; bits for +breaking, and the like; while close by is a "corral" in which to keep +the animals when caught. + +All counterfeit! There is not a real mustanger among these men, nor one +who is not a robber; scarce one who could lay his hand upon his heart, +and say he has not, some time or other in his life, committed murder! +For though changed in appearance, since last seen, they are the same who +entered the camp laden with Luis Dupre's money--fresh from the massacre +of his slaves. The transformation took place soon as they snatched a +hasty meal. Then all hurried down to the creek, provided with pieces of +soap; and plunging in, washed the paint from their hands, arms, and +faces. + +The Indian costume has not only been cast aside, but secreted, with all +its equipments. + +If the encampment were searched now, no stained feathers would be found; +no beads or belts of wampum; no breech-clouts, bows, or quivers; no +tomahawks or spears. All have been "cached" in a cave among the rocks; +there to remain till needed for some future maraud, or massacre. + +Around their camp-fire the freebooters are in full tide of enjoyment. +The dollars have been divided, and each has his thousands. Those at the +cards are not contented, but are craving more. They will be richer, or +poorer. And soon; playing "poker" at fifty dollars an "ante." + +Gamesters and lookers on alike smoke, drink, and make merry. They have +no fear now, not the slightest apprehension. If pursued, the pursuers +cannot find the way to Coyote creek. If they did, what would they see +there? Certainly not the red-skinned savages, who plundered the San +Saba mission, but a party of innocent horse hunters, all Texans. The +only one resembling an Indian among them is the half-breed--Fernand. +But he is also so metamorphosed, that his late master could not +recognise him. The others have changed from red men to white; in +reverse, he has become to all appearance a pure-blooded aboriginal. + +Confident in their security, because ignorant of what has taken place +under the live-oak, they little dream that one of their confederates is +in a situation, where he will be forced to tell a tale sure to thwart +their well-constructed scheme, casting it down as a house of cards. +Equally are they unaware of the revelation which their own prisoner, the +mulatto, could make. They suppose him and his master to be but two +travellers encountered by accident, having no connection with the San +Saba settlers. Borlasse is better informed about this, though not +knowing all. He believes Clancy to have been _en route_ for the new +settlement, but without having reached it. He will never reach it now. + +In hope of getting a clearer insight into many things still clouded, +while his followers are engaged at their games, he seeks the tent to +which Jupiter has been consigned, and where he is now under the +surveillance of the half-blood, Fernand. + +Ordering the mestizo to retire, he puts the prisoner through a course of +cross-questioning. + +The mulatto is a man of no ordinary intelligence. He had the misfortune +to be born a slave, with the blood of a freeman in his veins; which, +stirring him to discontent with his ignoble lot, at length forced him to +become a fugitive. With a subtlety partly instinctive, but strengthened +by many an act of injustice, he divines the object of the robber +captain's visit. + +Not much does the latter make of him, question as he may. Jupe knows +nothing of any Phil Quantrell, or any Richard Darke. He is the slave of +the young gentleman who has been separated from him. He makes no +attempt to conceal his master's name, knowing that Borlasse is already +acquainted with Clancy, and must have recognised him. They were on +their way to join the colony of Colonel Armstrong, with a party from the +States. They came up from the Colorado the night before, camping in the +San Saba bottom, where he believes them to be still. Early in the +morning, his master left the camp for a hunt, and the hound had tracked +a bear up the gully. That was why they were on the upper plain; they +were trying for the track of the bear, when taken. + +The mulatto has no great liking for his master, from whom he has had +many a severe flogging. In proof he tells the robber chief to turn up +his shirt, and see how his back has been scored by the cowhide. +Borlasse--does so; and sure enough there are the scars, somewhat similar +to those he carries himself. + +If not pity, the sight begets a sort of coarse sympathy, such as the +convict feels for his fellow; an emotion due to the freemasonry of +crime. Jupiter takes care to strengthen it, by harping on the cruelty +of his master--more than hinting that he would like to leave him, if any +other would but buy him. Indeed he'd be willing to run away, if he saw +the chance. + +"Don't trouble yerself 'bout that," says the bandit, 'as the interview +comes near its end, "maybe, I'll buy ye myself. At all events, Mister +Clancy ain't likely to flog you any more. How'd ye like _me_ for yer +master?" + +"I'd be right glad, boss." + +"Are ye up to takin' care of horses?" + +"That's just what Masser Clancy kept me for." + +"Well; he's gone on to the settlement without you. As he's left you +behind that careless way, ye can stay with us, an' look after my horse. +It's the same ye've been accustomed to. I swopped with your master +'fore we parted company." + +Jupe is aware that Clancy's splendid steed is in the camp. Through a +chink in the tent he saw the horse ridden in, Borlasse on his back; +wondering why his master was not along, and what they had done with him. +He has no faith in the tale told him, but a fear it is far otherwise. +It will not do to show this, and concealing his anxiety, he rejoins:-- + +"All right, masser. I try do my best. Only hope you not a gwine where +we come cross Masser Clancy. If he see me, he sure have me back, and +then I'se get the cowhide right smart. He flog me dreadful." + +"You're in no danger. I'll take care he never sets eye on you again. + +"Here, Nandy!" he says to the mestizo, summoned back. "You can remove +them ropes from your prisoner. Give him somethin' to eat and drink. +Treat him as ye would one o' ourselves. He's to be that from this time +forrard. Spread a buffler skin, an' get him a bit o' blanket for his +bed. Same time, for safety's sake, keep an eye on him." + +The caution is spoken _sotto voce_, so that the prisoner may not hear +it. After which, Borlasse leaves the two together, congratulating +himself on the good speculation he will make, not by keeping Jupe to +groom his horse, but selling him as a slave to the first man met willing +to purchase him. + +In the fine able-bodied mulatto, he sees a thousand dollars cash--soon +as he can come across a cotton-planter. + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX. + +MESTIZO AND MULATTO. + +While their chief has been interrogating his prisoner, the robbers +around the fire have gone on with their poker-playing, and whisky +drinking. + +Borlasse joining in the debauch, orders brandy to be brought out of his +tent, and distributed freely around. He drinks deeply himself; in part +to celebrate the occasion of such a grand stroke of business done, but +as much to drown his disappointment at the captives not yet having come +in.--The alcohol has its effect; and ere long rekindles a hope, which +Chisholm strengthens, saying, all will yet be well, and the missing ones +turn up, if not that night, on the morrow. + +Somewhat relieved by this expectation, Borlasse enters into the spirit +of the hour, and becomes jovial and boisterous as any of his +subordinates. The cards are tossed aside, the play abandoned; instead, +coarse stories are told, and songs sung, fit only for the ears of such a +God-forsaken crew. + +The saturnalia is brought to a close, when all become so intoxicated +they can neither tell story nor sing song. Then some stagger to their +tents, others dropping over where they sit, and falling fast asleep. + +By midnight there is not a man of them awake, and the camp is silent, +save here and there a drunken snore disturbing its stillness. + +The great central fire, around which some remain lying astretch, burns +on, but no longer blazes. There is no one to tend it with the pitchy +pine-knots. Inside the tents also, the lights are extinguished--all +except one. This, the rude skin sheiling which shelters the mestizo and +mulatto. The two half-bloods, of different strain, are yet awake, and +sitting up. They are also drinking, hobnobbing with one another. + +Fernand has supplied the liquor freely and without stint. Pretending to +fraternise with the new confederate, he has filled the latter's glass at +least a half-score of times, doing the same with his own. Both have +emptied them with like rapidity, and yet neither seems at all overcome. +Each thinks the other the hardest case at a drinking bout he has ever +come across; wondering he is not dead drunk, though knowing why he is +himself sober. The Spanish moss plucked from the adjacent trees, and +littering the tent floor, could tell--if it had the power of speech. + +Jupiter has had many a whiskey spree in the woods of Mississippi, but +never has he encountered a _convive_ who could stand so much of it, and +still keep his tongue and seat. What can it mean? Is the mestizo's +stomach made of steel? + +While perplexed, and despairing of being able to get Fernand +intoxicated, an explanation suggests itself. His fellow tippler may be +shamming, as himself? + +Pretending to look out of the tent, he twists his eyes away so far, +that, from the front, little else than their whites can be seen. But +enough of the retina is uncovered to receive an impression from behind; +this showing the mestizo tilting his cup, and spilling its contents +among the moss! + +He now knows he is being watched, as well as guarded. And of his +vigilant sentinel there seems but one way to disembarrass himself. + +As the thought of it flits across his brain, his eyes flash with a +feverish light, such as when one intends attacking by stealth, and with +the determination to kill. For he must either kill the man by his side, +or give up what is to himself worth more than such a life--his own +liberty. + +It may be his beloved master yet lives, and there is a chance to succour +him. If dead, he will find his body, and give it burial. He remembers +the promise that morning mutually declared between them--to stand and +fall together--he will keep his part of it. If Clancy has fallen, +others will go down too; in the end, if need be, himself. But not till +he has taken, or tried to take, a terrible and bloody vengeance. To +this he has bound himself, by an oath sworn in the secret recesses of +his heart. + +Its prelude is nigh, and the death of the Indian half-breed is to +initiate it. For the fugitive slave knows the part this vile caitiff +has played, and will not scruple to kill him; the less that it is now an +inexorable necessity. He but waits for the opportunity--has been +seeking it for some time. + +It offers at length. Turning suddenly, and detecting the mestizo in his +act of deception, he asks laughingly why he should practice such a +trick. Then stooping forward, as if to verify it, his right arm is seen +to lunge out with something that glitters in his hand. It is the blade +of a bowie-knife. + +In an instant the arm is drawn back, the glittering gone off the blade, +obliterated by blood! For it has been between the ribs, and through the +heart of the mestizo; who, slipping from his seat, falls to the floor, +without even a groan! + +Grasping Clancy's gun, which chances to be in the tent, and then blowing +out the light, the mulatto moves off, leaving but a dead body behind +him. + +Once outside, he looks cautiously around the encampment, scanning the +tents and the ground adjacent to them. He sees the big fire still red, +but not flaming. He can make out the forms of men lying around it--all +of them, for him fortunately, asleep. + +Stepping, as if on eggs, and keeping as much as possible in shadow, he +threads his way through the tents until he is quite clear of the +encampment. But he does not go directly off. Instead, he makes a +circuit to the other side, where Brasfort is tied to a tree. A cut of +his red blade releases the hound, that follows him in silence, as if +knowing it necessary. + +Then on to the corral where the horses are penned up. + +Arriving at the fence he finds the bars, and there stopping, speaks some +words in undertone, but loud enough to be heard by the animals inside. +As if it were a cabalistic speech, one separates from the rest, and +comes towards him. It is the steed of Clancy. Protruding its soft +muzzle over the rail, it is stroked by the mulatto's hand, which soon +after has hold of the forelock. Fortunately the saddles are close by, +astride the fence, with the bridles hanging to the branches of a tree. +Jupiter easily recognises those he is in search of, and soon has the +horse caparisoned. + +At length he leads the animal not mounting till he is well away from the +camp. Then, climbing cautiously into the saddle, he continues on, +Brasfort after; man, horse, and hound, making no more noise, than if all +three were but shadows. + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN. + +A STRAYED TRAVELLER. + +Pale, trembling, with teeth chattering, Richard Darke awakes from his +drunken slumber. + +He sees his horse tied to the tree, as he left him, but making violent +efforts to get loose. For coyotes have come skulking around the copse, +and their cry agitates the animal. It is this that has awakened the +sleeper. + +He starts to his feet in fear, though not of the wolves. Their +proximity has nought to do with the shudder which passes through his +frame. It comes from an apprehension he has overslept himself, and +that, meanwhile, his confederates have passed the place. + +It is broad daylight, with a bright sun in the sky; though this he +cannot see through the thick foliage intervening. But his watch will +tell him the time. He takes it out and glances at the dial. The hands +appear not to move! + +He holds it to his ear, but hears no ticking. Now, he remembers having +neglected to wind it up the night before. It has run down! + +Hastily returning it to his pocket, he makes for open ground, where he +may get a view of the sun. By its height above the horizon, as far as +he can judge it should be about nine of the morning. This point, as he +supposes, settled, does not remove his apprehension, on the contrary but +increases it. The returning marauders would not likely be delayed so +late? In all probability they have passed. + +How is he to be assured? A thought strikes him: he will step out upon +the plain, and see if he can discern their tracks. He does so, keeping +on to the summit of the pass. There he finds evidence to confirm his +fears. The loose turf around the head of the gorge is torn and trampled +by the hoofs of many horses, all going off over the plain. The robbers +have returned to their rendezvous! + +Hastening back to his horse, he prepares to start after. + +Leading the animal to the edge of the copse, he is confronted by what +sends a fresh thrill of fear through his heart. The sun is before his +face, but not as when he last looked at it. Instead of having risen +higher, it is now nearer the horizon! + +"Great God!" he exclaims, as the truth breaks upon him. "It's setting, +not rising; evening 'stead of morning!" + +Shading his eye with spread palm, he gazes at the golden orb, in look +bewildered. Not long, till assured, the sun is sinking, and night nigh. + +The deduction drawn is full of sinister sequence. More than one starts +up in his mind to dismay him. He is little acquainted with the trail to +Coyote Creek, and may be unable to find it. Moreover, the robbers are +certain of being pursued, and Sime Woodley will be one of the pursuers; +Bosley forced to conduct them, far as he can. The outraged settlers may +at any moment appear coming up the pass! + +He glances apprehensively towards it, then across the plain. + +His face is now towards the sun, whose lower limb just touches the +horizon, the red round orb appearing across the smooth surface, as over +that of a tranquil sea. + +He regards it, to direct his course. He knows that the camping place on +Coyote Creek is due west from where he is. + +And at length, having resolved, he sets his foot in the stirrup, vaults +into the saddle, and spurs off, leaving the black-jack grove behind him. + +He does not proceed far, before becoming uncertain as to his course. +The sun goes down, leaving heaven's firmament in darkness, with only +some last lingering rays along its western edge. These grow fainter and +fainter, till scarce any difference can be noted around the horizon's +ring. + +He now rides in doubt, guessing the direction. Scanning the stars he +searches for the Polar constellation. But a mist has meanwhile sprung +up over the plain, and, creeping across the northern sky, concealed it. + +In the midst of his perplexity, the moon appears; and taking bearings by +this, he once more makes westward. + +But there are cumulus clouds in the sky; and these, ever and anon +drifting over the moon's disc, compel him to pull up till they pass. + +At length he is favoured with a prolonged interval of light, during +which he puts his animal to its best speed, and advances many miles in +what he supposes to be the right direction. As yet he has encountered +no living creature, nor object of any kind. He is in hopes to get sight +of the solitary tree; for beyond it the trail to Coyote Creek is easily +taken. + +While scanning the moonlit expanse he descries a group of figures; +apparently quadrupeds, though of what species he cannot tell. They +appear too large for wolves, and yet are not like wild horses, deer, or +buffaloes. + +On drawing nearer, he discovers them to be but coyotes; the film, +refracting the moon's light, having deceived him as to their size. + +What can they be doing out there? Perhaps collected around some animal +they have hunted down, and killed--possibly a prong-horn antelope? It +is not with any purpose he approaches them. He only does so because +they are in the line of his route. But before reaching the spot where +they are assembled, he sees something to excite his curiosity, at the +same time, baffling all conjecture what it can be. On his coming +closer, the jackals scatter apart, exposing it to view; then, loping +off, leave it behind them. Whatever it be, it is evidently the lure +that has brought the predatory beasts together. It is not the dead body +of deer, antelope, or animal of any kind; but a thing of rounded shape, +set upon a short shank, or stem. + +"What the devil is it?" he asks himself, first pausing, and then +spurring on towards it. "Looks lor all the world like a man's head!" + +At that moment, the moon emitting one of her brightest beams, shows the +object still clearer, causing him to add in exclamation, "By heavens, it +is a head!" + +Another instant and he sees a face, which sends the blood back to his +heart, almost freezing it in his veins. + +Horror stricken he reins up, dragging his horse upon the haunches; and +in this attitude remains, his eyes rolling as though they would start +from their sockets. Then, shouting the words, "Great God, Clancy!" +followed by a wild shriek, he wrenches the horse around, and +mechanically spurs into desperate speed. + +In his headlong flight he hears a cry, which comes as from out the +earth--his own name pronounced, and after it, the word "murderer!" + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT. + +HOURS OF AGONY. + +Out of the earth literally arose that cry, so affrighting Richard Darke; +since it came from Charles Clancy. Throughout the live-long day, on to +the mid hours of night, has he been enduring agony unspeakable. + +Alone with but the companionship of hostile creatures--wolves that +threaten to gnaw the skin from his skull, and vultures ready to tear his +eyes out of their sockets. + +Why has he not gone mad? + +There are moments when it comes too near this, when his reason is +well-nigh unseated. But manfully he struggles against it; thoughtfully, +with reliance on Him, whose name he has repeated and prayerfully +invoked. And God, in His mercy, sends something to sustain him--a +remembrance. In his most despairing hour he recalls one circumstance +seeming favourable, and which in the confusion of thought, consequent on +such a succession of scenes, had escaped him. He now remembers the +other man found along with Darke under the live-oak. Bosley will be +able to guide a pursuing party, and with Woodley controlling, will be +forced to do it. He can lead them direct to the rendezvous of the +robbers; where Clancy can have no fear but that they will settle things +satisfactorily. There learning what has been done to himself, they +would lose no time in coming after him. + +This train of conjecture, rational enough, restores his hopes, and again +he believes there is a chance of his receiving succour. About time is +he chiefly apprehensive. They may come too late? + +He will do all he can to keep up; hold out as long as life itself may +last. + +So resolved, he makes renewed efforts to fight off the wolves, and +frighten the vultures. + +Fortunately for him the former are but coyotes, the latter turkey +buzzards both cowardly creatures, timid as hares, except when the quarry +is helpless. They must not know he is this; and to deceive them he +shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and shouts at the highest pitch of his +voice. But only at intervals, when they appear too threateningly near. +He knows the necessity of economising his cries and gestures. By too +frequent repetition they might cease to avail him. + +Throughout the day he has the double enemy to deal with. But night +disembarrasses him of the birds, leaving only the beasts. + +He derives little benefit from the change; for the coyotes, but jackals +in daylight, at night become wolves, emboldened by the darkness. +Besides, they have been too long gazing at the strange thing, and +listening to the shouts which have proceeded from it, without receiving +hurt or harm, to fear it as before. The time has come for attack. + +Blending their unearthly notes into one grand chorus they close around, +finally resolved to assault it. + +And, again, Clancy calls upon God--upon Heaven, to help him. + +His prayer is heard; for what he sees seems an answer to it. The moon +is low down, her disc directly before his face, and upon the plain +between a shadow is projected, reaching to his chin. At the same time, +he sees what is making it--a man upon horseback! Simultaneously, he +hears a sound--the trampling of hoofs upon the hard turf. + +The coyotes catching it, too, are scared, changing from their attitude +of attack, and dropping tails to the ground. As the shadow darkening +over them tells that the horseman is drawing nigh, they scatter off in +retreat. + +Clancy utters an ejaculation of joy. He is about to hail the +approaching Norseman, when a doubt restrains him. + +"Who can it be?" he asks himself with mingled hope and apprehension. +"Woodley would not be coming in that way, alone? If not some of the +settlers, at least Heywood would be along with him? Besides, there is +scarce time for them to have reached the Mission and returned. It +cannot be either. Jupiter? Has he escaped from the custody of the +outlawed crew?" + +Clancy is accustomed to seeing the mulatto upon a mule. This man rides +a horse, and otherwise looks not like Jupiter. It is not he. Who, +then? + +During all this time the horseman is drawing nearer, though slowly. +When first heard, the tramp told him to be going at a gallop; but he has +slackened speed, and now makes approach, apparently with caution, as if +reconnoitring. He has descried the jackals, and comes to see what they +are gathered about. These having retreated, Clancy can perceive that +the eyes of the stranger are fixed upon his own head, and that he is +evidently puzzled to make out what it is. + +For a moment the man makes stop, then moves on, coming closer and +closer. With the moon behind his back, his face is in shadow, and +cannot be seen by Clancy. But it is not needed for his identification. +The dress and figure are sufficient. Cut sharply against the sky is the +figure of a plumed savage; a sham one Clancy knows, with a thrill of +fresh despair, recognising Richard Darke. + +It will soon be all over with him now; in another instant his hopes, +doubts, fears, will be alike ended, with his life. He has no thought +but that Darke, since last seen, has been in communication with +Borlasse; and from him learning all, has, returned for the life he +failed to take before. + +Meanwhile the plumed horseman continues to approach, till within less +than a length of his horse. Then drawing bridle with a jerk, suddenly +comes to a stop. Clancy can see, that he is struck with astonishment-- +his features, now near enough to be distinguished, wearing a bewildered +look. Then hears his own name called out, a shriek succeeding; the +horse wheeled round, and away, as if Satan had hold of his tail! + +For a long time is heard the tramp of the retreating horse going in full +fast gallop--gradually less distinct--at length dying away in the +distance. + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE. + +AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. + +To Clancy there is nothing strange in Darke's sudden and terrified +departure. With the quickness of thought itself, he comprehends its +cause. In their encounter under the live-oak, in shadow and silence, +his old rival has not recognised him. Nor can he since have seen +Borlasse, or any of the band. Why he is behind them, Clancy cannot +surmise; though he has a suspicion of the truth. Certainly Darke came +not there by any design, but only chance-conducted. Had it been +otherwise, he would not have gone off in such wild affright. + +All this Clancy intuitively perceives, on the instant of his turning to +retreat. And partly to make this more sure, though also stirred by +indignation he cannot restrain, he eends forth that shout, causing the +scared wretch to flee faster and farther. + +Now that he is gone, Clancy is again left to his reflections, but little +less gloomy than before. From only one does he derive satisfaction. +The robber chief must have lied. Helen Armstrong has not been in the +arms of Richard Darke.--He may hope she has reached her home in safety. + +All else is as ever, and soon likely to be worse. For he feels as one +who has only had a respite, believing it will be but short. Darke will +soon recover from his scare. For he will now go to the rendezvous, and +there, getting an explanation of what has caused it, come back to glut +his delayed vengeance, more terrible from long accumulation. + +Will the wolves wait for him? + +"Ha! there they are again!" + +So exclaims the wretched man, as he sees them once more making approach. + +And now they draw nigh with increased audacity, their ravenous instincts +but strengthened by the check. The enemy late dreaded has not molested +them, but gone off, leaving their prey unprotected. They are again free +to assail, and this time will surely devour it. + +Once more their melancholy whine breaks the stillness of the night, as +they come loping up one after another. Soon all are re-assembled round +the strange thing, which through their fears has long defied them. More +familiar, they fear it less now. + +Renewing their hostile demonstration, they circle about it, gliding from +side to side in _chassez-croissez_, as through the mazes of a cotillon. +With forms magnified under the moonlight, they look like werewolves +dancing around a "Death's Head,"--their long-drawn lugubrious wails +making appropriate music to the measure! + +Horror for him who hears, hearing it without hope. Of this not a ray +left now, its last lingering spark extinguished, and before him but the +darkness of death in all its dread certainty--a death horrible, +appalling! + +Putting forth all his moral strength, exerting it to the utmost, he +tries to resign himself to the inevitable. + +In vain. Life is too sweet to be so surrendered. He cannot calmly +resign it, and again instinctively makes an effort to fright off his +hideous assailants. His eyes rolling, scintillating in their sockets-- +his lips moving--his cries sent from between them--are all to no purpose +now. The coyotes come nearer and nearer. They are within three feet of +his face. He can see their wolfish eyes, the white serrature of their +teeth, the red panting tongues; can feel their fetid breath blown +against his brow. Their jaws are agape. Each instant he expects them +to close around his skull! + +Why did he shout, sending Darke away? He regrets having done it. +Better his head to have been crushed or cleft by a tomahawk, killing him +at once, than torn while still alive, gnawed, mumbled over, by those +frightful fangs threatening so near! The thought stifles reflection. +It is of itself excruciating torture. He cannot bear it much longer. +No man could, however strong, however firm his faith in the Almighty. +Even yet he has not lost this. The teachings of early life, the +precepts inculcated by a pious mother, stand him in stead now. And +though sure he must die, and wants death to come quickly, he +nevertheless tries to meet it resignedly, mentally exclaiming:-- + +"Mother! Father! I come. Soon shall I join you. Helen, my love! Oh, +how I have wronged you in thus throwing my life away! God forgive--" + +His regrets are interrupted, as if by God Himself. He has been heard by +the All-Merciful, the Omnipotent; for seemingly no other hand could now +succour him. While the prayerful thoughts are still passing through his +mind, the wolves suddenly cease their attack, and he sees them retiring +with closed jaws and fallen tails! Not hastily, but slow and +skulkingly; ceding the ground inch by inch, as though reluctant to leave +it. + +What can it mean? + +Casting his eyes outward, he sees nothing to explain the behaviour of +the brutes, nor account for their changed demeanour. + +He listens, all ears, expecting to hear the hoof-stroke of a horse--the +same he late saw reined up in front of him, with Richard Darke upon his +back. The ruffian is returning sooner than anticipated. + +There is no such sound. Instead, one softer, which, but for the hollow +cretaceous rock underlying the plain and acting as a conductor, would +not be conveyed to his ears. It is a pattering as of some animal's +paws, going in rapid gait. He cannot imagine what sort of creature it +may be; in truth he has no time to think, before hearing the sound close +behind his head, the animal approaching from that direction. Soon after +he feels a hot breath strike against his brow, with something still +warmer touching his cheek. It is the tongue of a dog! + +"Brasfort!" + +Brasfort it is, cowering before his face, filling his ears with a soft +whimpering, sweet as any speech ever heard. For he has seen the jackals +retreat, and knows they will not return. His strong stag-hound is more +than a match for the whole pack of cowardly creatures. As easily as it +has scattered, can it destroy them. + +Clancy's first feeling is one of mingled pleasure and surprise. For he +fancies himself succoured, released from his earth-bound prison, so near +to have been his grave. + +The glad emotion is alas! short-lived; departing as he perceives it to +be only a fancy, and his perilous situation, but little changed or +improved. For what can the dog do for him? True he may keep off the +coyotes, but that will not save his life. Death must come all the same. +A little later, and in less horrid shape, but it must come. Hunger, +thirst, one or both will bring it, surely if slowly. + +"My brave Brasfort! faithful fellow!" he says apostrophising the hound; +"You cannot protect me from them. But how have you got here?" + +The question is succeeded by a train of conjecture, as follows:-- + +"They took the dog with them. I saw one lead him away. They've let him +loose, and he has scented back on the trail? That's it. Oh! if Jupiter +were but with him! No fear of their letting him off--no." + +During all this time Brasfort has continued his caresses, fondling his +master's head, affectionately as a mother her child. + +Again Clancy speaks, apostrophising the animal. + +"Dear old dog! you're but come to see me die. Well; it's something to +have you here--like a friend beside the death-bed. And you'll stay with +me long as life holds out, and protect me from those skulking creatures? +I know you will. Ah! You won't need to stand sentry long. I feel +growing fainter. When all's over you can go. I shall never see her +more; but some one may find, and take you there. She'll care for, and +reward you for this fidelity." + +The soliloquy is brought to a close, by the hound suddenly changing +attitude. All at once it has ceased its fond demonstrations, and stands +as if about to make an attack upon its master's head! Very different +the intent. Yielding to a simple canine instinct, from the strain of +terrier in its blood, it commences scratching up the earth around his +neck! + +For Clancy a fresh surprise, as before mingled with pleasure. For the +hound's instinctive action shows him a chance of getting relieved, by +means he had never himself thought of. + +He continues talking to the animal, encouraging it by speeches it can +comprehend. On it scrapes, tearing up the clods, and casting them in +showers behind. + +Despite the firmness with which the earth is packed, the hound soon +makes a hollow around its master's neck, exposing his shoulder--the +right one--above the surface. A little more mould removed, and his arm +will be free. With that his whole body can be extricated by himself. + +Stirred by the pleasant anticipation, he continues speaking +encouragement to the dog. But Brasfort needs it not, working away in +silence and with determined earnestness, as if knowing that time was an +element of success. + +Clancy begins to congratulate himself on escape, is almost sure of it, +when a sound breaks upon his ear, bringing back all his apprehensions. +Again the hoof-stroke of a horse! + +Richard Darke is returning! + +"Too late, Brasfort!" says his master, apostrophising him in speech +almost mechanical, "Too late your help. Soon you'll see me die." + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTY. + +A RESURRECTIONIST. + +"Surely the end has come!" + +So reflects Clancy, as with keen apprehension he listens to the tread of +the approaching horseman. For to a certainty he approaches, the dull +distant thud of hooves gradually growing more distinct. Nor has he any +doubt of its being the same steed late reined up in front of him, the +fresh score of whose calkers are there within a few feet of his face. + +The direction whence comes the sound, is of itself significant; that in +which Darke went off. It is he returning--can be no other. + +Yes; surely his end has come--the last hour of his life. And so near +being saved! Ten minutes more, and Brasfort would have disinterred him. + +Turning his eyes downward, he can see the cavity enlarged, and getting +larger. For the dog continues to drag out the earth, as if not hearing, +or disregarding the hoof-stroke. Already its paws are within a few +inches of his elbow. + +Is it possible for him to wrench out his arm! With it free he might do +something to defend himself. And the great stag-hound will help him. + +With hope half resuscitated, he makes an effort to extricate the arm, +heaving his shoulder upward. In vain.--It is held as in a vice, or the +clasp of a giant. There is _no_ alternative--he must submit to his +fate. And such a fate! Once more he will see the sole enemy of his +life, his mother's murderer, standing triumphant over him; will hear his +taunting speeches--almost a repetition of the scene under the cypress! +And to think that in all his encounters with this man, he has been +unsuccessful; too late--ever too late! The thought is of itself a +torture. + +Strange the slowness with which Darke draws nigh! Can he still be in +dread of the unearthly? No, or he would not be there. It may be that +sure of his victim, he but delays the last blow, scheming some new +horror before he strike it? + +The tramp of the horse tells him to be going at a walk; unsteady too, as +if his rider were not certain about the way, but seeking it. Can this +be so? Has he not yet seen the head and hound? The moon must be on his +back, since it is behind Clancy's own. It may be that Brasfort--a new +figure in the oft changing tableau--stays his advance. Possibly the +unexplained presence of the animal has given him a surprise, and hence +he approaches with caution? + +All at once, the hoof-stroke ceases to be heard, and stillness reigns +around. _No_ sound save that made by the claws of the dog, that +continues its task with unabated assiduity--not yet having taken any +notice of the footsteps it can scarce fail to hear. + +Its master cannot help thinking this strange. Brasfort is not wont to +be thus unwatchful. And of all men Richard Darke should be the last to +approach him unawares. What may it mean? + +While thus interrogating himself, Clancy again hears the "tramp-tramp," +the horse no longer in a walk, but with pace quickened to a trot. And +still Brasfort keeps on scraping! Only when a shadow darkens over, does +he desist; the horseman being now close behind Clancy's head, with his +image reflected in front. But instead of rushing at him with savage +growl, as he certainly would were it Richard Darke Brasfort but raises +his snout, and wags his tail, giving utterance to a note of friendly +salutation! + +Clancy's astonishment is extreme, changing to joy, when the horseman +after making the circuit of his head, comes to a halt before his face. +In the broad bright moonlight he beholds, not his direst foe, but his +faithful servitor. There upon his own horse, with his own gun in hand, +sits one who causes him mechanically to exclaim-- + +"Jupiter!" adding, "Heaven has heard my prayer!" + +"An' myen," says Jupiter, soon as somewhat recovered from his +astonishment at what he sees; "Yes, Masser Charle; I'se been prayin' for +you ever since they part us, though never 'spected see you 'live 'gain. +But Lor' o' mercy, masser! what dis mean? I'se see nothin' but you +head! Wharever is you body? What have dem rascally ruffins been an' +done to ye?" + +"As you see--buried me alive." + +"Better that than bury you dead. You sure, masser," he asks, slipping +down from the saddle, and placing himself _vis-a-vis_ with the face so +strangely situated. "You sure you ain't wounded, nor otherways hurt?" + +"Not that I know of. I only feel a little bruised and faint-like; but I +think I've received no serious injury. I'm now suffering from thirst, +more than aught else." + +"That won't be for long. Lucky I'se foun' you ole canteen on the +saddle, an' filled it 'fore I left the creek. I'se got somethin' +besides 'll take the faintness 'way from you; a drop o' corn-juice, I +had from that Spanish Indyin they call the half-blood. Not much blood +in him now. Here 'tis, Masser Charle." + +While speaking, he has produced a gourd, in which something gurgles. +Its smell, when the stopper is taken out, tells it to be whiskey. + +Inserting the neck between his master's lips, he pours some of the +spirit down his throat; and then, turning to the horse near by, he lifts +from off the saddle-horn a larger gourd--the canteen, containing water. + +In a few seconds, not only is Clancy's thirst satisfied, but he feels +his strength restored, and all faintness passed away. + +"Up to de chin I declar'!" says Jupiter, now more particularly taking +note of his situation, "Sure enough, all but buried 'live. An' Brasfort +been a tryin' to dig ye out! Geehorum! Aint that cunnin' o' the ole +dog? He have prove himself a faithful critter." + +"Like yourself, Jupe. But say! How have you escaped from the robbers? +Brought my horse and gun too! Tell me all!" + +"Not so fass, Masser Charle. It's something o' a longish story, an' a +bit strangeish too. You'll be better out o' that fix afore hearin' it. +Though your ears aint stopped, yez not in a position to lissen patient +or comfortable. First let me finish what Brasfort's begun, and get out +the balance o' your body." + +Saying this, the mulatto sets himself to the task proposed. + +Upon his knees with knife in hand, he loosens the earth around Clancy's +breast and shoulders, cutting it carefully, then clawing it out. + +The hound helps him, dashing in whenever it sees a chance, with its paws +scattering the clods to rear. The animal seems jealous of Jupiter's +interference, half angry at not having all the credit to itself. + +Between them the work progresses, and the body of their common master +will soon be disinterred. All the while, Clancy and the mulatto +continue to talk, mutually communicating their experiences since +parting. Those of the former, though fearful, are neither many nor +varied, and require but few words. What Jupiter now sees gives him a +clue to nearly all. + +His own narrative covers a greater variety of events, and needs more +time for telling than can now be conveniently spared. Instead of +details, therefore, he but recounts the leading incidents in brief +epitome--to be more particularly dwelt upon afterwards, as opportunity +will allow. He relates, how, after leaving the lone cottonwood, he was +taken on across the plain to a creek called Coyote, where the robbers +have a camping place. This slightly touched upon, he tells of his own +treatment; of his being carried into a tent at first, but little looked +after, because thought secure, from their having him tightly tied. +Through a slit in the skin cover he saw them kindle a fire and commence +cooking. Soon after came the chief, riding Clancy's horse, with +Chisholm and the other three. Seeing the horse, he supposed it all over +with his master. + +Then the feast, _al fresco_, succeeded by the transformation scene--the +red robbers becoming white ones--to all of which he was witness. After +that the card-playing by the camp fire, during which the chief came to +his tent, and did what he could to draw him. In this part of his +narration, the mulatto with modest naivete, hints of his own adroitness; +how he threw his inquisitor off the scent, and became at length +disembarrassed of him. He is even more reticent about an incident, soon +after succeeding, but referred to it at an early part of his +explanation. + +On the blade of his knife, before beginning to dig, Clancy observing +some blotches of crimson, asks what it is. + +"Only a little blood, Masser Charle," is the answer. + +"Whose?" + +"You'll hear afore I get to the end. Nuf now to say it's the blood of a +bad man." + +Clancy does not press him further, knowing he will be told all in due +time. Still, is he impatient, wondering whether it be the blood of Jim +Borlasse, or Richard Darke; for he supposes it either one or the other. +He hopes it may be the former, and fears its being the latter. Even +yet, in his hour of uncertainty, late helpless, and still with only a +half hope of being able to keep his oath, he would not for all the world +Dick Darke's blood should be shed by other hand than his own! + +He is mentally relieved, long before Jupiter reaches the end of his +narration. The blood upon the blade, now clean scoured off, was not +that of Richard Darke. + +For the mulatto tells him of that tragical scene within the tent, +speaking of it without the slightest remorse. The incidents succeeding +he leaves for a future occasion; how he stole out the horse, and with +Brasfort's help, was enabled to return upon the trail as far as the +cottonwood; thence on, the hound hurriedly leading, at length leaving +him behind. + +But before coming to this, he has completed his task, and laying hold of +his master's shoulders, he draws him out of the ground, as a gardener +would a gigantic carrot. + +Once more on the earth's surface stands Clancy, free of body, unfettered +in limb, strong in his sworn resolve, determined as ever to keep it. + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE. + +THE VOICE OF VENGEANCE. + +Never did man believe himself nigher death, or experience greater +satisfaction at being saved from it, than Charles Clancy. For upon his +life so near lost, and as if miraculously preserved, depend issues dear +to him as that life itself. + +And these, too, may reach a successful termination; some thing whispers +him they will. + +But though grateful to God for the timely succour just received, and on +Him still reliant, he does not ask God for guidance in what he intends +now. Rather, shuns he the thought, as though fearing the All-Merciful +might not be with him. For he is still determined on vengeance, which +alone belongs to the Lord. + +Of himself, he is strong enough to take it; and feels so, after being +refreshed by another drink of the whiskey. The spirit of the alcohol, +acting on his own, reinvigorates, and makes him ready for immediate +action. He but stays to think what may be his safest course, as the +surest and swiftest. His repeated repulses, while making more cautious, +have done nought to daunt, or drive him from his original purpose. +Recalling his latest interview with Helen Armstrong, and what he then +said, he dares not swerve from it. To go back leaving it undone, were a +humiliation no lover would like to confess to his sweetheart. + +But he has no thought of going back, and only hesitates, reflecting on +the steps necessary to ensure success. + +He now knows why Darke retreated in such wild affright. Some speeches +passing between the robbers, overheard by Jupiter, and by him reported, +enable Clancy to grasp the situation. As he had conjectured, Darke was +straying, and by chance came that way. No wonder at the way he went. + +It is not an hour since he fled from the spot, and in all likelihood he +is still straying. If so, he cannot be a great way off; but, far or +near, Brasfort can find him. + +It is but a question of whether he can be overtaken before reaching the +rendezvous. For the only danger of which Clancy has dread, or allows +himself to dwell upon, is from the other robbers. Even of these he +feels not much fear. But for the mulatto and his mule, he would never +have allowed them to lay hand on him. And now with his splendid horse +once more by his side, the saddle awaiting him, he knows he will be safe +from any pursuit by mounted men, as a bird upon the wing. + +For the safety of his faithful follower he has already conceived +measures. Jupiter is to make his way back to the San Saba, and wait for +him at their old camp, near the crossing. Failing to come, he is to +proceed on to the settlement, and there take his chances of a reception. +Though the fugitive slave may be recognised, under Sime Woodley's +protection he will be safe, and with Helen Armstrong's patronage, sure +of hospitable entertainment. + +With all this mentally arranged, though not yet communicated to Jupe, +Clancy gives a look to his gun to assure himself it is in good order; +another to the caparison of his horse; and, satisfied with both, he at +length leaps into the saddle. + +The mulatto has been regarding his movements with uneasiness. There is +that in them which forewarns him of still another separation. + +He is soon made aware of it, by the instructions given him, in +accordance with the plan sketched cat. On Clancy telling him, he is to +return to the San Saba alone, with the reasons why he should do so, he +listens in pained surprise. + +"Sure you don't intend leavin' me, Masser Charle?" + +"I do--I must." + +"But whar you goin' youself?" + +"Where God guides--it may be His avenging angel. Yes, Jupe; I'm off +again, on that scoundrel's track. This shall be my last trial. If it +turn out as hitherto, you may never see me more--you, nor any one else. +Failing, I shan't care to face human kind, much less her I love. Ah! +I'll more dread meeting my mother--her death unavenged. Bah! There's +no fear, one way or the other. So don't you have any uneasiness about +the result; but do as I've directed. Make back to the river, and wait +there at the crossing. Brasfort goes with me; and when you see us +again, I'll have a spare horse to carry you on to our journey's end; +that whose shoes made those scratches--just now, I take it, between the +legs of Dick Darke." + +"Dear masser," rejoins Jupiter, in earnest protest. "Why need ye go +worryin' after that man now? You'll have plenty opportunities any day. +He aint likely to leave Texas, long's that young lady stays in it. +Besides, them cut-throats at the creek, sure come after me. They'll be +this way soon's they find me gone, an' set their eyes on that streak o' +red colour I left ahind me in the tent. Take my advice, Masser Charle, +an' let's both slip out o' thar way, by pushin' straight for the +settlement." + +"No settlement, till I've settled with him! He can't have got far away +yet. Good, Brasfort! you'll do your best to help me find him?" + +The hound gives a low growl, and rollicks around the legs of the horse, +seeming to say:-- + +"Set me on the scent; I'll show you." + +Something more than instinct appears to inspire the Molossian. Though +weeks have elapsed since in the cypress swamp it made savage +demonstrations against Darke, when taking up his trail through the San +Saba bottom it behaved as if actuated by the old malice, remembering the +smell of the man! And now conducted beyond the place trodden by +Borlasse and the others, soon as outside the confusion of scents, and +catching his fresher one, it sends forth a cry strangely intoned, +altogether unlike its ordinary bay while trailing a stag. It is the +deep sonorous note of the sleuth-hound on slot of human game; such as +oft, in the times of Spanish American colonisation, struck terror to the +heart of the hunted aboriginal. + +As already said, Brasfort has a strain of the bloodhound in him; enough +to make danger for Richard Darke. Under the live-oak the hound would +have pulled him from his saddle, torn him to pieces on the spot, but for +Jupiter, to whom it was consigned, holding it hard back. + +Clancy neither intends, nor desires, it to do so now. All he wants with +it, is to bring him face to face with his hated foeman. That done, the +rest he will do himself. + +Everything decided and settled, he hastily takes leave of Jupiter, and +starts off along the trail, Brasfort leading. + +Both are soon far away. + +On the wide waste the mulatto stands alone, looking after--half +reproachfully for being left behind--regretting his master's rashness-- +painfully apprehensive he may never see him more. + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTY TWO. + +A MAN NEARLY MAD. + +"Am I still drunk? Am I dreaming?" + +So Richard Darke interrogates himself, retreating from the strangest +apparition human eyes ever saw. A head without any body, not lying as +after careless decapitation, but as though still upon shoulders, the +eyes glancing and rolling, the lips moving, speaking--the whole thing +alive! The head, too, of one he supposes himself to have assassinated, +and for which he is a felon and fugitive. No wonder he doubts the +evidence of his senses, and at first deems it fancy--an illusion from +dream or drink. But a suspicion also sweeps through his soul, which, +more painfully impressing, causes him to add still another +interrogatory: + +"Am I mad?" + +He shakes his head and rubs his eyes, to assure himself he is awake, +sober, and sane. He is all three; though he might well wish himself +drunk or dreaming--for, so scared is he, there is in reality a danger of +his senses forsaking him. He tries to account for the queer thing, but +cannot. Who could, circumstanced as he? From that day when he stooped +over Clancy, holding Helen Armstrong's photograph before his face, and +saw his eyes film over in sightless gaze, the sure forerunner of death, +he has ever believed him dead. No rumour has reached him to the +contrary--no newspaper paragraph, from which he might draw his +deductions, as Borlasse has done. True, he observed some resemblance to +Clancy in the man who surprised him under the live-oak; but, recalling +that scene under the cypress, how could he have a thought of its being +he? He could not, cannot, does not yet. + +But what about the head? How is he to account for that? And the cries +sent after him--still ringing in his ears--his own name, with the added +accusation he himself believes true, the brand, "murderer!" + +"Am I indeed mad?" he again asks himself, riding on recklessly, without +giving guidance to his horse. His trembling hand can scarce retain hold +of the rein; and the animal, uncontrolled, is left to take its course-- +only, it must not stop or stay. Every time it shows sign of lagging, he +kicks mechanically against its ribs, urging it on, on, anywhere away +from that dread damnable apparition. + +It is some time before he recovers sufficient coolness to reflect--then +only with vague comprehensiveness; nothing clear save the fact that he +has completely lost himself, and his way. To go on were mere guesswork. +True, the moon tells him the west, the direction of Coyote creek. But +westward he will not go, dreading to again encounter that ghostly thing; +for he thinks it was there he saw it. + +Better pull up, and await the surer guidance of the sun, with its light, +less mystical. + +So deciding, he slips out of the saddle; and letting his horse out on +the trail-rope, lays himself down. Regardless of the animal's needs, he +leaves all its caparison on, even to the bitt between its teeth. What +cares he for its comforts, or for aught else, thinking of that horrible +head? + +He makes no endeavour to snatch a wink of sleep, of which he has had +enough; but lies cogitating on the series of strange incidents and +sights which have late occurred to him, but chiefly the last, so +painfully perplexing. He can think of nothing to account for a +phenomenon so abnormal, so outside all laws of nature. + +While vainly endeavouring to solve the dread enigma, a sound strikes +upon his ear, abruptly bringing his conjectures to a close. It is a +dull thumping, still faint and far off; but distinguishable as the tramp +of a horse. + +Starting to his feet, he looks in the direction whence it proceeds. As +expected, he sees a horse; and something more, a man upon its back, both +coming towards him. + +Could it, perchance, be Bosley? Impossible! He was their prisoner +under the live-oak. They would never let him go. Far more like it is +Woodley--the terrible backwoodsman, as ever after him? Whoever it be, +his guilty soul tells him the person approaching can be no friend of +his, but an enemy, a pursuer. And it may be another phantom! + +Earthly fears, with unearthly fancies, alike urging him to flight, he +stays not to make sure whether it be ghost or human; but, hastily taking +up his trail-rope, springs to the back of his horse, and again goes off +in wild terrified retreat. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +It scarce needs telling, that the horseman who has disturbed Richard +Darke's uncomfortable reflections is Charles Clancy. Less than an hour +has elapsed since his starting on the trail, which he has followed fast; +the fresh scent enabling Brasfort to take it up in a run. From the way +it zigzagged, and circled about, Clancy could tell the tracked steed had +been going without guidance, as also guess the reason. The rider, +fleeing in affright, has given no heed to direction. All this the +pursuer knows to be in his favour; showing that the pursued man has not +gone to Coyote creek, but will still be on the steppe, possibly astray, +and perhaps not far off. + +Though himself making quick time, he is not carelessly pursuing; on the +contrary taking every precaution to ensure success. He knows that on +the hard turf his horse's tread can be heard to a great distance; and to +hinder this he has put the animal to a "pace"--a gait peculiar to Texas +and the South-Western States. This, combining speed with silence, has +carried him on quickly as in a canter. The hound he has once more +muzzled, though not holding it in leash; and the two have gone gliding +along silent as spectres. + +At each turn of the trail, he directs looks of inquiry ahead. + +One is at length rewarded. He is facing the moon, whose disc almost +touches the horizon, when alongside it he perceives something dark upon +the plain, distinguishable as the figure of a horse. It is stationary +with head to the ground, as if grazing, though by the uneven outline of +its back it bears something like a saddle. Continuing to scrutinise, he +sees it is this; and, moreover, makes out the form of a man, or what +resembles one, lying along the earth near by. + +These observations take only an instant of time; and, while making them +he has halted, and by a word, spoken low, called his hound off the +trail. The well-trained animal obeying, turns back, and stands by his +side waiting. + +The riderless horse, with the dismounted rider, are still a good way +off, more than half a mile. At that distance he could not distinguish +them, but for the position of the moon, favouring his view. Around her +rim the luminous sky makes more conspicuous the dark forms interposed +between. + +He can have no doubt as to what they are. If he had, it is soon solved. +For while yet gazing upon them--not in conjecture, but as to how he may +best make approach--he perceives the tableau suddenly change. The horse +tosses up its head, while the man starts upon his feet. In an instant +they are together, and the rider in his saddle. + +And now Clancy is quite sure: for the figure of the horseman, outlined +against the background of moonlit sky, clear-edged as a medallion, shows +the feathered circlet surmounting his head. To all appearance a red +savage, in reality a white one--Richard Darke. + +Clancy stays not to think further. If he did he would lose distance. +For soon as in the saddle, Darke goes off in full headlong gallop. In +like gait follows the avenger, forsaking the cautious pace, and no +longer caring for silence. + +Still there is no noise, save that of the hammering hooves, now and then +a clink, as their iron shoeing strikes a stone. Otherwise silent, +pursuer and pursued. But with very different reflections; the former +terrified, half-frenzied, seeking to escape from whom he knows not; the +latter, cool, courageous, trying to overtake one he knows too well. + +Clancy pursues but with one thought, to punish the murderer of his +mother. And sure he will succeed now. Already is the space shortened +between them, growing less with every leap of his horse. A few strides +more and Richard Darke will be within range of his rifle. + +Letting drop the reins, he takes firmer grasp on his gun. His horse +needs no guidance, but goes on as before, still gaining. + +He is now within a hundred lengths of the retreating foe, but still too +far off for a sure shot. Besides, the moon is in front, her light +dazzling his eyes, the man he intends to take aim at going direct for +her disc, as if with the design to ride into it. + +While he delays, calculating the distance, suddenly the moon becomes +obscured, the chased horseman simultaneously disappearing from his +sight! + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE. + +AT LENGTH THE "DEATH SHOT." + +Scarce for an instant is Clancy puzzled by the sudden disappearance of +him pursued. That is accounted for by the simplest of causes; a large +rock rising above the level of the plain, a loose boulder, whose breadth +interposing, covers the disc of the moon. A slight change of direction +has brought it between; Darke having deflected from his course, and +struck towards it. + +Never did hunted fox, close pressed by hounds, make more eagerly for +cover, or seek it so despairingly as he. He has long ago been aware +that the pursuer is gaining upon him. At each anxious glance cast over +his shoulder, he sees the distance decreased, while the tramp of the +horse behind sounds clearer and closer. + +He is in doubt what to do. Every moment he may hear the report of a +gun, and have a bullet into his back. He knows not the instant he may +be shot out of his saddle. + +Shall he turn upon the pursuer, make stand, and meet him face to face? +He dares not. The dread of the unearthly is still upon him. It may be +the Devil! + +The silence, too, awes him. The pursuing horseman has not yet hailed-- +has not spoken word, or uttered exclamation. Were it not for the heavy +tread of the hoof he might well believe him a spectre. + +If Darke only knew who it is, he would fear him as much, or more. +Knowing not, he continues his flight, doubting, distracted. He has but +one clear thought, the instinct common to all chased creatures--to make +for some shelter. + +A copse, a tree, even were it but a bush, anything to conceal him from +the pursuer's sight--from the shot he expects soon to be sent after him. + +Ha! what is that upon the plain? A rock! And large enough to screen +both him and his horse. The very thing! + +Instinctively he perceives his advantage. Behind the rock he can make +stand, and without hesitation he heads his horse for it. + +It is a slight change from his former direction, and he loses a little +ground; but recovers it by increased speed. For encouraged by the hope +of getting under shelter, he makes a last spurt, urging his animal to +the utmost. + +He is soon within the shadow of the rock, still riding towards it. + +It is just then that Clancy loses sight of him, as of the moon. But he +is now also near enough to distinguish the huge stone; and, while +scanning its outlines, he sees the chased horseman turn around it, so +rapidly, and at such distance, he withholds his shot, fearing it may +fail. + +Between pursued and pursuer the chances have changed; and as the latter +reins up to consider what he should do, he sees something glisten above +the boulder, clearly distinguishable as the barrel of a gun. At the +same instant a voice salutes him, saying:-- + +"I don't know who, or what you are. But I warn you to come no nearer. +If you do, I'll send a bullet--Great God!" + +With the profane exclamation, the speaker suddenly interrupts himself, +his voice having changed from its tone of menace to trembling. For the +moonlight is full upon the face of him threatened; he can trace every +feature distinctly. It is the same he late saw on the sun ice of the +plain! + +It can be no dream, nor freak of fancy. Clancy is still alive; or if +dead he, Darke, is looking upon his wraith! + +To his unfinished speech he receives instant rejoinder:-- + +"You don't know who I am? Learn then! I'm the man you tried to +assassinate in a Mississippian forest--Charles Clancy--who means to kill +you, fairer fashion, here on this Texan plain. Dick Darke! if you have +a prayer to say, say it soon; for sure as you stand behind that rock, I +intend taking your life." + +The threat is spoken in a calm, determined tone, as if surely to be +kept. All the more terrible to Richard Darke, who cannot yet realise +the fact of Clancy's being alive. But that stern summons must have come +from mortal lips, and the form before him is no spirit, but living flesh +and blood. + +Terror-stricken, appalled, shaking as with an ague, the gun almost drops +from his grasp. But with a last desperate resolve, and effort +mechanical, scarce knowing what he does, he raises the piece to his +shoulder, and fires. + +Clancy sees the flash, the jet, the white smoke puffing skyward; then +hears the crack. He has no fear, knowing himself at a safe distance. +For at this has he halted. + +He does not attempt to return the fire, nor rashly rush on. Darke +carries a double-barrelled gun, and has still a bullet left. Besides, +he has the advantage of position, the protecting rampart, the moon +behind his back, and in the eyes of his assailant, everything in favour +of the assailed. + +Though chafing in angry impatience, with the thirst of vengeance +unappeased, Clancy restrains himself, measuring the ground with his +eyes, and planning how he may dislodge his skulking antagonist. Must he +lay siege to him, and stay there till-- + +A low yelp interrupts his cogitations. Looking down he sees Brasfort by +his side. In the long trial of speed between the two horses, the hound +had dropped behind. The halt has enabled it to get up, just in time to +be of service to its master, who has suddenly conceived a plan for +employing it. + +Leaping from his saddle, he lays holds of the muzzle strap, quickly +unbuckling it. As though divining the reason, the dog dashes on for the +rock; soon as its jaws are released, giving out a fierce angry growl. + +Darke sees it approaching in the clear moonlight, can distinguish its +markings, remembers them. Clancy's stag-hound! Surely Nemesis, with +all hell's hosts, are let loose on him! + +He recalls how the animal once set upon him. + +Its hostility then is nought to that now. For it has reached the rock, +turned it, and open-mouthed, springs at him like a panther. + +In vain he endeavours to avoid it, and still keep under cover. While +shunning its teeth, he has also to think of Clancy's gun. + +He cannot guard against both, if either. For the dog has caught hold of +his right leg, and fixed its fangs in the flesh. He tries to beat it +off, striking with the butt of his gun. To no purpose now. For his +horse, excited by the attack, and madly prancing, has parted from the +rock, exposing him to the aim of the pursuer, who has, meanwhile, rushed +up within rifle range. + +Clancy sees his advantage, and raises his gun, quick as for the shooting +of a snipe. The crack comes; and, simultaneous with it, Richard Darke +is seen to drop out of his saddle, and fall face foremost on the plain-- +his horse, with a wild neigh, bolting away from him. + +The fallen man makes no attempt to rise, nor movement of any kind, save +a convulsive tremor through his frame; the last throe of parting life, +which precedes the settled stillness of death. For surely is he dead. + +Clancy, dismounting, advances towards the spot; hastily, to hinder the +dog from tearing him, which the enraged animal seems determined to do. +Chiding it off, he bends over the prostrate body, which he perceives has +ceased to breathe. A sort of curiosity, some impulse irresistible, +prompts him to look for the place where his bullet struck. In the +heart, as he can see by the red stream still flowing forth! + +"Just where he hit me! After all, not strange--no coincidence; I aimed +at him there." + +For a time he stands gazing down at the dead man's face. Silently, +without taunt or recrimination. On his own there is no sign of savage +triumph, no fiendish exultation. Far from his thoughts to insult, or +outrage the dead. Justice has had requital, and vengeance been +appeased. It is neither his rival in love, nor his mortal enemy, who +now lies at his feet; but a breathless body, a lump of senseless clay, +all the passions late inspiring it, good and bad, gone to be balanced +elsewhere. + +As he stands regarding Darke's features, in their death pallor showing +livid by the moon's mystic light, a cast of sadness comes over his own, +and he says in subdued soliloquy:-- + +"Painful to think I have taken a man's life--even his! I wish it could +have been otherwise. It could not--I was compelled to it. And surely +God will forgive me, for ridding the world of such a wretch?" + +Then raising himself to an erect attitude, with eyes upturned to +heaven--as when in the cemetery over his mother's grave, he made that +solemn vow--remembering it, he now adds in like solemnal tone-- + +"_I've kept my oath. Mother; thou art avenged_!" + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTY FOUR. + +THE SCOUT'S REPORT. + +While these tragic incidents are occurring on Coyote Creek and the plain +between, others almost as exciting but of less sanguinary character, +take place in the valley of the San Saba. + +As the morning sun lights up the ancient Mission-house, its walls still +reverberate wailing cries, mingled with notes of preparation for the +pursuit. Then follows a forenoon of painful suspense, _no_ word yet +from the scouters sent out. + +Colonel Armstrong, and the principal men of the settlement, have +ascended to the _azotea_ to obtain a better view; and there remain +gazing down the valley in feverish impatience. Just as the sun reaches +meridian their wistful glances are rewarded; but by a sight which little +relieves their anxiety; on the contrary, increasing it. + +A horseman emerging from the timber, which skirts the river's bank, +comes on towards the Mission-building. He is alone, and riding at top +speed--both circumstances having sinister significance. Has the +scouting party been cut off, and he only escaped to tell the tale? Is +it Dupre, Hawkins, or who? He is yet too far off to be identified. + +As he draws nearer, Colonel Armstrong through a telescope makes him out +to be Cris Tucker. + +Why should the young hunter be coming back alone? + +After a mutual interchange of questions and conjectures, they leave off +talking, and silently stand, breathlessly, awaiting his arrival. + +Soon as he is within hailing distance, several unable to restrain +themselves, call out, inquiring the news. + +"Not bad, gentlemen! Rayther good than otherways," shouts back Oris. + +His response lifts a load from their hearts, and in calmer mood they +await further information. In a short time the scout presents himself +before Colonel Armstrong, around whom the others cluster, all alike +eager to hear the report. For they are still under anxiety about the +character of the despoilers, having as yet no reason to think them other +than Indians. Nor does Tucker's account contradict this idea; though +one thing he has to tell begets a suspicion to the contrary. + +Rapidly and briefly as possible the young hunter gives details of what +has happened to Dupre's party, up to the time of his separating from it; +first making their minds easy by assuring them it was then safe. + +They were delayed a long time in getting upon the trail of the robbers, +from these having taken a bye-path leading along the base of the bluff. +At length having found the route of their retreat, they followed it over +the lower ford, and there saw sign to convince them that the Indians-- +still supposing them such--had gone on across the bottom, and in all +probability up the bluff beyond--thus identifying them with the band +which the hunters had seen and tracked down. Indeed no one doubted +this, nor could. But, while the scouters were examining the return +tracks, they came upon others less intelligible--in short, perplexing. +There were the hoof-marks of four horses and a mule--all shod; first +seen upon a side trace leading from the main ford road. Striking into +and following it for a few hundred yards, they came upon a place where +men had encamped and stayed for some time--perhaps slept. The grass +bent down showed where their bodies had been astretch. And these men +must have been white. Fragments of biscuit, with other debris of +eatables, not known to Indians, were evidence of this. + +Returning from the abandoned bivouac, with the intention to ride +straight back to the Mission, the scouters came upon another side trace +leading out on the opposite side of the ford road, and up the river. On +this they again saw the tracks of the shod horses and mule; among them +the foot-prints of a large dog. + +Taking this second trace it conducted them to a glade, with a grand +tree, a live-oak, standing in its centre. The sign told of the party +having stopped there also. While occupied in examining their traces, +and much mystified by them, they picked up an article, which, instead of +making matters clearer, tended to mystify them more--a wig! Of all +things in the world this in such a place! + +Still, not so strange either, seeing it was the counterfeit of an Indian +_chevelure_--the hair long and black, taken from the tail of a horse. + +For all, it had never belonged to, or covered, a red man's skull--since +it was that worn by Bosley, and torn from his head when Woodley and +Heywood were stripping him for examination. + +The scouters, of course, could not know of this; and, while inspecting +the queer waif, wondering what it could mean, two others were taken up: +one a sprig of cypress, the other an orange blossom; both showing as if +but lately plucked, and alike out of place there. + +Dupre, with some slight botanic knowledge, knew that no orange-tree grew +near, nor yet any cypress. But he remembered having observed both in +the Mission-garden, into which the girls had been last seen going. +Without being able to guess why they should have brought sprig or flower +along, he was sure they had themselves been under the live-oak. Where +were they now? + +In answer, Hawkins had cried: "Gone this way! Here's the tracks of the +shod horses leading up-stream, this side. Let's follow them!" + +So they had done, after despatching Tucker with the report. + +It is so far satisfactory, better than any one expected; and inspires +Colonel Armstrong with a feeling akin to hope. Something seems to +whisper him his lost children will be recovered. + +Long ere the sun has set over the valley of the San Saba his heart is +filled, and thrilled, with joy indescribable. For his daughters are by +his side, their arms around his neck, tenderly, lovingly entwining it, +as on that day when told they must forsake their stately Mississippian +home for a hovel in Texas. All have reached the Mission; for the +scouting party having overtaken that of Woodley, came in along with it. + +No, not all, two are still missing--Clancy and Jupiter. About the +latter Woodley has made no one the wiser; though he tells Clancy's +strange experience, which, while astounding his auditory, fills them +with keen apprehension for the young man's fate. + +Keenest is that in the breast of Helen Armstrong. Herself saved, she is +now all the more solicitous about the safety of her lover. Her looks +bespeak more than anxiety--anguish. + +But there is that being done to hinder her from despairing. The +pursuers are rapidly getting ready to start out, and with zeal unabated. +For, although circumstances have changed by the recovery of the +captives, there is sufficient motive for pursuit--the lost treasure to +be re-taken--the outlaws chastised--Clancy's life to be saved, or his +death avenged. + +Woodley's words have fired them afresh, and they are impatient to set +forth. + +Their impatience reaches its climax, when Colonel Armstrong, with head +uncovered, his white hair blown up by the evening breeze, addresses +them, saying:-- + +"Fellow citizens! We have to thank the Almighty that our dear ones have +escaped a great danger. But while grateful to God, let us remember +there is a man also deserving gratitude. A brave young man, we all +believed dead--murdered. He is still alive, let us hope so. Simeon +Woodley has told us of the danger he is now in--death if he fall into +the hands of these desperate outlaws. Friends, and fellow citizens! I +need not appeal to you on behalf of this noble youth. I know you are +all of one mind with myself, that come what will, cost what it may, +Charles Clancy must be saved." + +The enthusiastic shout, sent up in response to the old soldier's speech, +tells that the pursuit will be at least energetic and earnest. + +Helen Armstrong, standing retired, looks more hopeful now. And with her +hope is mingled pride, at the popularity of him to whom she has given +heart, and promised hand. Something more to make her happy; she now +knows that, in the bestowing of both, she will have the approval of her +father. + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTY FIVE. + +A CHANGE OF PROGRAMME. + +On the far frontier of Texas, still unsettled by civilised man, no +chanticleer gives note of the dawn. Instead, the _meleagris_ salutes +the sunrise with a cry equally high-toned, and quite as home-like. For +the gobbling of the wild turkey-cock is scarcely distinguishable from +that of his domesticated brother of the farm-yard. + +A gang of these great birds has roosted in the pecan grove, close to +where the prairie pirates are encamped. At daylight's approach, they +fly up to the tops of the trees; the males, as is their wont in the +spring months of the year, mutually sounding their sonorous challenge. + +It awakes the robbers from the slumber succeeding their drunken debauch; +their chief first of any. + +Coming forth from his tent, he calls upon the others to get up--ordering +several horses to be saddled. He designs despatching a party to the +upper plain, in search of Quantrell and Bosley, not yet come to camp. + +He wants another word with the mulatto; and steps towards the tent, +where he supposes the man to be. + +At its entrance he sees blood--inside a dead body! + +His cry, less of sorrow than anger, brings his followers around. One +after another peering into the tent, they see what is there. There is +no question about how the thing occurred. It is clear to all. Their +prisoner has killed his guard; as they say, assassinated him. Has the +assassin escaped? + +They scatter in search of him, by twos and threes, rushing from tent to +tent. Some proceed to the corral, there to see that the bars are down, +and the horses out. + +These are discovered in a strip of meadow near by, one only missing. It +is that the chief had seized from their white prisoner, and +appropriated. The yellow one has replevined it! + +The ghastly spectacle in the tent gives them no horror. They are too +hardened for that. But it makes them feel, notwithstanding; first +anger, soon succeeded by apprehension. The dullest brute in the band +has some perception of danger as its consequence. Hitherto their +security has depended on keeping up their incognito by disguises, and +the secrecy of their camping place. Here is a prisoner escaped, who +knows all; can tell about their travesties; guide a pursuing party to +the spot! They must remain no longer there. + +Borlasse recognising the necessity for a change of programme, summons +his following around him. + +"Boys!" he says, "I needn't point out to ye that this ugly business puts +us in a bit o' a fix. We've got to clear out o' hyar right quick. I +reckon our best way 'll be to make tracks for San Antone, an' thar +scatter. Even then, we won't be too safe, if yellow skin turns up to +tell his story about us. Lucky a nigger's testymony don't count for +much in a Texan court; an' thar's still a chance to make it count for +nothin' by our knocking him on the head." + +All look surprised, their glances interrogating "How?" + +"I see you don't understan' me," pursues Borlasse in explanation. "It's +easy enough; but we must mount at once, an' make after him. He won't so +readily find his way acrosst the cut-rock plain. An' I tell yez, boys, +it's our only chance." + +There are dissenting voices. Some urge the danger of going back that +way. They may meet the outraged settlers. + +"No fear of them yet," argues the chief, "but there will be if the +nigger meets them. We needn't go on to the San Saba. If we don't +overtake him 'fore reachin' the cottonwood, we'll hev' to let him slide. +Then we can hurry back hyar, an' go down the creek to the Colorado." + +The course counselled, seeming best, is decided on. + +Hastily saddling their horses, and stowing the plunder in a place where +it will be safe till their return, they mount, and start off for the +upper plain. + +Silence again reigns around the deserted camp; no human voice there--no +sound, save the calling of the wild turkeys, that cannot awake that +ghastly sleeper. + +At the same hour, almost the very moment, when Borlasse and his +freebooters, ascending from Coyote Creek, set foot on the table plain, a +party of mounted men, coming up from the San Saba bottom, strikes it on +the opposite edge. It is scarce necessary to say that these are the +pursuing settlers. Dupre at their head. Hardly have they struck out +into the sterile waste, before getting bewildered, with neither trace +nor track to give them a clue to the direction. But they have with them +a surer guide than the foot-prints of men, or the hoof-marks of horses-- +their prisoner Bill Bosley. + +To save his life, the wretch told all about his late associates and is +now conducting the pursuers to Coyote Creek. + +Withal, he is not sure of the way; and halts hesitatingly. + +Woodley mistaking his uncertainty for reluctance, puts a pistol to his +head, saying:-- + +"Bill Bosley! altho' I don't make estimate o' yur life as more account +than that o' a cat, it may be, I spose, precious to yurself. An' ye kin +only save it by takin' us strait to whar ye say Jim Borlasse an' his +beauties air. Show sign o' preevarication, or go a yurd's length out o' +the right track, an'--wal, I won't shoot ye, as I'm threetenin'. That +'ud be a death too good for sech as you. But I promise ye'll get yer +neck streetched on the nearest tree; an' if no tree turn up, I'll tie ye +to the tail o' my horse, an' hang ye that way. So, take yur choice. If +ye want to chaw any more corn, don't 'tempt playin' possum." + +"I hain't no thought of it," protests Bosley, "indeed I hain't, Sime. +I'm only puzzled 'bout the trail from here. Tho' I've been accrost this +plain several times, I never took much notice, bein' with the others, I +only know there's a tree stands by itself. If we can reach that, the +road's easier beyont. I think it's out yonnerways." + +He points in particular direction. + +"Wal, we'll try that way," says Sime, adding: "Ef yer story don't prove +strait, there'll come a crik in yur neck, soon's it's diskivered to be +crooked. So waste no more words, but strike for the timmer ye speak +o'." + +The alacrity with which Bosley obeys tells he is sincere. + +Proof of his sincerity is soon after obtained in the tree itself being +observed. Far off they descry it outlined against the clear sky, +solitary as a ship at sea. + +"Yonner it air, sure enuf!" says Woodley first sighting it. "I reck'n +the skunk's tellin' us the truth, 'bout that stick o' timber being a +finger-post. Tharfor, no more dilly-dallying but on to't quick as our +critters can take us. Thar's a man's life in danger; one that's dear to +me, as I reckon he'd be to all o' ye, ef ye knowed him, same's I do. Ye +heerd what the old kurnel sayed, as we war startin' out: _cost what it +mout, Charley Clancy air to be saved_. So put the prod to your +critters, an' let's on!" + +Saying this, the hunter spurs his horse to its best speed; and soon all +are going at full gallop in straight course for the cottonwood. + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTY SIX. + +ALONE WITH THE DEAD. + +Beside the body of his fallen foe stands Charles Clancy, but with no +intention there to tarry long. The companionship of the dead is ever +painful, whether it be friend or enemy. With the latter, alone, it may +appal. Something of this creeps over his spirit while standing there; +for he has now no strong passion to sustain him, not even anger. + +After a few moments, he turns his back on the corpse, calling Brasfort +away from it. The dog yet shows hostility; and, if permitted, would +mutilate the lifeless remains. Its fierce canine instinct has no +generous impulse, and is only restrained by scolding and threats. + +The sun is beginning to show above the horizon, and Clancy perceives +Darke's horse tearing about over the plain. He is reminded of his +promise made to Jupiter. + +The animal does not go clear off, but keeps circling round, as if it +desired to come back again; the presence of the other horse attracting, +and giving it confidence. Clancy calls to it, gesticulating in a +friendly manner, and uttering exclamations of encouragement. By little +and little, it draws nearer, till at length its muzzle is in contact +with that of his own steed; and, seizing the bridle, he secures it. + +Casting a last look at the corpse, he turns to the horses, intending to +take departure from the spot. So little time has been spent in the +pursuit, and the short conflict succeeding, it occurs to him he may +overtake Jupiter, before the latter has reached the San Saba. + +Scanning around to get bearings, his eye is attracted to an object, now +familiar--the lone cottonwood. It is not much over two miles off. On +Darke's trail he must have ridden at least leagues. Its crooked course, +however, explains the tree's proximity. The circles and zig-zags have +brought both pursued and pursuer nigh back to the starting point. + +Since the cottonwood is there, he cannot be so far from the other place, +he has such reason to remember; and, again running his eye around, he +looks for it. + +He sees it not, as there is nothing now to be seen, except some +scattered mould undistinguishable at a distance. Instead, the rising +sun lights up the figure of a man, afoot, and more than a mile off. Not +standing still, but in motion; as he can see, moving towards himself. +It is Jupiter! + +Thus concluding, he is about to mount and meet him, when stayed by a +strange reflection. + +"I'll let Jupe have a look at his old master," he mutters to himself. +"He too had old scores to settle with him--many a one recorded upon his +skin. It may give him satisfaction to know how the thing has ended." + +Meanwhile the mulatto--for it is he--comes on; at first slowly, and with +evident caution in his approach. + +Soon he is seen to quicken his step, changing it to a run; at length +arriving at the rock, breathless as one who reaches the end of a race. +The sight which meets him there gives him but slight surprise. He has +been prepared for it. + +In answer to Clancy's inquiry, he briefly explains his presence upon the +spot. Disobedient to the instructions given him, instead of proceeding +towards the San Saba bottom, he had remained upon the steppe. Not +stationary, but following his master as fast as he could, and keeping +him in view so long as the distance allowed. Two things were in his +favour--the clear moonlight and Darke's trail doubling back upon itself. +For all, he had at length lost sight of the tracking horseman, but not +till he had caught a glimpse of him tracked, fleeing before. It was the +straight tail-on-end chase that took both beyond reach of his vision. +Noting the direction, he still went hastening after, soon to hear a +sound which told him the chase had come to a termination, and strife +commenced. This was the report of a gun, its full, round boom +proclaiming it a smooth-bore fowling-piece. Remembering that his old +master always carried this--his new one never--it must be the former who +fired the shot. And, as for a long while no other answered it, he was +in despair, believing the latter killed. Then reached his ear the angry +bay of the bloodhound, with mens' voices intermingled; ending all the +dear, sharp crack of a rifle; which, from the stillness that succeeded +continuing, he knew to be the last shot. + +"An' it war the last, as I can see," he says, winding up his account, +and turning towards the corpse. "Ah! you've gi'n him what he thought +he'd guv you--his _death shot_!" + +"Yes, Jupe. He's got it at last; and strange enough in the very place +where he hit me. You see where my bullet has struck him?" + +The mulatto, stooping down over Darke's body, examines the wound, still +dripping blood. + +"You're right, Masser Charle; it's in de adzack spot. Well, that is +curious. Seems like your gun war guided by de hand of that avengin' +angel you spoke o'." + +Having thus delivered himself, the fugitive slave becomes silent and +thoughtful, for a time, bending over the body of his once cruel master, +now no more caring for his cruelty, or in fear of being chastised by +him. + +With what strange reflections must that spectacle inspire him! The +outstretched arms lying helpless along the earth--the claw-like fingers +now stiff and nerveless--he may be thinking how they once clutched a +cowhide, vigorously laying it on his own back, leaving those terrible +scars. + +"Come, Jupe!" says Clancy, rousing him from his reverie; "we must mount, +and be off." + +Soon they are in their saddles, ready to start; but stay yet a little +longer. For something has to be considered. It is necessary for them +to make sure about their route. They must take precautions against +getting strayed, as also another and still greater danger. Jupiter's +escape from the robbers' den, with the deed that facilitated it, will by +this have been discovered. It is more than probable he will be pursued; +indeed almost certain. And the pursuers will come that way; at any +moment they may appear. + +This is the dark side of the picture presented to Clancy's imagination, +as he turns his eyes towards the west. Facing in the opposite direction +his fancy summons up one brighter. For there lies the San Saba +Mission-house, within whose walls he will find Helen Armstrong. He has +now no doubt that she has reached home in safety; knows, too, that her +father still lives. For the mulatto has learnt as much from the +outlaws. While _en route_ to Coyote Creek, and during his sojourn +there, he overheard them speak about the massacre of the slaves, as also +the immunity extended to their masters, with the reason for it. It is +glad tidings to Clancy, His betrothed, restored to her father's arms, +will not the less affectionately open her own to receive him. The long +night of their sorrowing has passed; the morn of their joy comes; its +daylight is already dawning. He will have a welcome, sweet as ever met +man. + +"What's that out yonner?" exclaims Jupiter, pointing west. + +Clancy's rapture is interrupted--his bright dream dissipated--suddenly, +as when a cloud drifts over the disc of the sun. + +And it is the sun which causes the change, or rather the reflection of +its rays from something seen afar off, over the plain. Several points +sparkle, appearing and disappearing through a semi-opaque mass, whose +dun colour shows it to be dust. + +Experienced in prairie-sign he can interpret this; and does easily, but +with a heaviness at his heart. The things that sparkle are guns, +pistols, knives, belt-buckles, bitts, and stirrups; while that through +which they intermittingly shine is the stoor tossed up by the hooves of +horses. It is a body of mounted men in march across the steppe. + +Continuing to scan the dust-cloud, he perceives inside it a darker +nucleus, evidently horses and men, though he is unable to trace the +individual forms, or make out their number. No mattes for that; there +is enough to identify them without. They are coming from the side of +the Colorado--from Coyote Creek. Beyond doubt the desperadoes! + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTY SEVEN. + +HOSTILE COHORTS. + +Perfectly sure that the band is that of Borlasse, which he almost +instantly is, Clancy draws his horse behind the rock, directing Jupiter +to do likewise. Thus screened, they can command a view of the horsemen, +without danger of being themselves seen. + +For greater security both dismount; the mulatto holding the horses, +while his master sets himself to observe the movements of the +approaching troop. Is it approaching? + +Yes; but not direct for the rock. Its head is towards the tree, and the +robbers are evidently making to reach this. As already said, the +topography of the place is peculiar; the lone cottonwood standing on the +crest of a _couteau de prairie_, whose sides slope east and west. It +resembles the roof of a house, but with gentler declination. Similarly +situated on the summit of the ridge, is the boulder, but with nearly a +league's length between it and the tree. + +Soon as assured that the horsemen are heading for the latter, Clancy +breathes freer breath. But without being satisfied he is safe. He +knows they will not stay there; and where next? He reflects what might +have been his fate were he still in the _prairie stocks_. Borlasse will +be sure to pay that place a visit. Not finding the victim of his +cruelty, he will seek elsewhere. Will it occur to him to come on to the +rock? + +Clancy so interrogates, with more coolness, and less fear, than may be +imagined. His horse is beside him, and Jupiter has another. The +mulatto is no longer encumbered by a mule. Darke's steed is known to be +a swift one, and not likely to be outrun by any of the robber troop. If +chased, some of them might overtake it, but not all, or not at the same +time. There will be less danger from their following in detail, and +thus Clancy less fears them. For he knows that his yellow-skinned +comrade is strong as courageous; a match for any three ordinary men. +And both are now well armed--Darke's double-barrel, as his horse, having +reverted to Jupiter. Besides, as good luck has it, there are pistols +found in the holsters, to say nothing of that long-bladed, and late +blood-stained, knife. In a chase they will have a fair chance to +escape; and, if it come to a fight, can make a good one. + +While he is thus speculating upon the probabilities of the outlaws +coming on to the rock, and what may be the upshot afterwards, Clancy's +ear is again saluted by a cry from his companion. But this time in tone +very different: for it is jubilant, joyous. + +Turning, he sees Jupiter standing with face to the east, and pointing in +that direction. To what? Another cloud of dust, that prinkles with +sparkling points; another mounted troop moving across the plain! And +also making for the tree, which, equi-distant between the two, seems to +be the beacon of both. + +Quick as he reached the conclusion about the first band being that of +Borlasse, does he decide as to that of the second. It is surely the +pursuing colonists, and as sure with Sime Woodley at their head. + +Both cohorts are advancing at a like rate of speed, neither riding +rapidly. They have been so, but now, climbing the acclivity, they have +quieted their horses to a walk. The pace though slow, continued, will +in time bring them together. A collision seems inevitable. His glance +gladdens as he measures the strength of the two parties. The former not +only in greater number, but with God on their side; while the latter +will be doing battle under the banner of the Devil. + +About the issue of such encounter he has no anxiety. He is only +apprehensive it may not come off. Something may arise to warn the +outlaws, and give them a chance to shun it. + +As yet neither party has a thought of the other's proximity or approach. +They cannot, with the ridge between. Still is there that, which should +make them suspicious of something. Above each band are buzzards--a +large flock. They flout the air in sportive flight, their instinct +admonishing them that the two parties are hostile, and likely to spill +each other's blood. + +About the two sets of birds what will both sides be saying? For, high +in heaven, both must long since have observed them. From their presence +what conjectures will they draw? + +So Clancy questions, answering himself: + +"Borlasse will suppose the flock afar to be hovering over my head; while +Woodley may believe the other one above my dead body!" + +Strange as it may appear, just thus, and at the same instant, are the +two leaders interpreting the sign! And well for the result Clancy +desires; since it causes neither to command halt or make delay. On the +contrary impels them forward more impetuously. Perceiving this, he +mechanically mutters: + +Thank the Lord! They must meet now! Curbing his impatience, as he best +can, he continues to watch the mutually approaching parties. At the +head of the colonists he now sees Sime Woodley, recognises him by his +horse--a brindled "clay-bank," with stripes like a zebra. Would that he +could communicate with his old comrade, and give him word, or sign of +warning. He dares not do either. To stir an inch from behind the rock, +would expose him to the view of the robbers, who might still turn and +retreat. + +With heart beating audibly, blood, coursing quick through his veins, he +watches and waits, timing the crisis. It must come soon. The two +flocks of vultures have met in mid-air, and mingle their sweeping +gyrations. They croak in mutual congratulation, anticipating a splendid +repast. + +Clancy counts the moments. They cannot be many. The heads of the +horsemen already align with the tufts of grass growing topmost on the +ridge. Their brows are above it; their eyes. They have sighted each +other! + +A halt on both sides; horses hurriedly reined in; no shouts; only a word +of caution from the respective leaders of the troops, each calling back +to his own. Then an interval of silence, disturbed by the shrill +screams of the horses, challenging from troop to troop, seemingly +hostile as their riders. + +In another instant both have broken halt, and are going in gallop over +the plain; not towards each other, but one pursuing, the other pursued. +The robbers are in retreat! + +Clancy had not waited for this; his cue came before, soon as they caught +sight of one another. Then, vaulting into his saddle, and calling +Jupiter to follow, he was off. + +Riding at top speed, cleaving the air, till it whistles past his ears, +with eyes strained forward, he sees the changed attitude of the troops. + +He reflects not on it; all his thoughts becoming engrossed, all his +energies bent, upon taking part in the pursuit, and still more in the +fight he hopes will follow. He presses on in a diagonal line between +pursued and pursuers. His splendid steed now shows its good qualities, +and gladly he sees he is gaining upon both. With like gladness that +they are nearing one another, the short-striding mustangs being no match +for the long legged American horses. As yet not a shot has been fired. +The distance is still too great for the range of rifles, and +backwoodsmen do not idly waste ammunition. The only sounds heard are +the trampling of the hooves, and the occasional neigh of a horse. The +riders are all silent, in both troops alike--one in the mute eagerness +of flight, the other with the stern earnestness of pursuit. + +And now puffs of smoke arise over each, with jets of flame projected +outward. Shots, at first dropping and single, then in thick rattling +fusillade. Along with them cries of encouragement, mingled with shouts +of defiance. Then a wild "hurrah," the charging cheers the colonists +close upon the outlaws. + +Clancy rides straight for the fray. In front he sees the plain shrouded +in dense sulphureous mist, at intervals illumined by yellow flashes. +Another spurt, and, passing through the thin outer strata of smoke, he +is in the thick of the conflict--among men on horseback grappling other +mounted men, endeavouring to drag them out of the saddle--some afoot, +fighting in pairs, firing pistols, or with naked knives, hewing away at +one another! + +He sees that the fight is nigh finished, and the robbers routed. Some +are dismounted, on their knees crying "quarter," and piteously appealing +for mercy. + +Where is Sime Woodley? Has his old comrade been killed? + +Half frantic with this fear, he rashes distractedly over the ground, +calling out the backwoodsman's name. He is answered by another--by Ned +Heywood, who staggers to his side, bleeding, his face blackened with +powder. + +"You are wounded, Heywood?" + +"Yes; or I wouldn't be here." + +"Why?" + +"Because Sime--" + +"Where is he?" + +"Went that way in chase o' a big brute of a fellow. I've jest spied +them passin' through the smoke. For God's sake, after! Sime may stand +in need o' ye." + +Clancy stays not to hear more, but again urges his horse to speed, with +head in the direction indicated. + +Darting on, he is soon out into the clear atmosphere; there to see two +horsemen going off over the plain, pursued and pursuer. In the former +he recognises Borlasse, while the latter is Woodley. Both are upon +strong, swift, horses; but better mounted than either, he soon gains +upon them. + +The backwoodsman is nearing the brigand. Clancy sees this with +satisfaction, though not without anxiety. He knows Jim Borlasse is an +antagonist not to be despised. Driven to desperation, he will fight +like a grizzly bear. Woodley will need all his strength, courage, and +strategy. + +Eager to assist his old comrade, he presses onward; but, before he can +come up, they have closed, and are at it. + +Not in combat, paces apart, with rifles or pistols. Not a shot is being +exchanged between them. Instead, they are close together, have clutched +one another, and are fighting, hand to hand, with _bowies_! + +It commenced on horseback, but at the first grip both came to the +ground, dragging each other down. Now the fight continues on foot, each +with his bared blade hacking and hewing at the other. + +A dread spectacle these two gigantic gladiators engaged in mortal +strife! All the more in its silence. Neither utters shout, or speaks +word. They are too intent upon killing. The only sound heard is their +hoarse breathing as they pant to recover it--each holding the other's +arm to hinder the fatal stroke. + +Clancy's heart beats apprehensively for the issue; and with rifle +cocked, he rides on to send a bullet through Borlasse. + +It is not needed. No gun is to give the _coup de grace_ to the chief of +the prairie pirates. For, the blade of a bowie-knife has passed between +his ribs, laying him lifeless along the earth. + +"You, Charley Clancy!" says Sime, in joyful surprise at seeing his +friend still safe. "Thank the Lord for it! But who'd a thought o' +meeting ye in the middle of the skrimmage! And in time to stan' by me +hed that been needful. But whar hev ye come from? Dropt out o' the +clouds? An' what o' Dick Darke? I'd most forgot that leetle matter. +Have ye seed him?" + +"I have." + +"Wal; what's happened? Hev ye did anythin' to him?" + +"The same as you have done to _him_," answers Clancy, pointing to the +body of Borlasse. + +"Good for you! I know'd it 'ud end that way. I say'd so to that sweet +critter, when I war leevin' her at the Mission." + +"You left her there--safe?" + +"Wal, I left her in her father's arums, whar I reckon she'll be safe +enough. But whar's Jupe?" + +"He's here--somewhere behind." + +"All right! That accounts for the hul party. Now let's back, and see +what's chanced to the rest o' this ruffin crew. So, Jim Borlasse, good +bye!" + +With this odd leave taking, he turns away, wipes the blood from his +bowie, returns it to its sheath, and once more climbing into his saddle, +rides off to rejoin the victorious colonists. + +On the ground where the engagement took place, a sad spectacle is +presented. The smoke has drifted away, disclosing the corpses of the +slain--horses as well as men. All the freebooters have fallen, and now +lie astretch as they fell to stab or shot; some on their backs, others +with face downward, or doubled sideways, but all dead, gashed, and +gory--not a wounded man among them! For the colonists, recalling that +parallel spectacle in the Mission courtyard, have given loose rein to +the _lex talionis_, and exacted a terrible retribution. + +Nor have they themselves got off unscathed. The desperadoes being +refused quarter, fought it out to the bitter end; killing several of the +settlers, and wounding many more; among the latter two known to us-- +Heywood and Dupre. By good fortune, neither badly, and both to recover +from their wounds; the young Creole also recovering his stolen treasure, +found secreted at the camp on Coyote creek. + +Our tale might here close; for it is scarce necessary to record what +came afterwards. The reader will guess, and correctly, that Dupre +became the husband of Jessie, and Helen the wife of Clancy; both +marriages being celebrated at the same time, and both with full consent +and approval of the only living parent--Colonel Armstrong. + +And on the same day, though at a different hour, a third couple was made +man and wife; Jupe getting spliced to his Jule, from whom he had been so +long cruelly kept apart. + +It is some years since then, and changes have taken place in the colony. +As yet none to be regretted, but the reverse. A Court-House town has +sprung up on the site of the ancient Mission, the centre of a district +of plantations--the largest of them belonging to Luis Dupre; while one +almost as extensive, and equally as flourishing, has Charles Clancy for +owner. + +On the latter live Jupe and Jule; Jupe overseer, Jule at the head of the +domestic department; while on the former reside two other personages +presented in this tale, it is hoped with interest attached to them. +They are Blue Bill, and his Phoebe; not living alone, but in the midst +of a numerous progeny of piccaninnies. + +How the coon-hunter comes to be there requires explanation. A word will +be sufficient. Ephraim Darke stricken down by the disgrace brought upon +him, has gone to his grave; and at the breaking up of his slave +establishment, Blue Bill, with all his belongings, was purchased by +Dupre, and transported to his present home. This not by any accident, +but designedly; as a reward for his truthfulness, with the courage he +displayed in declaring it. + +Between the two plantations, lying contiguous, Colonel Armstrong comes +and goes, scarce knowing which is his proper place of residence. In +both he has a bedroom, and a table profusely spread, with the warmest of +welcomes. + +In the town itself is a market, plentifully supplied with provisions, +especially big game--bear-meat, and venison. Not strange, considering +that it is catered for by four of the most skilful hunters in Texas; +their names, Woodley, Heywood, Hawkins, and Tucker. When off duty these +worthies may be seen sauntering through the streets, and relating the +experiences of their latest hunting expedition. + +But there is one tale, which Sime, the oldest of the quartette, has told +over and over--yet never tires telling. Need I say, it is the "Death +Shot?" + +THE END. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Death Shot, by Mayne Reid + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEATH SHOT *** + +***** This file should be named 23140.txt or 23140.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/1/4/23140/ + +Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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