The Death Shot, A Story Retold, by Captain Mayne Reid. 

________________________________________________________________________This was quite a difficult book to transcribe. There were the usualdifficulties with this author--his frequent use of words in Spanish, orthe Mexican variety of Spanish, of words in French. In addition it musthave been something of an experimental writing, for it is generally inthe present tense, and there was frequent use made of new words thathave not survived in the language. Much, indeed almost all, of thespeech is uttered by uneducated persons, so that it needs perseverance, sometimes, to make out what is being said. Probably most of thespeakers would not have been able to read, and would not have known howto pronounce the words they uttered. Added to all that theproof-reading, particularly towards the end of the book, left much to bedesired, 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 badbinding. It fell apart completely, and we had to continue the work on ascanner 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 ofthat period, that punctuation marks, especially commas and full-stops, and especially at the corners of the pages, tend to disappear, andsome degree of cunning has to be brought to bear to recover them. 

To illustrate the poor proof-reading, one of the chapters was completelyrepeated, without any change in the flow of page numbers. This issomething I have never before seen, though I have seen chapterscompletely omitted, without affecting the page-numbers!

All that having been said, I would like to think that the author wouldhave been pleased with our version, for certain it is that it is betterthan the published book, although it is certain there are still someerrors in our text. It does make a very nice audiobook, taking almostfifteen hours to read. At the time of writing this I have heard ittwice, 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 thereare some who will not be happy with this, but this book was written 130years ago, and times have changed. 

It has been suggested that this book was entirely re-written by theauthor, this being his final version. Although it is an unusual pieceof writing it flows very well, and the author could well have beenunhappy about the poor printing. Let us hope that he is looking downupon us with a gleam of pleasure in his eye. 

As regards the subject matter, it is really very strange. There aremurders with no body, murderers on the run with no evidence againstthem, murdered persons who are perfectly alive and well, Red Indianswho 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 beautifuldescription of the terrain, and a considerable tenderness towards thesomewhat 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, thatthis romance, as originally published, was written when the author wassuffering severe affliction, both physically and mentally--the result ofa gun-wound that brought him as near to death as Darke's bullet didClancy. 

It may be asked, Why under such strain was the tale written at all? Agood 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 withoutbeing seen. Even the crawling reptile would not be concealed among itstufts. 

Objects are upon it--sufficiently visible to be distinguished at somedistance. They are of a character scarce deserving a glance from thepassing traveller. He would deem it little worth while to turn his eyestowards a pack of prairie wolves, much less go in chase of them. 

With vultures soaring above, he might be more disposed to hesitate, andreflect. 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 horsecrippled by some mischance due to his headlong nature?

Believing it any of these, the traveller would reloosen his rein, andride onward, --leaving the beasts and birds to their banquet. 

There is no traveller passing over the prairie in question--no humanbeing upon it. Nothing like life, save the coyotes grouped over theground, and the buzzards swooping above. 

They are not unseen by human eye. There is one sees--one who has reasonto fear them. 

Their eager excited movements tell them to be anticipating a repast; atthe same time, that they have not yet commenced it. 

Something appears in their midst. At intervals they approach it: thebirds swoopingly from heaven, the beasts crouchingly along the earth. Both go close, almost to touching it; then suddenly withdraw, startingback as in affright!

Soon again to return; but only to be frayed as before. And so on, in aseries 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 anythingalive. Seen from a distance it resembles a human head. Nearer, theresemblance 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 Texanprairie! Nothing, whatever, if scalpless. It would only prove thatsome ill-starred individual--traveller, trapper, or hunter of wildhorses--has been struck down by Comanches; afterwards beheaded, andscalped. 

But this head--if head it be--is _not_ scalped. It still carries itshair--a fine chevelure, waving and profuse. Nor is it lying upon theground, as it naturally should, after being severed from the body, andabandoned. On the contrary, it stands erect, and square, as if still onthe shoulders from which it has been separated; the neck underneath, thechin just touching the surface. With cheeks pallid, or blood spotted, and eyes closed or glassy, the attitude could not fail to causesurprise. And yet more to note, that there is neither pallor, nor stainon the cheeks; and the eyes are neither shut, nor glassed. On thecontrary, they are glancing--glaring--rolling. _By Heavens the head isalive_!

No wonder the wolves start back in affright; no wonder the vultures, after stooping low, ply their wings in quick nervous stroke, and soar upagain! The odd thing seems to puzzle both beasts and birds; bafflestheir instinct, and keeps them at bay. 

Still know they, or seem to believe, 'tis flesh and blood. Sight andscent tell them so. By both they cannot be deceived. 

And living flesh it must be? A Death's head could neither flash itseyes, nor cause them to revolve in their sockets. Besides, thepredatory creatures have other evidence of its being alive. Atintervals 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 forthe greater part of a day. 

Strange spectacle! The head of a man, without any body; with eyes in itthat scintillate and see; a mouth that opens, and shows teeth; a throatfrom which issue sounds of human intonation; around this object of weirdsupernatural aspect, a group of wolves, and over it a flock of vultures!

Twilight approaching, spreads a purple tint over the prairie. But itbrings no change in the attitude of assailed, or assailants. There isstill light enough for the latter to perceive the flash of those fieryeyes, whose glances of menace master their voracious instincts, warningthem back. 

On a Texan prairie twilight is short. There are no mountains, or highhills intervening, no obliquity in the sun's diurnal course, to lengthenout the day. When the golden orb sinks below the horizon, a briefcrepusculous light succeeds; then darkness, sudden as though a curtainof crape were dropped over the earth. 

Night descending causes some change in the tableau described. Thebuzzards, obedient to their customary habit--not nocturnal--takedeparture from the spot, and wing their way to their usual roostingplace. Different do the coyotes. These stay. Night is the time bestsuited to their ravening instincts. The darkness may give them a betteropportunity 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 lightof day. They see the head still erect, the eyes angrily glancing; whilein 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 appearstrange--more than ever unlike reality, and more nearly allied to thespectral. For, under the moonlight, shimmering through a film that hasspread over the plain, the head seems magnified to the dimensions of theSphinx; while the coyotes--mere jackals of terrier size--look large asCanadian 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 nomore--there was much grievance to humanity; proud oppression upon theone side, with sad suffering on the other. It may be true, that themajority of the slave proprietors were humane men; that some of themwere even philanthropic in their way, and inclined towards giving to theunholy institution a colour of _patriarchism_. This idea--delusive, asintended to delude--is old as slavery itself; at the same time, modernas 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 amongAmerican masters occurred cases of lamentable harshness--even toinhumanity. There were slave-owners who were kind, and slave-owners whowere cruel. 

Not far from the town of Natchez, in the State of Mississippi, lived twoplanters, whose lives illustrated the extremes of these distinct moraltypes. Though their estates lay contiguous, their characters were asopposite, as could well be conceived in the scale of manhood andmorality. Colonel Archibald Armstrong--a true Southerner of the oldVirginian aristocracy, who had entered the Mississippi Valley before theChoctaw Indians evacuated it--was a model of the kind slave-master;while Ephraim Darke--a Massachusetts man, who had moved thither at amuch later period--was as fair a specimen of the cruel. Coming from NewEngland, of the purest stock of the Puritans--a people whose descendantshave made much sacrifice in the cause of negro emancipation--this aboutDarke may seem strange. It is, notwithstanding, a common tale; onewhich no traveller through the Southern States can help hearing. Forthe Southerner will not fail to tell him, that the hardest task-masterto the slave is either one, who has been himself a slave, or descendedfrom the Pilgrim Fathers, whose feet first touched American soil by theside of Plymouth Rock!

Having a respect for many traits in the character of these same PilgrimFathers, I would fain think the accusation exaggerated--if notaltogether untrue--and that Ephraim Darke was an exceptional individual. 

To accuse _him_ of inhumanity was no exaggeration whatever. Throughoutthe Mississippi valley there could be nothing more heartless than histreatment of the sable helots, whose luckless lot it was to have him fora master. Around his courts, and in his cotton-fields, the crack of thewhip was heard habitually--its thong sharply felt by the victims of hiscaprice, or malice. The "cowhide" was constantly carried by himself, and his overseer. He had a son, too, who could wield it wickedly aseither. 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 someunfortunate "darkey, " whose evil star had caused him to stray acrosstheir track, while riding the rounds of the plantation. 

A far different discipline was that of Colonel Armstrong; whose slavesseldom went to bed without a prayer poured forth, concluding with: "Godbress de good massr;" while the poor whipped bondsmen of his neighbour, their backs oft smarting from the lash, nightly lay down, not always tosleep, but nearly always with curses on their lips--the name of theDevil coupled with that of Ephraim Darke. 

The old story, of like cause followed by like result, must, alas! bechronicled in this case. The man of the Devil prospered, while he ofGod came to grief. Armstrong, open-hearted, free-handed, indulging in atoo profuse hospitality, lived widely outside the income accruing fromthe culture of his cotton-fields, and in time became the debtor ofDarke, who lived as widely within his. 

Notwithstanding the proximity of their estates, there was but littleintimacy, and less friendship, between the two. The Virginian--scion ofan old Scotch family, who had been gentry in the colonial times--feltsomething akin to contempt for his New England neighbour, whoseancestors had been steerage passengers in the famed "Mayflower. " Falsepride, perhaps, but natural to a citizen of the Old Dominion--of lateyears brought low enough. 

Still, not much of this influenced the conduct of Armstrong. For hisdislike to Darke he had a better, and more honourable, reason--the badbehaviour of the latter. This, notorious throughout the community, madefor the Massachusetts man many enemies; while in the noble mind of theMississippian it produced positive aversion. 

Under these circumstances, it may seem strange there should be anyintercourse, or relationship, between the two men. But there was--thatof debtor and creditor--a lien not always conferring friendship. Notwithstanding his dislike, the proud Southerner had not been aboveaccepting a loan from the despised Northern, which the latter was buttoo eager to extend. The Massachusetts man had long coveted theMississippian's fine estate; not alone from its tempting contiguity, butalso because it looked like a ripe pear that must soon fall from thetree. With secret satisfaction he had observed the wastefulextravagance of its owner; a satisfaction increased on discovering thelatter's impecuniosity. It became joy, almost openly exhibited, on theday when Colonel Armstrong came to him requesting a loan of twentythousand dollars; which he consented to give, with an alacrity thatwould have appeared suspicious to any but a borrower. 

If he gave the money in great _glee_, still greater was that with whichhe contemplated the mortgage deed taken in exchange. For he knew it tobe the first entering of a wedge, that in due time would ensure himpossession of the _fee-simple_. All the surer, from a condition in thatparticular deed: _Foreclosure, without time_. Pressure from otherquarters had forced planter Armstrong to accept these terrible terms. 

As, Darke, before locking it up in his drawer, glanced the documentover, his eyes scintillating with the glare of greed triumphant, he saidto himself, "This day's work has doubled the area of my acres, and thenumber 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 ofArchibald Armstrong. Apparently, no great change has taken place in therelationship between the two men, though in reality much. 

The twenty thousand dollars' loan has been long ago dissipated, and theborrower is once more in need. 

It would be useless, idle, for him to seek a second mortgage in the samequarter; or in any other, since he can show no collateral. His propertyhas been nearly all hypothecated in the deed to Darke; who perceives hislong-cherished dream on the eve of becoming a reality. At any hour hemay cause foreclosure, turn Colonel Armstrong out of his estate, andenter upon possession. 

Why does he not take advantage of the power, with which the legal codeof 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 ofmercy, or humanity. Or of friendship either, though somethingerroneously considered akin to it. Love hinders him from pouncing onthe plantation of Archibald Armstrong, and appropriating it!

Not love in his own breast, long ago steeled against such a triflingaffection. There only avarice has a home; cupidity keeping house, andlooking carefully after the expenses. 

But there is a spendthrift who has also a shelter in Ephraim Darke'sheart--one who does much to thwart his designs, oft-times defeatingthem. As already said, he has a son, by name Richard; better knownthroughout the settlement as "Dick"--abbreviations of nomenclature beingalmost universal in the South-Western States. An only son--only childas well--motherless too--she who bore him having been buried long beforethe 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 becharacteristic of the Yankee, is not improved by admixture with thereckless looseness alleged to be habitual in the Southerner. 

Both these bad qualities have been developed in Dick Darke, each to itsextreme. Never was New Englander more secretive and crafty; neverMississippian more loose, or licentious. 

Mean in the matter of personal expenditure, he is at the same time ofdissipated and disorderly habits; the associate of the poker-playing, and cock-fighting, fraternity of the neighbourhood; one of its wildestspirits, without any of those generous traits oft coupled with such acharacter. 

As only son, he is heir-presumptive to all the father's property--slavesand plantation lands; and, being thoroughly in his father's confidence, he is aware of the probability of a proximate reversion to the slavesand plantation lands belonging to Colonel Armstrong. 

But much as Dick Darke may like money, there is that he likes more, evento covetousness--Colonel Armstrong's daughter. There are two of them--Helen and Jessie--both grown girls, --motherless too--for the colonel ishimself a widower. 

Jessie, the younger, is bright-haired, of blooming complexion, merry tomadness; in spirit, the personification of a romping elf; in physique, asort 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 ofregular classic type, form tall and magnificently moulded, amidst othersshe appears as a palm rising above the commoner trees of the forest. Ever since her coming out in society, she has been universally esteemedthe beauty of the neighbourhood--as belle in the balls of Natchez. Itis to her Richard Darke has extended his homage, and surrendered hisheart. 

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 thewicked son holds a wonderful ascendancy over a parent, who has trainedhim to wickedness equalling his own. 

With the power of creditor over debtor--a debt of which payment can bedemanded at any moment, and not the slightest hope of the latter beingable to pay it--the Darkes seem to have the vantage ground, and maydictate their own terms. 

Helen Armstrong knows nought of the mortgage; no more, of herself beingthe cause which keeps it from foreclosure. Little does she dream, thather beauty is the sole shield imposed between her father and impendingruin. Possibly if she did, Richard Darke's attentions to her would bereceived with less slighting indifference. For months he has beenpaying them, whenever, and wherever, an opportunity has offered--atballs, _barbecues_, and the like. Of late also at her father's house;where the power spoken of gives him not only admission, but politereception, and hospitable entertainment, at the hands of its owner;while the consciousness of possessing it hinders him from observing, howcoldly his assiduities are met by her to whom they are so warmlyaddressed. 

He wonders why, too. He knows that Helen Armstrong has many admirers. It could not be otherwise with one so splendidly beautiful, sogracefully gifted. But among them there is none for whom she has shownpartiality. 

He has, himself, conceived a suspicion, that a young man, by nameCharles Clancy--son of a decayed Irish gentleman, living near--has foundfavour in her eyes. Still, it is only a suspicion; and Clancy has goneto Texas the year before--sent, so said, by his father, to look out fora new home. The latter has since died, leaving his widow sole occupantof 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 dayexpected. 

That can't matter. The proud planter, Armstrong, is not the man topermit of his daughter marrying a "poor white"--as Richard Darkescornfully styles his supposed rival--much less consent to the sobestowing of her hand. Therefore no danger need be dreaded from thatquarter. 

Whether there need, or not, the suitor of Helen Armstrong at lengthresolves on bringing the affair to an issue. His love for her hasbecome a strong passion, the stronger for being checked--restrained byher cold, almost scornful behaviour. This may be but coquetry. Hehopes, and has a fancy it is. Not without reason. For he is far frombeing ill-favoured; only in a sense moral, not physical. But this hasnot prevented him from making many conquests among backwood's belles;even some city celebrities living in Natchez. All know he is rich; orwill be, when his father fulfils the last conditions of his will--bydying. 

So fortified, so flattered, Dick Darke cannot comprehend why MissArmstrong has not at once surrendered to him. Is it because her haughtydisposition hinders her from being too demonstrative? Does she reallylove him, without giving sign?

For months he has been cogitating in this uncertain way; and nowdetermines upon knowing the truth. 

One morning he mounts his horse; rides across the boundary line betweenthe two plantations, and on to Colonel Armstrong's house. Entering, herequests an interview with the colonel's eldest daughter; obtains it;makes declaration of his love; asks her if she will have him for ahusband; and in response receives a chilling negative. 

As he rides back through the woods, the birds are trilling among thetrees. It is their merry morning lay, but it gives him no gladness. There is still ringing in his ears that harsh monosyllable, "_no_. " Thewild-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 upand looks back. His brow is black with chagrin; his lips white withrancorous rage. It is suppressed no longer. Curses come hissingthrough his teeth, along with them the words, --

"In less than six weeks these woods will be mine, and hang me, if Idon't shoot every bird that has roost in them! Then, Miss HelenArmstrong, you'll not feel in such conceit with yourself. It will bedifferent 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 cantake your own way, as you've been long wanting. Yes, my respectedparent; 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 bythe inhuman master; though greatly detrimental to his interests. Itcaused them occasionally to abscond; so making it necessary to insert anadvertisement in the county newspaper, offering a reward for therunaway. Thus cruelty proved expensive. 

In planter Darke's case, however, the cost was partially recouped by thecleverness of his son; who was a noted "nigger-catcher, " and kept dogsfor the especial purpose. He had a natural _penchant_ for this kind ofchase; and, having little else to do, passed a good deal of his timescouring the country in pursuit of his father's advertised runaways. Having caught them, he would claim the "bounty, " just as if theybelonged to a stranger. Darke, _pere_, paid it without grudge orgrumbling--perhaps the only disbursement he ever made in such mood. Itwas like taking out of one pocket to put into the other. Besides, hewas rather proud of his son's acquitting himself so shrewdly. 

Skirting the two plantations, with others in the same line ofsettlements, was a cypress swamp. It extended along the edge of thegreat river, covering an area of many square miles. Besides being aswamp, 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 aslough of soft mud, where man might not tread, nor any kind ofwater-craft make way. Over it, at all times, hung the obscurity oftwilight. The solar rays, however bright above, could not penetrate itsclose canopy of cypress tops, loaded with that strangest of parasiticalplants--the _tillandsia usneoides_. 

This tract of forest offered a safe place of concealment for runawayslaves; and, as such, was it noted throughout the neighbourhood. A"darkey" absconding from any of the contiguous plantations, was as sureto make for the marshy expanse, as would a chased rabbit to its warren. 

Sombre and gloomy though it was, around its edge lay the favouritescouting-ground of Richard Darke. To him the cypress swamp was aprecious preserve--as a coppice to the pheasant shooter, or a scrub-woodto 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 withoutgreat difficulty. But for him to reach them was not necessary. Therunaways who sought asylum in the swamp, could not always remain withinits gloomy recesses. Food must be obtained beyond its border, orstarvation be their fate. For this reason the fugitive required somemode of communicating with the outside world. And usually obtained it, by means of a confederate--some old friend, and fellow-slave, on one ofthe adjacent plantations--privy to the secret of his hiding-place. Onthis necessity the negro-catcher most depended; often finding thestalk--or "still-hunt, " in backwoods phraseology--more profitable than apursuit with trained hounds. 

About a month after his rejection by Miss Armstrong, Richard Darke isout upon a chase; as usual along the edge of the cypress swamp, rathershould it be called a search: since he has found no traces of the humangame that has tempted him forth. This is a fugitive negro--one of thebest field-hands belonging to his father's plantation--who has absentedhimself, 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 thecounty newspaper. The planter's son, having a suspicion that he issecreted somewhere in the swamp, has made several excursions thither, inthe hope of lighting upon his tracks. But "Jupe" is an astute fellow, and has hitherto contrived to leave no sign, which can in any waycontribute to his capture. 

Dick Darke is returning home, after an unsuccessful day's search, inanything but a cheerful mood. Though not so much from having failed infinding traces of the missing slave. That is only a matter of money;and, as he has plenty, the disappointment can be borne. The thoughtembittering his spirit relates to another matter. He thinks of hisscorned suit, and blighted love prospects. 

The chagrin caused him by Helen Armstrong's refusal has terriblydistressed, and driven him to more reckless courses. He drinks deeperthan ever; while in his cups he has been silly enough to let his booncompanions become acquainted with his reason for thus running riot, making not much secret, either, of the mean revenge he designs for herwho has rejected him. She is to be punished through her father. 

Colonel Armstrong's indebtedness to Ephraim Darke has become knownthroughout the settlement--all about the mortgage. Taking intoconsideration the respective characters of the mortgagor and mortgagee, men shake their heads, and say that Darke will soon own the Armstrongplantation. All the sooner, since the chief obstacle to the fulfilmentof his long-cherished design has been his son, and this is now removed. 

Notwithstanding the near prospect of having his spite gratified, RichardDarke keenly feels his humiliation. He has done so ever since the dayof his receiving it; and as determinedly has he been nursing his wrath. He has been still further exasperated by a circumstance which has latelyoccurred--the return of Charles Clancy from Texas. Someone has told himof Clancy having been seen in company with Helen Armstrong--the twowalking 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 thoughtof it is tearing his heart, as he returns from his fruitless searchafter the fugitive. 

He has left the swamp behind, and is continuing on through a tract ofwoodland, which separates his father's plantation from that of ColonelArmstrong, when he sees something that promises relief to his perturbedspirit. It is a woman, making her way through the woods, coming towardshim, from the direction of Armstrong's house. 

She is not the colonel's daughter--neither one. Nor does Dick Darkesuppose it either. Though seen indistinctly under the shadow of thetrees, he identifies the approaching form as that of Julia--a mulattomaiden, whose special duty it is to attend upon the young ladies of theArmstrong family, "Thank God for the devil's luck!" he mutters, onmaking her out. "It's Jupiter's sweetheart; his Juno or Leda, yellow-hided as himself. _No_ doubt she's on her way to keep anappointment with him? No more, that I shall be present at theinterview. Two hundred dollars reward for old Jupe, and the fun ofgiving the damned nigger a good `lamming, ' once I lay hand on him. Keepon, Jule, girl! You'll track him up for me, better than the sharpestscented hound in my kennel. "

While making this soliloquy, the speaker withdraws himself behind abush; and, concealed by its dense foliage, keeps his eye on the mulattowench, still wending her way through the thick standing tree trunks. 

As there is no path, and the girl is evidently going by stealth, he hasreason to believe she is on the errand conjectured. 

Indeed he can have no doubt about her being on the way to an interviewwith Jupiter; and he is now good as certain of soon discovering, andsecuring, the runaway who has so long contrived to elude him. 

After the girl has passed the place of his concealment--which she verysoon does--he slips out from behind the bush, and follows her withstealthy tread, still taking care to keep cover between them. 

Not long before she comes to a stop; under a grand magnolia, whosespreading branches, with their large laurel like leaves, shadow a vastcircumference of ground. 

Darke, who has again taken stand behind a fallen tree, where he has afull view of her movements, watches them with eager eyes. Two hundreddollars at stake--two hundred on his own account--fifteen hundred forhis father--Jupe's market value--no wonder at his being all eyes, allears, on the alert!

What is his astonishment, at seeing the girl take a letter from herpocket, and, standing on tiptoe, drop it into a knot-hole in themagnolia!

This done, she turns shoulder towards the tree; and, without stayinglonger under its shadow, glides back along the path by which she hascome--evidently going home again!

The negro-catcher is not only surprised, but greatly chagrined. He hasexperienced a double disappointment--the anticipation of earning twohundred dollars, and giving his old slave the lash: both pleasant ifrealised, but painful the thought in both to be foiled. 

Still keeping in concealment, he permits Julia to depart, not onlyunmolested, but unchallenged. There may be some secret in the letter toconcern, though it may not console him. In any case, it will soon behis. 

And it soon is, without imparting consolation. Rather the reverse. Whatever the contents of that epistle, so curiously deposited, RichardDarke, on becoming acquainted with them, reels like a drunken man; andto save himself from falling, seeks support against the trunk of thetree!

After a time, recovering, he re-reads the letter, and gazes at apicture--a photograph--also found within the envelope. 

Then from his lips come words, low-muttered--words of menace, madeemphatic 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 lightscintillating 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 thesame day--indeed in the same hour--when she refused Richard Darke, showshim 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, whoso laconically denied him, when another appears by her side. A man, too; but no rival of Richard Darke--no lover of Helen Armstrong. Thevenerable white-haired gentleman, who has taken Darke's place, is herfather, the old colonel himself. His air, on entering the room, betraysuneasiness about the errand of the planter's son--a suspicion there issomething amiss. He is soon made certain of it, by his daughterunreservedly communicating the object of the interview. He says inrejoinder:--

"I supposed that to be his purpose; though, from his coming at thisearly hour, I feared something worse. "

These words bring a shadow over the countenance of her to whom they areaddressed, 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 waydid you give him answer?"

"In one little word. I simply said _no_. "

"That little word will, no doubt, be enough. O Heaven! what is tobecome of us?"

"Dear father!" demands the beautiful girl, laying her hand upon hisshoulder, 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 tosee 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 thefather 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 littleword `no, ' will bring about a big change--the crisis I've been longapprehending. Never mind! Let it come! I must meet it like a man. Itis for you, daughter--you and your sister--I grieve. My poor deargirls; what a change there will be in your lives, as your prospects!Poverty, coarse fare, coarse garments to wear, and a log-cabin to livein! Henceforth, this must be your lot. I can hold out hope of noother. "

"What of all that, father? I, for one, care not; and I'm sure sisterwill feel the same. But is there no way to--"

"Save me from bankruptcy, you'd say? You need not ask that. I havespent many a sleepless night thinking it there was. But no; there isonly 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, andwould not consent to marry him. You could not, my child?"

Helen Armstrong does not make immediate answer, though there is oneready to leap to her lips. 

She hesitates giving it, from a thought, that it may add to the weightof unhappiness pressing upon her father's spirit. 

Mistaking her silence, and perhaps with the spectre of poverty staringhim in the face--oft inciting to meanness, even the noblest natures--herepeats the test interrogatory:--

"Tell me, daughter! Could you marry him?"

"Speak candidly, " he continues, "and take time to reflect beforeanswering. If you think you could not be contented--happy--with RichardDarke for your husband, better it should never be. Consult your ownheart, and do not be swayed by me, or my necessities. Say, is the thingimpossible?"

"I have said. _It is impossible_!"

For a moment both remain silent; the father drooping, spiritless, as ifstruck by a galvanic shock; the daughter looking sorrowful, as thoughshe had given it. 

She soonest recovering, makes an effort to restore him. 

"Dear father!" she exclaims, laying her hand upon his shoulder, andgazing tenderly into his eyes; "you speak of a change in ourcircumstances--of bankruptcy and other ills. Let them come! For myselfI care not. Even if the alternative were death, I've told you--I tellyou 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 ruinfall! We must prepare for poverty, and Texas!"

"Texas, if you will, but not poverty. Nothing of the kind. The wealthof affection will make you feel rich; and in a lowly log-hut, as in thisgrand house, you'll still have mine. "

So speaking, the fair girl flings herself upon her father's breast, herhand laid across his forehead, the white fingers soothingly caressingit. 

The door opens. Another enters the room--another girl, almost fair asshe, but brighter, and younger. 'Tis Jessie. 

"Not only my affection, " Helen adds, at sight of the newcomer, "but hersas well. Won't he, sister?"

Sister, wondering what it is all about, nevertheless sees something iswanted of her. She has caught the word "affection, " at the same timeobserving an afflicted cast upon her father's countenance. This decidesher; 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 ofpurest love. 

A pleasing tableau to one who knew nothing of what has thus drawn themtogether; or knowing it, could truly appreciate. For in the faces ofall 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 theletter from the magnolia, a man is seen strolling along the edge of thecypress swamp. The hour is nearly the same, but the individualaltogether different. Only in age does he bear any similarity to theplanter'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 toanother. 

He is of medium size and height, with a figure pleasingly proportioned. His shoulders squarely set, and chest rounded out, tell of greatstrength; while limbs tersely knit, and a firm elastic tread betokentoughness and activity. Features of smooth, regular outline--the jawsbroad, and well balanced; the chin prominent; the nose nearly Grecian--while eminently handsome, proclaim a noble nature, with courage equal toany demand that may be made upon it. Not less the glance of a blue-greyeye, unquailing as an eagle's. 

A grand shock of hair, slightly curled, and dark brown in colour, givesthe finishing touch to his fine countenance, as the feather to aTyrolese hat. 

Dressed in a sort of shooting costume, with jack-boots, and gaitersbuttoned above them, he carries a gun; which, as can be seen, is asingle-barrelled rifle; while at his heels trots a dog of large size, apparently a cross between stag-hound and mastiff, with a spice ofterrier in its composition. Such mongrels are not necessarily curs, butoften the best breed for backwoods' sport; where the keenness of scentrequired to track a deer, needs supplementing by strength andstaunchness, when the game chances, as it often does, to be a bear, awolf, or a panther. 

The master of this trebly crossed canine is the man whose name rose uponthe lips of Richard Darke, after reading the purloined epistle--CharlesClancy. To him was it addressed, and for him intended, as also thephotograph found inside. 

Several days have elapsed since his return from Texas, having come back, as already known, to find himself fatherless. During the interval hehas remained much at home--a dutiful son, doing all he can to console asorrowing mother. Only now and then has he sought relaxation in thechase, of which he is devotedly fond. On this occasion he has come downto the cypress swamp; but, having encountered no game, is going backwith an empty bag. 

He is not in low spirits at his ill success; for he has something toconsole him--that which gives gladness to his heart--joy almost reachingdelirium. 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 metclandestinely, and so corresponded; the knot-hole in the magnoliaserving them as a post-box. At first, only phrases of friendship intheir conversation; the same in the letters thus surreptitiouslyexchanged. For despite Clancy's courage among men, he is a coward inthe presence of women--in hers more than any. 

For all this, at their latest interview, he had thrown aside hisshyness, and spoken words of love--fervent love, in its last appeal. Hehad avowed himself wholly hers, and asked her to be wholly his. Shedeclined 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 tohave been but a whim of his sweetheart--the caprice of a woman, who hasbeen so much nattered and admired. He knows, that, like the AnneHathaway of Shakespeare, Helen Armstrong "hath a way" of her own. Forshe is a girl of no ordinary character, but one of spirit, free andindependent, consonant with the scenes and people that surrounded heryouth. So far from being offended at her not giving him an immediateanswer, he but admires her the more. Like the proud eagle's mate, shedoes not condescend to be wooed as the soft cooing dove, nor yield a tooeasy 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 hasfound 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 ofhis greatest enemy on earth. 

He is beginning to grow uneasy at the delay, and shape conjectures as tothe cause. All the more from knowing, that a great change is soon totake place in the affairs of the Armstrong family. A knowledge whichemboldened him to make the proposal he has made. 

And now, his day's hunting done, he is on his way for the tract ofwoodland in which stands the sweet trysting tree. 

He has no thought of stopping, or turning aside; nor would he do so forany 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. Herestrains his hound, about to spring off on the slot. The stag has notseen him; and, apparently, going unscared, he hopes to stalk, and againget sight of it. 

He has not proceeded over twenty paces, when a sound fills his ears, aswell as the woods around. It is the report of a gun, fired by one whocannot be far off. And not at the retreating stag, but himself!

He feels that the bullet has hit him. This, from a stinging sensationin 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 heardsimultaneously--this coming from behind. 

The wound, fortunately but a slight one, does not disable him; and, likea tiger stung by javelins, he is round in an instant, ready to returnthe fire. 

There is no one in sight!

As there has been no warning--not a word--he can have no doubt of theintent: some one meaning to murder him!

He is sure about its being an attempt to assassinate him, as of the manwho has made it. Richard Darke--certain, as if the crack of the gun hadbeen a voice pronouncing the name. 

Clancy's eyes, flashing angrily, interrogate the forest. The treesstand close, the spaces between shadowy and sombre. For, as said, theyare 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 theearth. This baffles him, both by its colour and form. The greygauze-like festoonery, having a resemblance to ascending smoke, hindershim from perceiving that of the discharged gun. 

He can see none. It must have whiffed up suddenly, and becomecommingled with the moss?

It does not matter much. Neither the twilight obscurity, nor thatcaused by the overshadowing trees, can prevent his canine companion fromdiscovering the whereabouts of the would-be assassin. On hearing theshot the hound has harked back; and, at some twenty paces off, broughtup beside a huge trunk, where it stands fiercely baying, as if at abear. The tree is buttressed, with "knees" several feet in heightrising around. In the dim light, these might easily be mistaken formen. 

Clancy is soon among them; and sees crouching between two pilasters, theman who meant to murder him--Richard Darke as conjectured. 

Darke makes no attempt at explanation. Clancy calls for none. Hisrifle is already cocked; and, soon as seeing his adversary, he raises itto 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 fromhaving elbow room. He also elevates his gun; but, perceiving it will betoo late, instead of taking aim, he lowers the piece again, and dodgesbehind 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 ofDarke'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 stillundischarged. Deliberately bringing the piece to his shoulder, andcovering the victim he is now sure of, he says derisively, --

"What a devilish poor shot you've made, Mister Charlie Clancy! A sorrymarksman--to miss a man scarce six feet from the muzzle of your gun! Ishan't miss you. Turn about's fair play. I've had the first, and I'llhave the last. Dog! take your _death shot_!"

While delivering the dread speech, his finger presses the trigger; thecrack comes, with the flash and fiery jet. 

For some seconds Clancy is invisible, the sulphurous smoke forming animbus around him. When it ascends, he is seen prostrate upon theearth; the blood gushing from a wound in his breast, and spurting overhis waistcoat. 

He appears writhing in his death agony. 

And evidently thinks so himself, from his words spoken in slow, chokingutterance, --

"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 shalltell you--_Helen Armstrong_, After all, it isn't jealousy that's made mekill 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, itmay 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 apleasure to look at her portrait. Here it is! The sweet girl sent itme this very morning, with her autograph attached, as you see. Acapital likeness, isn't it?"

The inhuman wretch stooping down, holds the photograph before the eyesof the dying man, gradually growing dim. 

But only death could hinder them from turning towards that sun-paintedpicture--the portrait of her who has his heart. 

He gazes on it lovingly, but not long. For the script underneath claimshis attention. In this he recognises her handwriting, well-known tohim. Terrible the despair that sweeps through his soul, as he deciphersit:--

"_Helen Armstrong_. --_For him she loves_. "

The picture is in the possession of Richard Darke. To him have thesweet 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 verycounterpart 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 wordsof most heartless signification:--

"Damn him; he's dead!"

CHAPTER SIX. 

A COON-CHASE INTERRUPTED. 

Notwithstanding the solitude of the place where the strife, apparentlyfatal, has occurred, and the slight chances of its being seen, itssounds have been heard. The shots, the excited speeches, and angryexclamations, 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. Inmost, many of them; but in each, one who is noted. And, notedly, he isa negro. The pastime is too tame, or too humble, to tempt the whiteman. Sometimes the sons of "poor white trash" take part in it; but itis usually delivered over to the "darkey. "

In the old times of slavery every plantation could boast of one, ormore, of these sable Nimrods; and they are not yet extinct. To themcoon-catching is a profit, as well as sport; the skins keeping them intobacco--and whisky, when addicted to drinking it. The flesh, too, though little esteemed by white palates, is a _bonne-bouche_ to thenegro, with whom animal food is a scarce commodity. It often furnisheshim 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 certainlights appears upon the surface of his sable epidermis. Otherwise he isblack as ebony. 

Blue Bill is a mighty hunter of his kind, passionately fond of thecoon-chase--too much, indeed, for his own personal safety. It carrieshim abroad, when the discipline of the plantation requires him to be athome; and more than once, for so absenting himself, have his shouldersbeen scored by the "cowskin. "

Still the punishment has not cured him of his proclivity. Unluckily forRichard Darke, it has not. For on the evening of Clancy's being shotdown, as described, Blue Bill chances to be abroad; and, with a smallcur, which he has trained to his favourite chase, is scouring the timbernear the edge of the cypress swamp. 

He has "treed" an old he-coon, and is just preparing to ascend to thecreature's nest--a cavity in a sycamore high up--when a deer comesdashing by. Soon after a shot startles him. He is more disturbed atthe peculiar crack, than by the mere fact of its being the report of agun. His ear, accustomed to such sounds, tells him the report hasproceeded from a fowling-piece, belonging to his young master--just thenthe 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, andconceal 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 secondshot. Then a third, coming quickly after; while preceding, and minglingwith the reports are men's voices, apparently in mad expostulation. Hehears, too, the angry growling of a hound, at intervals barking andbaying. 

"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'sbetween. De fuss shot wa' Mass' Dick's double-barrel; de oder am CharlClancy 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 theladder 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 aroundthe 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 thesycamore; 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 anylonger in angry ejaculation. The tones are tranquil, as though the twomen were now quietly conversing. One says but a word or two; the otherall. Then the last alone appears to speak, as if in soliloquy, or fromthe first failing to make response. 

The sudden transition of tone has in it something strange--a contrastinexplicable. 

The coon-hunter can tell, that he continuing to talk is his youngmaster, Richard Darke; though he cannot catch, the words, much less makeout their meaning. The distance is too great, and the current of soundinterrupted by the thick standing trunks of the cypresses. 

At length, also, the monologue ends; soon after, succeeded by a shortexclamatory phrase, in voice louder and more earnest. 

Then there is silence; so profound, that Blue Bill hears but his ownheart, beating in loud sonorous thumps--louder from his ribs beingcontiguous to the hollow trunk of the tree. 

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

MURDER WITHOUT REMORSE. 

The breathless silence, succeeding Darke's profane speech, isawe-inspiring; death-like, as though every living creature in the foresthad been suddenly struck dumb, or dead, too. 

Unspeakably, incredibly atrocious is the behaviour of the man who hasremained master of the ground. During the contest, Dick Darke has shownthe cunning of the fox, combined with the fiercer treachery of thetiger; victorious, his conduct seems a combination of the jackal andvulture. 

Stooping over his fallen foe, to assure himself that the latter nolonger lives, he says, --

"Dead, I take it. "

These are his cool words; after which, as though still in doubt, hebends lower, and listens. At the same time he clutches the handle ofhis 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 acorpse!

Believing it so, he resumes his erect attitude, exclaiming in loudertone, and with like profanity as before, --

"Yes, dead, damn him!"

As the assassin bends over the body of his fallen foe, he shows no signof contrition, for the cruel deed he has done. No feeling save that ofsatisfied vengeance; no emotion that resembles remorse. On thecontrary, his cold animal eyes continue to sparkle with jealous hate;while his hand has moved mechanically to the hilt of his knife, asthough 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 takesshape in his soul. For, beyond doubt, he has done murder. 

"No!" he says, in an effort at self-justification. "Nothing of thesort. 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 gonethrough 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 onecoming that way. 

Not much likelihood of this. The spot is one of perfect solitude, as isalways a cypress forest. There is no path near, accustomed to betrodden by the traveller. The planter has no business among those greatbuttressed trunks. The woodman will never assail them with his axe. Only a stalking hunter, or perhaps some runaway slave, is at all likelyto stray thither. 

Again soliloquising, he says, --

"Shall I put a bold face upon it, and confess to having killed him? Ican 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, whichinterrogates the scene around, taking in the huge unshapely trunks, their long outstretched limbs, with the pall-like festoonery of Spanishmoss; a thought about the loneliness of the place, and its fitness forconcealing a dead body. 

Like the lightning's flashes, all this flits through the mind of themurderer. 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, thatit won't! Better say nothing about what's happened. They're not likelyto look for him here. .. "

Again he glances inquiringly around, with a view to secreting thecorpse. He has made up his mind to this. 

A sluggish creak meanders among the trees, some two hundred yards fromthe spot. At about a like distance below, it discharges itself into thestagnant reservoir of the swamp. 

Its waters are dark, from the overshadowing of the cypresses, and deepenough for the purpose he is planning. 

But to carry the body thither will require an effort of strength; and todrag 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 alittle. So, Charley Clancy, if I have sent you to kingdom come, Ishan'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. Thebeard-like parasite comes off in flakes--in armfuls. Half a dozen heflings over the still palpitating corpse; then pitches on top somepieces of dead wood, to prevent any stray breeze from sweeping off thehoary 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 hasdone. 

At length seeming satisfied, he again grasps hold of his gun; and isabout taking departure from the place, when a sound, striking his ear, causes him to start. No wonder, since it seems the voice of one wailingfor the dead!

At first he is affrighted, fearfully so; but recovers himself onlearning 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--perhapsfearing a similar fate. It had not gone far, and is now returning--bylittle and little, drawing nearer to the dangerous spot. 

The creature seems struggling between two instincts--affection for itsfallen master, and fear for itself. 

As Darke's gun is empty, he endeavours to entice the dog within reach ofhis knife. Despite his coaxing, it will not come!

Hastily ramming a cartridge into the right-hand barrel, he aims, andfires. 

The shot takes effect; the ball passing through the fleshy part of thedog'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 goesoff, without sign of return. 

Equally wild are the words that leap from the lips of Richard Darke, ashe stands gazing after. 

"Great God!" he cries; "I've done an infernal foolish thing. The curwill go home to Clancy's house. That'll tell a tale, sure to set peoplesearching. 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 himto experience real fear. In such an out-of-the-way place he has feltconfident 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 hisfavour. Now, with the latter adrift, they are heavily against him. 

It needs no calculation of chances to make this clear. Nor is it anydoubt which causes him to stand hesitating. His irresolution springsfrom uncertainty as to what course he shall pursue. 

One thing certain--he must not remain there. The hound has gone offhowling. It is two miles to the widow Clancy's house; but there is anodd 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 standlong reflecting. Despite its solitude, the cypress forest is not theplace for tranquil thought--at least, not now for him. Far off throughthe 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 itbe, he dares not remain a moment longer. 

Hastily shouldering his gun, he strikes off through the trees; at firstin quick step; then in double; this increasing to a rapid run. 

He retreats in a direction contrary to that taken by the dog. It isalso different from the way leading to his father's house. It forceshim still further into the swamp--across sloughs, and through soft mud, where he makes footmarks. Though he has carefully concealed Clancy'scorpse, 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 haveconscience, or be deficient in coolness, he loses self-possession, andis pretty sure to leave behind something which will furnish a clue forthe detective. 

So is it with Richard Darke. As he retreats from the scene of hisdiabolical deed, his only thought is to put space between himself andthe spot where he has shed innocent blood; to get beyond earshot ofthose canine cries, that seem commingled with the shouts of men--thevoices of avengers!

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

THE COON-HUNTER CAUTIOUS. 

During the time that Darke is engaged in covering up Clancy's body, andafterwards occupied in the attempt to kill his dog, the coon-hunter, squatted in the sycamore fork, sticks to his seat like "death to a deadnigger. " And all the time trembling. Not without reason. For thesilence succeeding the short exclamatory speech has not re-assured him. He believes it to be but a lull, denoting some pause in the action, andthat 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 thestillness, somewhat prolonged, he continues to shape conjectures and putquestions to himself, as to what can have been the _fracas_, and itscause. Undoubtedly a "shooting scrape" between Dick Darke and CharlesClancy. But how has it terminated, or is the end yet come? Has one ofthe combatants been killed, or gone away? Or have both forsaken thespot where they have been trying to spill each other's blood?

While thus interrogating himself, a new sound disturbs the tranquillityof the forest--the same, which the assassin at first fancied was thevoice of one wailing for his victim. The coon-hunter has no suchdelusion. 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 yetdoes it yelp as if suffering chastisement. The soft tremulous whine, that comes pealing in prolonged reverberation through the trunks of thecypresses, proclaims distress of a different kind--as of a dog asleepand 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 earnestlyentreating; the speech evidently not addressed to Clancy, but the hound. 

Strange all this; and so thinks the coon-hunter. He has but little timeto dwell on it, before another sound waking the echoes of the forest, interrupts the current of his reflections. Another shot! This time, astwice before, the broad round boom of a smooth-bore, so different fromthe short sharp "spang" of a rifle. 

Thoroughly versed in the distinction--indeed an adept--Blue Bill knowsfrom whose gun the shot has been discharged. It is the double-barrelbelonging to Richard Darke. All the more reason for him to hug close tohis concealment. 

And not the less to be careful about the behaviour of his own dog, whichhe is holding in hard embrace. For hearing the bound, the cur isdisposed to give response; would do so but for the muscular fingers ofits master closed chokingly around its throat, at intervals detached togive it a cautionary cuff. 

After the shot the stag-hound continues its lugubrious cries; but againwith altered intonation, and less distinctly heard; as though the animalhad gone farther off, and were still making away. 

But now a new noise strikes upon the coon-hunter's ears; one at firstslight, but rapidly growing louder. It is the tread of footsteps, accompanied by a swishing among the palmettoes, that form an underwoodalong 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 clutchingthe throat of his canine companion. For he is sure, that the man whosefootsteps 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 escapingobservation, and too probable chastisement. Correct in his conjecture, as in the prognostication, in a few seconds after he sees Richard Darkecoming between the trees; running as for very life--the more like itthat 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 thanusual. The perspiration stands in beads upon his forehead, pours downhis cheeks, over his eyebrows, almost blinding him. He whips a kerchiefout of his coat pocket, and wipes it off. While so occupied, he doesnot perceive that he has let something drop--something white that cameout along with the kerchief. Replacing the piece of cambric he hurrieson 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 blendedwith 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 leftlying on the ground--a letter enveloped in the ordinary way. He takesit up, and sees it has been already opened. He thinks not of drawingout the sheet folded inside. It would be no use; since the coon-huntercannot read. Still, an instinct tells him, the little bit oftreasure-trove may some time, and in some way, prove useful. Soforecasting, he slips it into his pocket. 

This done he stands reflecting. No noise to disturb him now. Darke'sfootsteps have died away in the distance, leaving swamp and cypressforest restored to their habitual stillness. The only sound, Blue Billhears, is the beating of his own heart, yet loud enough. 

No longer thinks he of the coon he has succeeded in treeing. Theanimal, late devoted to certain death, will owe its escape to anaccident, and may now repose securely within its cave. Its pursuer hasother thoughts--emotions, strong enough to drive coon-hunting clean outof his head. Among these are apprehensions about his own safety. Though unseen by Richard Darke--his presence there unsuspected--he knowsthat an unlucky chance has placed him in a position of danger. That asinister deed has been done he is sure. 

Under the circumstances, how is he to act? Proceed to the place whencethe 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. Hisyoung master may be a murderer? The way in which he was retreatingalmost said as much. Is he, Blue Bill, to make himself acquainted withthe crime, and bear witness against him who has committed it? As aslave, he knows his testimony will count for little in a court ofjustice. And as the slave of Ephraim Darke, as little would his life beworth after giving it. 

The last reflection decides him; and, still carrying the coon-dog underhis arm, he parts from the spot, in timid skulking gait, never stopping, not feeling safe, till he finds himself inside the limits of the "negroquarter. "

CHAPTER NINE. 

AN ASSASSIN IN RETREAT. 

Athwart the thick timber, going as one pursued--in a track straight asthe underwood will allow--breaking through it like a chased bear--nowstumbling 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, justlong enough to listen, and if possible learn whether he is beingfollowed. 

Whether or not, he fancies it; again starting off, with terror in hislooks, and trembling in his limbs. The _sangfroid_ he exhibited whilebending over the dead body of his victim, and afterwards concealing it, has quite forsaken him now. Then he was confident, there could be nowitness 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 producedit. Or, rather, the thought of the animal having escaped. This, andhis own imagination. 

For more than a mile he keeps on, in headlong reckless rushing. Untilfatigue overtaking him, his terror becomes less impulsive, his fanciesfreer from exaggeration; and, believing himself far enough from thescene of danger, he at length desists from flight, and comes to a deadstop. 

Sitting down upon a log, he draws forth his pocket-handkerchief, andwipes the sweat from his face. For he is perspiring at every pore, panting, palpitating. He now finds time to reflect; his firstreflection 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 seenme? 'Twill only have made things worse. And what have I been runningaway from? A dead body, and a living dog! Why should I care foreither? Even though the adage be true--about a live dog better than adead lion. Let me hope the hound won't tell a tale upon me. Forcertain the shot hit him. That's nothing. Who could say what sort ofball, or the kind of gun it came from? No danger in that. I'd bestupid to think there could be. Well, it's all over now, and thequestion is: what next?"

For some minutes he remains upon the log, with the gun resting acrosshis knees, and his head bent over the barrels. He appears engaged insome abstruse calculation. A new thought has sprang up in his mind--ascheme requiring all his intellectual power to elaborate. 

"I shall keep that tryst, " he says, in soliloquy, seeming at length tohave settled it. "Yes; I'll meet her under the magnolia. Who can tellwhat changes may occur in the heart of a woman? In history I had aroyal namesake--an English king, with an ugly hump on his shoulders--ashe's said himself, `deformed, unfinished, sent into the world scarcehalf made up, ' so that the `dogs barked at _him_, ' just as this brute ofClancy's has been doing at me. And this royal Richard, shaped `solamely and unfashionable, ' made court to a woman, whose husband he hadjust assassinated--more than a woman, a proud queen--and more thanwooed, he subdued her. This ought to encourage me; the better that I, Richard Darke, am neither halt, nor hunchbacked. No, nor yetunfashionable, as many a Mississippian girl says, and more than one isready 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 asthat of my royal namesake. May God, or the Devil, grant me likesuccess!"

At the moment of giving utterance to the profane prayer, he rises to hisfeet. Then, taking out his watch, consults it. 

It is too dark for him to see the dial; but springing open the glass, hegropes against it, feeling for the hands. 

"Half-past nine, " he mutters, after making out the time. "Ten is thehour of her assignation. No chance for me to get home before, and thenover to Armstrong's wood-ground. It's more than two miles from here. What matters my going home? Nor any need changing this dress. Shewon't notice the hole in the skirt. If she do, she wouldn't think ofwhat caused it--above all it's being a bullet. Well, I must be off! Itwill never do to keep the young lady waiting. If she don't feeldisappointed 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 havesatisfaction 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 quitecertain about the exact hour of Helen Armstrong's tryst, conveyed in herletter to Clancy. In the madness of his mind ever since perusing thatepistle, no wonder he should confuse circumstances, and forget dates. 

To make sure, he plunges his hand into the pocket, where he depositedboth letter and photograph--after holding the latter before the eyes ofhis dying foeman, and witnessing the fatal effect. With all hisdiabolical hardihood, he had been awed by this--so as to thrust thepapers into his pocket, hastily, carelessly. 

They are no longer there!

He searches in his other pockets--in all of them, with like result. Heexamines his bullet-pouch and gamebag. But finds no letter, nophotograph, not a scrap of paper, in any! The stolen epistle, itsenvelope, the enclosed _carte de visite_--all are absent. 

After ransacking his pockets, turning them inside out, he comes to theconclusion that the precious papers are lost. 

It startles, and for a moment dismays him. Where are they? He musthave let them fall in his hasty retreat through the trees; or left themby the dead body. 

Shall he go back in search of them?

No--no--no! He does not dare to return upon that track. The forestpath is too sombre, too solitary, now. By the margin of the danklagoon, under the ghostly shadow of the cypresses, he might meet theghost of the man murdered!

And why should he go back? After all, there is no need; nothing in theletter which can in any way compromise him. Why should he care torecover it?

"It may go to the devil, her picture along! Let both rot where Isuppose 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 theright time, to meet her. Then shall I learn my fate--know it, forbetter, for worse. If the former, I'll continue to believe in the storyof Richard Plantagenet; if the latter, Richard Darke won't much carewhat becomes of him. "

So ending his strange soliloquy, with a corresponding cast upon hiscountenance, the assassin rebuttons his coat--thrown open in search forthe missing papers. Then, flinging the double-barrelled fowling-piece--the murder-gun--over his sinister shoulder, he strides off to keep anappointment 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 ArchibaldArmstrong--suspended, as it were, by a thread, like the sword ofDamocles--is to be put into execution. Darke has demanded immediatepayment of the debt, coupled with threat of foreclosure. 

The demand is a month old, the threat has been carried out, and theforeclosure effected. The thread having been cut, the keen blade ofadversity has come down, severing the tie which attached ColonelArmstrong to his property, as it to him. Yesterday, he was owner, reputedly, of one of the finest plantations along the line of theMississippi river, an hundred able-bodied negroes hoeing cotton in hisfields, with fifty more picking it from the pod, and "ginning" thestaple clear of seed; to-day, he is but their owner in seeming, EphraimDarke being this in reality. And in another day the apparent ownershipwill 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 madeendeavours to avert it. When men are falling, false friends growfalser; 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 suchoccasions, when interest runs high, and _second_ mortgages are sneeredat by those who grant loans. 

As no one--neither friend nor financial speculator--comes to Armstrong'srescue, he has no alternative but submit. 

Too proud, to make appeal to his inexorable creditor--indeed deeming itidle--he vouchsafes no answer to the notice of foreclosure, beyondsaying: "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 publicsale, 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 thefirst. Tell me a more trying test to the delicate sensibilities of agentleman, or his equanimity, than to see his gate piers pasted overwith the black and white show bills of the auctioneer; a strip of staircarpet dangling down from one of his bedroom windows, and a crowd ofhungry harpies clustered around his door-stoop; some entering with eyesthat express keen concupiscence; others coming out with countenancesmore beatified, bearing away his Penates--jeering and swearing overthem--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--nota dream, but a reality, that will surely arise by letting his estate goto the hammer--Colonel Armstrong accepts Darke's offer to delivereverything over in a lump, and for a lamp sum. The conditions have beensome time settled; and Armstrong now knows the worst. Some half-scoreslaves he reserves; the better terms secured to his creditor by privatebargain enabling him to obtain this concession. 

Several days have elapsed since the settlement came to a conclusion--theinterval spent in preparation for the change. A grand one, too; whichcontemplates, not alone leaving the old home, but the State in which itstands. The fallen man shrinks from further association with those whohave witnessed his fall. Not but that he will leave behind manyfriends, 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 heonce proudly reposed--that would indeed be unendurable. 

He prefers to carry out the design, he once thought only a dreamyprediction--migrating to Texas. There, he may recommence life with morehopeful energy, and lesser sense of humiliation. 

The moving day has arrived, or rather the eve preceding it. On themorrow, Colonel Archibald Armstrong is called upon by the exigency ofhuman laws, --oft more cruel, if not more inexorable, than those ofNature--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--themighty Mississippi. All are equally obscured--from a thick veil oflead-coloured cloud, at the sun's setting, drawn over the canopy of thesky. Any light seen is that of the fire-flies, engaged in theirnocturnal cotillon; while the sounds heard are nightly noises in aSouthern States forest, semi-tropical, as the wild creatures who havetheir 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 withthe melancholy "whoo-whooa" of the great horned owl; which, unseen, sweeps on silent wing through the shadowy aisles of the forest, leadingthe lone traveller to fancy them peopled by departed spirits in tormentfrom the pains of Purgatory. 

Not more cheerful are the sounds aloft: for there are such, far abovethe tops of the tallest trees. There, the nightjar plies its calling, not so blind but that it can see in deepest darkness the smallest mothor midge, that, tired of perching on the heated leaves essays to soarhigher. Two sorts of these goatsuckers, utter cries quite distinct;though both expressing aversion to "William. " One speaks of him asstill alive, mingling pity with its hostile demand: "Whippoor-Will!"The other appears to regard him as dead, and goes against his maritalrelict, at intervals calling out: "Chuck Will's widow!"

Other noises interrupt the stillness of a Mississippian night. High upin heaven the "honk" of a wild gander leading his flock in the shape ofan inverted V; at times the more melodious note of a trumpeter swan; orfrom the top of a tall cottonwood, or cypress, the sharp saw-filingshriek of the white-headed eagle, angered by some stray creature comingtoo close, and startling it from its slumbers. Below, out of the swampsedge, rises the mournful cry of the quabird--the American bittern--andfrom the same, the deep sonorous bellow of that ugliest animal onearth--the alligator. 

Where fields adjoin the forest--plantation clearings--oft few and farbetween--there are sounds more cheerful. The song of the slave, hisday's work done, sure to be preceded, or followed, by peals of loudjocund laughter; the barking of the house-dog, indicative of awell-watched home; with the lowing of cattle, and other domestic callsthat proclaim it worth watching. A galaxy of little lights, in rowslike street lamps, indicate the "negro quarter;" while in the foregrounda half-dozen windows of larger size, and brighter sheen, show wherestands 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 clockhas tolled nine, nearly an hour ago. Still light shines through thelittle windows of the negro cabins, while the larger ones of the "bighouse" 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 ofchains, and the occasional stroke of a hammer. The forms of men andwomen, are seen to flit athwart the shining windows, all busy aboutsomething. 

There is no mystery in the matter. It is simply the planter, with hispeople, occupied in preparation for the morrow's moving. Openly, andwithout restraint: for, although so near the mid hour of night, it is nomidnight flitting. 

The only individual, who appears to act surreptitiously, is a younggirl; who, coming out by the back door of the dwelling, makes away fromits 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 sheis cloaked and close hooded. Not enough to ensure disguise, though shemay think so. The most stolid slave on all Colonel Armstrong'splantation, could tell at a glance whose figure is enfolded in theshapeless garment, giving it shape. He would at once identify it asthat of his master's daughter. For no wrap however loosely flung overit, could hide the queenly form of Helen Armstrong, or conceal thesplendid 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 stealthystep, crouched form, and countenance showing fear. Daughter of a largeslave-owner--mistress over many slaves--she is accustomed to an uprightattitude, and aristocratic bearing. But she is now on an errand thatcalls for more than ordinary caution, and would dread being recognisedby the humblest slave on her father's estate. 

Fortunately for her, none see; therefore no one takes note of hermovements, or the mode of her apparel. If one did, the last might causeremark. A woman cloaked, with head hooded in a warm summer night, thethermometer at ninety!

Notwithstanding the numerous lights, she is not observed as she glidesthrough their crossing coruscations. And beyond, there is but littledanger--while passing through the peach orchard, that stretches rearwardfrom the dwelling. Still less, after getting out through a wicket-gate, which communicates with a tract of woodland. For then she is amongtrees whose trunks stand close, the spaces between buried in deepobscurity--deeper from the night being a dark one. It is not likely soto continue: for, before entering into the timber, she glances up to thesky, and sees that the cloud canopy has broken; here and there starsscintillating in the blue spaces between. While, on the farther edge ofthe plantation clearing, a brighter belt along the horizon foretells theuprising of the moon. 

She does not wait for this; but plunges into the shadowy forest, daringits 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 Armstrongcontinues her nocturnal excursion. Notwithstanding the obscurity, shekeeps in a direct course, as if to reach some particular point, and fora particular reason. 

What this is needs not be told. Only love could lure a young lady outat that late hour, and carry her along a forest path, dark, and notwithout 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, notthe cold, has caused her to cloak herself, and go close hooded. If herfather but knew of the errand she is on, it could not be executed. Andwell 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 nearmidnight, alone; if he could divine her purpose: to meet a man, who intime past has been rather coldly received at his house--because scarceranking with his own select circle--had Colonel Armstrong but the giftof clairvoyance, in all probability he would at once suspend thepreparations for departure, rush to his rifle, then off through thewoods on the track of his erring daughter, with the intent to do a deedsanguinary as that recorded, if not so repulsive. 

The girl has not far to go--only half a mile or so, from the house, andless than a quarter beyond the zigzag rail fence, which forms a boundaryline between the maize fields and primeval forest. Her journey, whencompleted, will bring her under a tree--a grand magnolia, monarch of theforest surrounding. Well does she know it, as the way thither. 

Arriving at the tree, she pauses beneath its far-stretching boughs. Atthe same time tossing back her hood, she shows her face unveiled. 

She has no fear now. The place is beyond the range of night-strollingnegroes. Only one in pursuit of 'possum, or 'coon, would be likely tocome that way; a contingency too rare to give her uneasiness. 

With features set in expectation, she stands. The fire-flies illuminateher countenance--deserving a better light. But seen, even under theirpale fitful coruscation, its beauty is beyond question. Her features ofgipsy 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 longenough to get back her breath, spent by some exertion in making her waythrough 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, andstanding on tiptoe, she raises her hand aloft, and commences gropingagainst 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 darkdisc--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, thephosphoric gleam dimly disclosing her features, rather showssatisfaction--still further evinced by the phrase falling from her lips, with the tone of its utterance. She says, contentedly:--"_He has gotit_!"

But by the same fitful light, soon after is perceived a change--theslightest 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 moreinserts her slender fingers; plunges in her white hand up to the wrist--to the elbow; gropes the cavity all round; then draws out again, thistime with an exclamation which tells of something more thandisappointment. It is discontent--almost anger. So too a speechsucceeding, thus:--

"He might at least have let me know, whether he was coming or not--aword 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, andholds 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 thehands indicate ten minutes after the hour of appointment. 

There can be no mistake about the time--she herself fixed it. And nonein 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 shewould 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 musthave received it: Surely Jule put it into the tree? Who but he couldhave 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 shelingers--lingers, and listens. 

No footstep--no sound to break the solemn stillness--only the chirrup oftree-crickets, and the shrieking of owls. 

She takes a last look at the dial, sadly, despairingly. The handsindicate full fifteen minutes after the hour she had named--going on totwenty. 

She restores the watch to its place, beneath her belt, her demeanourassuming a sudden change. Some chagrin still, but no sign of sadness. This is replaced by an air of determination, fixed and stern. Themoon's light, with that of the fire-flies, have both a response inflashes 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 arestayed. A rustling among the dead leaves--a swishing against those thatlive--a footstep with tread solid and heavy--the footfall of a man!

A figure is seen approaching; as yet only indistinctly, but surely thatof a man. As surely the man expected?

"He's been detained--no doubt by some good cause, " she reflects, herspite and sadness departing as he draws near. 

They are gone, before he can get to her side. But woman-like, sheresolves 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 itbefits 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 tobe both--only in seeming. But to still further impress a lesson on thelover who has slighted her, she draws closer the mantle, and makes as ifmoving away. 

Mistaking her pretence for earnest, the man flings himself across herpath--intercepting her. Despite the darkness she can see that his armsare in the air, and stretched towards her, as if appealingly. Theattitude speaks apology, regret, contrition--everything to make herrelent. 

She relents; is ready to fling herself upon his breast, and there lielovingly, forgivingly. 

But again woman-like, not without a last word of reproach, to make moreesteemed her concession, she says:--

"'Tis cruel thus to have tried me. Charles! Charles! why have you doneit?"

As she utters the interrogatory a cloud comes over her countenance, quicker than ever shadow over sun. Its cause--the countenance of himstanding _vis-a-vis_. A change in their relative positions has broughthis face full under the moonlight. He is _not_ the man she intendedmeeting!

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 shootsthrough the heart of Helen Armstrong, on discovering the mistake she hasmade. It is bitter vexation, commingled with a sense of shame. I orher speeches, in feigned reproach, have terribly compromised her. 

She does not drop to the earth, nor show any sign of it. She is not awoman of the weak fainting sort. No cry comes from her lips--nothing tobetray 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 somatters not to me; and certainly gives you no right thus to intrude uponme. 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 surpriseof his unexpected appearance--coupled with his knowledge of herclandestine appointment--would do something to subdue, perhaps make hersubmissive. 

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 herfree 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. Iassure you it's been altogether an accident. Having heard you are aboutto leave the neighbourhood--indeed, that you start to-morrow morning--Iwas on the way to your father's house to say farewell. I'm sorry mycoming along here, and chancing to meet you, should lay me open to thecharge of intrusion. I shall still more regret, if my presence hasspoiled any plans, or interfered with an appointment. Some one elseexpected, I presume?"

For a time she is silent--abashed, while angered, by the impudentinterrogatory. 

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 leaveof the family. If you're not going immediately home, perhaps I may bethe bearer of a message for you?"

The irony is evident; but Helen Armstrong is not sensible of it. Shedoes not even think of it. Her only thought is how to getdisembarrassed of this man who has appeared at a moment so _malapropos_. Charles Clancy--for he was the expected one--may have beendetained by some cause unknown, a delay still possible of justification. She has a lingering thought he may yet come; and, so thinking, her eyeturns towards the forest with a quick, subtle glance. 

Notwithstanding its subtlety, and the obscurity surrounding them, Darkeobserves, comprehends it. 

Without waiting for her rejoinder, he proceeds to say, --

"From the mistake you've just made, Miss Armstrong, I presume you tookme for some one bearing the baptismal name of Charles. In these parts Iknow only one person who carries that cognomen--one Charles Clancy. Ifit be he you are expecting, I think I can save you the necessity ofstopping out in the night air any longer. If you're staying for himyou'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 herguard. She speaks confusedly, and without reflection. 

His rejoinder, cunningly conceived, designed with the subtlety of thedevil, 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 hewas going off on a journey. He was just starting when I saw him. Someaffair of the heart, I believe; a little love-scrape he's got into witha pretty Creole girl, who lives t'other side of Natchez. By the way, heshowed me a photograph of yourself, which he said you had sent him. Avery excellent likeness, indeed. Excuse me for telling you, that he andI came near quarrelling about it. He had another photograph--that ofhis Creole _chere amie_--and would insist that she is more beautifulthan you. I may own, Miss Armstrong, you've given me no great reasonfor 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 notthe most beautiful woman in the State of Mississippi. "

At the conclusion of his fulsome speech Helen Armstrong cares but littlefor 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 trifledwith--scorned! She, daughter of the erst proudest planter in allMississippi State, has been slighted for a Creole girl; possibly, one ofthe "poor white trash" living along the bayous' edge. Full proof shehas of his perfidy, or how should Darke know of it? More maddeningstill, the man so slighting her, has been making boast of it, proclaiming her suppliance and shame, showing her photograph, exultingin the triumph obtained! "O God!"

Not in prayer, but angry ejaculation, does the name of the Almightyproceed 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 himselfbefore her--this time on his knees. 

"Helen Armstrong!" he exclaims, in an earnestness of passion--if notpure, at least heartfelt and strong--"why should you care for a man whothus mocks you? Here am I, who love you, truly--madly--more than my ownlife! 'Tis not too late to withdraw the answer you have given me. Gainsay it, and there need be no change--no going to Texas. Yourfather's home may still be his, and yours. Say you'll be my wife, andeverything shall be restored to him--all will yet be well. "

She is patient to the conclusion of his appeal. Its apparent sinceritystays her; though she cannot tell, or does not think, why. It is amoment of mechanical irresolution. 

But, soon as ended, again returns the bitterness that has just sweptthrough 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 tobe mistaken. 

On speaking it, she parts from the spot with proud haughty step, and adenying disdainful gesture, which tells him, she is not to be furtherstayed. 

Spited, chagrined, angry, in his craven heart he feels also cowed, subdued, crestfallen. So much, he dares not follow her, but remainsunder the magnolia; from whose hollow trunk seems to reverberatethe 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 ofdaylight still flickers, as Blue Bill, returning from his abandonedcoon-hunt, gets back to the negro quarter. He enters it, with stealthytread, and looking cautiously around. 

For he knows that some of his fellow-slaves are aware of his having goneout "a-cooning, " and will wonder at his soon return--too soon to passwithout observation. If seen by them he may be asked for anexplanation, which he is not prepared to give. 

To avoid being called upon for it, he skulks in among the cabins; stillcarrying the dog under his arm, lest the latter may take a fancy to gosmelling among the utensils of some other darkey's kitchen, and betrayhis presence in the "quarter. "

Fortunately for the coon-hunter, the little "shanty" that claims him asits tenant stands at the outward extremity of the row of cabins--nearestthe path leading to the plantation woodland. He is therefore enabled toreach, and re-enter it, without any great danger of attractingobservation. 

And as it chances, he is not observed; but gets back into the bosom ofhis family, no one being a bit the wiser. 

Blue Bill's domestic circle consists of his wife, Phoebe, and severalhalf-naked little "niggers, " who, at his return, tackle on to his legs, and, soon as he sits down, clamber confusedly over his knees. Socircumstanced, one would think he should now feel safe, and relievedfrom further anxiety. Far from it: he has yet a gauntlet to run. 

His re-appearance so early, unexpected; his empty gamebag; the coon-dogcarried under his arm; all have their effect upon Phoebe. She cannothelp 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, shesays, --

"Bress de Lor', Bill! Wha' for you so soon home? Neider coon norpossum! An' de dog toated arter dat trange fashun! You ain't been gonemore'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; whichdrops with a dump upon the floor. Then seats himself on a stool, butwithout 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 hisshoulder, and gazing earnestly into his eyes. "Dat ere ain't de correckexplicashun. You's not tellin' me de troof!"

The coon-hunter quails under the searching glance, as if in reality acriminal; but still holds back the demanded explanation. He is at aloss 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. Inebba see dat look on ye, but I know you ain't yaseff; jess as ye usedeseeve 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 swardar 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 Isay now am dat you ain't yaseff. Dar's a cat in de bag, somewha; youbetter let her out, and confess de whole troof. "

As Phoebe makes this appeal, her glance rests inquiringly on herhusband's countenance, and keenly scrutinises the play of his features. 

There is not much play to be observed. The coon-hunter is apure-blooded African, with features immobile as those of the Sphinx. And from his colour nought can be deduced. As already said, it is thedepth of its ebon blackness, producing a purplish iridescence over theepidermis, that has gained for him the sobriquet "Blue Bill. "

Unflinchingly he stands the inquisitorial glance, and for the timePhoebe is foiled. 

Only until after supper, when the frugality of the meal--made so by thebarren chase--has perhaps something to do in melting his heart, andrelaxing his tongue. Whether this, or whatever the cause, certain itis, that before going to bed, he unburdens himself to the partner of hisjoys, by making full confession of what he has heard and seen by theside of the cypress swamp. 

He tells her, also, of the letter picked up; which, cautiously pullingout of his pocket, he submits to her inspection. 

Phoebe has once been a family servant--an indoor domestic, andhandmaiden to a white mistress. This in the days of youth--the halcyondays of her girlhood, in "Ole Varginny"--before she was transportedwest, sold to Ephraim Darke, and by him degraded to the lot of anordinary outdoor slave. But her original owner taught her to read, andher memory still retains a trace of this early education--sufficient forher to decipher the script put into her hands. 

She first looks at the photograph; as it is the first to come out of theenvelope. There can be no mistaking whose likeness it is. A lady tooconspicuously beautiful to have escaped notice from the humblest slavein the settlement. 

The negress spends some seconds gazing upon the portrait, as she does soremarking, --

"How bewful dat young lady!"

"You am right 'bout dat, Phoebe. She bewful as any white gal dis niggaebber sot eyes on. And she good as bewful. I'se sorry she gwine leabdis 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 notrouble '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 dewoodland, when I war out a-coonin. More'n once I seed em togedder. Ayoung 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 lubone noder--he know fo sartin. Jule, she tell Jupe; and Jupe hab trusseddat same seecret to me. Dey been in lub long time; afore Mass Charlwent 'way to Texas. But de great Kurnel Armstrong, he don't knownuffin' '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 beenwrote by her. Maybe it trow some light on dis dark subjeck. "

Phoebe, thus solicited, takes the letter from the envelope. Thenspreading 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 herscholastic acquirements, not very bright at the best, have become dimmedby long disuse. For all, she succeeds in deciphering its contents andinterpreting them to Bill; who listens with ears wide open and eyes instaring wonderment. 

When the reading is at length finished, the two remain for some timesilent, --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 pointsas 'pear new to me; but whether de old or de new, 'twon't do for us folkdeclar 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 musshide de letter, an' nebba let nob'dy know dar's sich a dockyment in ourposseshun. 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 happento 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 adangersome, an a desprit one. "

The wife can well comprehend the husband's caution, with the necessityof compliance; and the two retire to rest, in the midst of their blackolive branches, with a mutual promise to be "mum. "

CHAPTER FOURTEEN. 

WHY COMES HE NOT?

Helen Armstrong goes to bed, with spiteful thoughts about CharlesClancy. So rancorous she cannot sleep, but turns distractedly on hercouch, 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 ColonelArmstrong's gate. A traveller, going in the opposite direction--that istowards the city--on clearing the skirts of the plantation, would see, near the road side, a dwelling of very different kind; of humbleunpretentious aspect, compared with the grand mansion of the planter. It would be called a cottage, were this name known in the State ofMississippi--which it is not. Still it is not a log-cabin; but a"frame-house, " its walls of "weather-boarding, " planed and painted, itsroof cedar-shingled; a style of architecture occasionally seen in theSouthern States, though not so frequently as in the Northern--inhabitedby men in moderate circumstances, poorer than planters, but richer, ormore gentle, than the "white trash, " who live in log-cabins. 

Planters they are in social rank, though poor; perhaps owning ahalf-dozen slaves, and cultivating a small tract of cleared ground, fromtwenty to fifty acres. The frame-house vouches for theirrespectability; while two or three log structures at back--representingbarn, stable, and other outbuildings--tell of land attached. 

Of this class is the habitation referred to--the home of the widowClancy. 

As already known, her widowhood is of recent date. She still wears itsemblems upon her person, and carries its sorrow in her heart. 

Her husband, of good Irish lineage, had found his way to Nashville, thecapital city of Tennessee; where, in times long past, many Irishfamilies made settlements. There he had married her, she herself beinga native Tennesseean--sprung from the old Carolina pioneer stock, thatcolonised the state near the end of the eighteenth century--theRobertsons, Hyneses, Hardings, and Bradfords--leaving to theirdescendants a patent of nobility, or at least a family name deservingrespect, 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 thesehave wealth their hospitality is too apt to take the place of aspendthrift profuseness, ending in pecuniary embarrassment. 

So was it with Captain Jack Clancy; who got wealth with his wife, butsoon squandered it entertaining his own and his wife's friends. Theresult, a move to Mississippi, where land was cheaper, and hisattenuated fortune would enable him to hold out a little longer. 

Still, the property he had purchased in Mississippi State was but a poorone; leading him to contemplate a further flit into the rich red landsof North-Eastern Texas, just becoming famous as a field forcolonisation. His son Charles sent thither, as said, on a trip ofexploration, had spent some months in the Lone Star State, prospectingfor 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 thereremains only a mother; whose grief, pressing heavily, has almost broughther to the grave. It is one of a long series of reverses which havesorely taxed her fortitude. Another of like heaviness, and the tomb mayclose over her. 

Some such presentiment is in the mother's mind, on this very day, as thesun goes down, and she sits in her chamber beside a dim candle, with earkeenly bent to catch the returning footsteps of her son. 

He has been absent since noon, having gone deer-stalking, as frequentlybefore. 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. Itis 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 thanwont. She has noticed her son's abstracted air, and heard sighs thatseemed 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 Charleshas 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 herassurance of the fact: telling her, at the same time, who has won hisaffections. 

Mrs Clancy is neither dissatisfied nor displeased. In all theneighbourhood there is no one she would more wish to have for adaughter-in-law than Helen Armstrong. Not from any thought of thegirl's great beauty, or high social standing. Caroline Clancy isherself too well descended to make much of the latter circumstance. Itis the reputed noble character of the lady that influences her approvalof her son's choice. 

Thinking of this--remembering her own youth, and the stolen interviewswith Charles Clancy's father--oft under the shadow of night--she couldnot, does not, reflect harshly on the absence of that father's son fromhome, however long, or late the hour. 

It is only as the clock strikes twelve, she begins to think seriouslyabout it. Then creeps over her a feeling of uneasiness, soon changingto apprehension. Why should he be staying out so late--after midnight?The same little bird, that brought her tidings of his love-affair, hasalso told her it is clandestine. Mrs Clancy may not like this. It hasthe semblance of a slight to her son, as herself--more keenly felt byher in their reduced circumstances. But then, as compensation, arisesthe 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. Allthe more unlikely, that the Armstrongs are moving off--as all theneighbourhood knows--and intend starting next day, at an early hour. 

The plantation people will long since have retired to rest; therefore aninterview with his sweetheart can scarce be the cause of her son'sdetention. Something else must be keeping him. What? So run thereflections 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 backdisappointed. 

For long periods she remains in the porch, her eye interrogating theroad that runs past the cottage-gate; her ear acutely listening forfootsteps. 

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 becomeoppressive, as with increased anxiety she watches and waits. 

At intervals she glances at the little "Connecticut" clock that ticksover the mantel. A pedlar's thing, it may be false, as the men who comesouth selling "sech. " It is the reflection of a Southern woman, hopingher conjecture may be true. 

But, as she lingers in the porch, and looks at the moving moon, sheknows the hour must be late. 

Certain sounds coming from the forest, and the farther swamp, tell herso. As a backwoods woman she can interpret them. She hears the call ofthe turkey "gobbler. " She knows it means morning. 

The clock strikes two; still she hears no fall of footstep--sees no sonreturning!

"Where is my Charles? What can be detaining him?"

Phrases almost identical with those that fell from the lips of HelenArmstrong, but a few hours before, in a different place, and prompted bya different sentiment--a passion equally strong, equally pure!

Both doomed to disappointment, alike bitter and hard to bear. The samein cause, but dissimilar in the impression produced. The sweetheartbelieving herself slighted, forsaken, left without a lover; the mothertortured with the presentiment, she no longer has a son!

When, at a yet later hour--or rather earlier, since it is nighdaybreak--a dog, his coat disordered, comes gliding through the gate, and Mrs Clancy recognises her son's favourite hunting hound, she hasstill only a presentiment of the terrible truth. But one which to thematernal heart, already filled with foreboding, feels too likecertainty. 

And too much for her strength. Wearied with watching, prostrated by theintensity of her vigil, when the hound crawls up the steps, and underthe dim light she sees his bedraggled body--blood as well as mud uponit--the sight produces a climax--a shock apparently fatal. 

She swoons upon the spot, and is carried inside the house by a femaleslave--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 canto restore her, there are sounds outside unheard by either. A dullrumble 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 ateamster. 

Presently, a large "Conestoga" wagon passes the cottage-gate, fullfreighted 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 ofsight, and not yet beyond hearing, when another vehicle comes rollingalong the road. This, of lighter build, and proceeding at a more rapidrate, is a barouche, drawn by a pair of large Kentucky horses. As thenight is warm, and there is no need to spring up the leathern hood--itsoccupants can all be seen, and their individuality made out. On thebox-seat is a black coachman; and by his side a young girl whose tawnycomplexion, 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 sitsalongside the driver is "Jule. "

In the barouche, behind, is a second face that has been seen under thesame tree, but with an expression upon it sadder and more disturbed. For of the three who occupy the inside seats one is Helen Armstrong; theothers her father, and sister. They are _en route_ for the city ofNatchez, the port of departure for their journey south-westward intoTexas; just starting away from their old long-loved dwelling, whosegates they have left ajar, its walls desolate behind thorn. 

The wagon, before, carries the remnant of the planter's property, --allhis inexorable creditor allows him to take along. No wonder he sits inthe barouche, with bowed head, and chin between his knees, not caring tolook back. For the first time in his life he feels truly, terriblyhumiliated. 

This, and no flight from creditors, no writ, nor pursuing sheriff, willaccount for his commencing the journey at so early an hour. To be seengoing off in the open daylight would attract spectators around; it maybe many sympathisers. But in the hour of adversity his sensitive natureshrinks from the glance of sympathy, as he would dread the stare ofexultation, were any disposed to indulge in it. 

But besides the sentiment, there is another cause for their nightmoving--an inexorable necessity as to time. The steamboat, which is totake them up Red River, leaves Natchez at sunrise. He must be aboard bydaybreak. 

If the bankrupt planter be thus broken-spirited, his eldest daughter isas much cast down as he, and far more unhappily reflecting. 

Throughout all that night Helen Armstrong has had no sleep; and now, inthe pale moonlight of the morning, her cheeks show white and wan, whilea dark shadow broods upon her brow, and her eyes glisten with wildunnatural light, as one in a raging fever. Absorbed in thought, shetakes no heed of anything along the road; and scarce makes answer to anoccasional observation addressed to her by her sifter, evidently withthe intention to cheer her. It has less chance of success, because ofJessie herself being somewhat out of sorts. Even she, habitually merry, is for the time sobered; indeed saddened at the thought of that they areleaving behind, and what may be before them. Possibly, as she looksback at the gate of their grand old home, through which they will neveragain go, she may be reflecting on the change from their late luxuriouslife, to the log-cabin and coarse fare, of which her father hadforewarned 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, scaldingher heart. Little cares she what sort of house she is hitherto to dwellin, what she will have to wear, or eat. The scantiest raiment, orcoarsest food, can give no discomfort now. She could bear the thoughtof sheltering under the humblest roof in Texas--ay, think of it withcheerfulness--had Charles Clancy been but true, to share its shelteralong 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 ofhis Creole girl he will soon cease to think of her--forget the solemnvows made, and the sweet words spoken, beneath the magnolia--tree, inher retrospect seeming sadder than yew, or cypress. 

Will she ever forget him? Can she? No; unless in that land, whitherher 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 alongopens 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 toclose her eyelids more--except in death!

Her emotions are terribly intense, her anguish so overpowering, she canscarce conceal it--indeed does not try, so long as the house is insight. Perhaps fortunate that her father is absorbed in his ownparticular sadness. But her sister observes all, guessing--nay, knowingthe cause. She says nothing. Such sorrow is too sacred to be intrudedon. 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, isforever lost to view. 

Could the eyes of Helen Armstrong, in passing, have penetrated throughthe walls of that white painted dwelling--could she have rested themupon a bed with a woman laid astretch upon it, apparently dead, ordying--could she have looked on another bed, unoccupied, untouched, andbeen told how he, its usual occupant, was at that moment lying in themiddle of a chill marsh, under the sombre canopy of cypresses--it wouldhave caused a revulsion in her feelings, sudden, painful, and powerfulas the shock already received. 

There would still be sadness in her breast, but no bitterness. Theformer far easier to endure; she would sooner believe Clancy dead, thanthink of his traitorous defection. 

But she is ignorant of all that has occurred; of the sanguinary sceneenacted--played out complete--on the edge of the cypress swamp, and thesad one inside the house--still continuing. Aware of the one, orwitness of the other, while passing that lone cottage, as with wet eyesshe 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 ofthe widow Clancy a crowd of people has collected. They are her nearestneighbours; while those who dwell at a distance are still in the act ofassembling. Every few minutes two or three horsemen ride up, carryinglong rifles over their shoulders, with powder-horns and bullet-pouchesstrapped across their breasts. Those already on the ground aresimilarly armed, and accoutred. 

The cause of this warlike muster is understood by all. Some hoursbefore, a report has spread throughout the plantations that CharlesClancy is missing from his home, under circumstances to justifysuspicion of foul play having befallen him. His mother has sentmessengers to and fro; hence the gathering around her house. 

In the South-Western States, on occasions of this kind, it does not dofor any one to show indifference, whatever his station in life. Thewealthiest, as well as the poorest, is expected to take part in theadministration 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 notsummoned, come to her cottage. Among them Ephraim Darke, and his sonRichard. 

Archibald Armstrong is not there, nor looked for. Most know of hishaving moved away that same morning. The track of his waggon wheels hasbeen 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 thespot, and still further departing. No one is thinking of him, or his;since no one dreams of the deposed planter, or his family, having oughtto do with the business that brings them together. 

This is to search for Charles Clancy, still absent from his home. Themother's story has been already told, and only the late comers have tohear it again. 

In detail she narrates what occurred on the preceding night; how thehound came home wet, and wounded. Confirmatory of her speech, theanimal is before their eyes, still in the condition spoken of. They canall see it has been shot--the tear of the bullet being visible on itsback, having just cut through the skin. Coupled with its master'sabsence, this circumstance strengthens the suspicion of something amiss. 

Another, of less serious suggestion, is a piece of cord knotted aroundthe dog's neck--the loose end looking as though gnawed by teeth, andthen broken off with a pluck; as if the animal had been tied up, andsucceeded in setting itself free. 

But why tied? And why has it been shot? These are questions that notanybody can answer. 

Strange, too, in the hound having reached home at the hour it did. AsClancy went out about the middle of the day, he could not have gone tosuch a distance for his dog to have been nearly all night getting back. 

Could he himself have fired the bullet, whose effect is before theireyes?

A question almost instantly answered in the negative; by oldbackwoodsmen among the mustered crowd--hunters who know how to interpret"sign" as surely as Champollion an Egyptian hieroglyph. These havingexamined the mark on the hound's skin, pronounce the ball that made itto have come from a _smooth-bore, and not a rifle_. It is notorious, that Charles Clancy never carried a smooth-bore, but always a rifledgun. His own dog has not been shot by him. 

After some time spent in discussing the probabilities and possibilitiesof the case, it is at length resolved to drop conjecturing, and commencesearch for the missing man. In the presence of his mother no one speaksof searching for his _dead body_; though there is a generalapprehension, that this will be the thing found. 

She, the mother, most interested of all, has a too true foreboding ofit. When the searchers, starting off, in kindly sympathy tell her to beof good cheer, her heart more truly says, she will never see her sonagain. 

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, namedWoodley, taking the animal along. He has an idea it may proveserviceable, when thrown on its master's track--supposing this can bediscovered. 

Just as conjectured, the hound does prove of service. Once inside thewoods, without even setting nose to the ground, it starts off in astraight run--going so swiftly, the horsemen find it difficult to keeppace with it. 

It sets them all into a gallop; this continued for quite a couple ofmiles through timber thick and thin, at length ending upon the edge ofthe 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 thestag-hound stop beside something, as it does so loudly baying. 

Spurring on towards the spot, they expect to behold the dead body ofCharles 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. Asthe horsemen dismount, and get their eyes closer to the ground, they seesomething red; which proves to be blood. It is dark crimson, almostblack, and coagulated. Still is it blood. 

From under the edge of the moss-heap protrudes the barrel of a gun. Onkicking the loose cover aside, they see it is a rifle--not of the kindcommon among backwoodsmen. But they have no need to waste conjecture onthe gun. Many present identify it as the yager usually carried byClancy. 

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 hatalongside it; blood beside both--there must have been shooting on thespot--some one wounded, if not actually killed? And who but CharlesClancy? 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 onlyquestion 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 asatisfactory answer--alike surprised by what they see, and puzzled toexplain it. 

There is one man present who could enlighten them in part, though notaltogether--one who comes lagging up with the last. It is RichardDarke. 

Strange he should be among the stragglers. At starting out he appearedthe 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 hadgiven Clancy his death shot. 

The foremost of the searchers have dismounted and are standing groupedaround it. He sees them, and would gladly go back, but dares not. Defection now would be damning evidence against him. After all, whathas he to fear? They will find a dead body--Clancy's--a corpse with abullet-hole in the breast. They can't tell who fired the fatal shot--how could they? There were no witnesses save the trunks of thecypresses, and the dumb brute of a dog--not so dumb but that it nowmakes the woods resound with its long-drawn continuous whining. If itcould 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 himselfmade bloody. Trembling, nevertheless, and with cheeks pale. _Not_strange. He is about being brought face to face with the man he hasmurdered--with his corpse!

Nothing of the kind. There is no murdered man there, no corpse! Only agun, a hat, and some blotches of crimson!

Does Darke rejoice at seeing only this? Judging by his looks, thereverse. Before, he only trembled slightly, with a hue of pallor on hischeeks. Now his lips show white, his eyes sunken in their sockets, while his teeth chatter and his whole frame shivers as if under an aguechill!

Luckily for the assassin this tale-telling exhibition occurs under theshadow of the great cypress, whose gloomy obscurity guards against itsbeing observed. But to counteract this little bit of good luck therechances to be present a detective that trusts less to sight, than scent. This is Clancy's dog. As Darke presents himself in the circle ofsearchers collected around it, the animal perceiving, suddenly springstowards him with the shrill cry of an enraged cat, and the elastic leapof a tiger!

But for Simeon Woodley seizing the hound, and holding it back, thethroat of Richard Darke would be in danger. 

It is so, notwithstanding. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Around the blood-stained spot there is a pause; the searchers forming atableau strikingly significant. They have come up, to the very lastlagger; and stand in attitudes expressing astonishment, with glancesthat speak inquiry. These, not directed to the ground, nor strayingthrough 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 beheld off again. Surely it signifies something, and this bearing uponthe 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, hisblanched lips, and craven cast of countenance, would tell a tale tocondemn him at once--perhaps to punishment on the spot. 

As it if, his scared condition is not unnoticed. It is heard, if notclearly seen. Two or three, standing close to him, can hear his teethclacking like castanets!

His terror is trebly intensified--from a threefold cause. Seeing nobody first gave him a shock of surprise; soon followed by superstitiousawe; this succeeded by apprehension of another kind. But he had no timeto dwell upon it before being set upon by the dog, which drove the moredistant danger out of his head. 

Delivered also from this, his present fear is about those glancesregarding him. In the obscurity he cannot read them, but for all thatcan tell they are sternly inquisitorial. _En revanche_, neither canthey read his; and, from this drawing confidence, he recovers hishabitual coolness--knowing how much he now needs it. 

The behaviour of the hound must not pass unspoken of. With a forcedlaugh, 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 atme in the same way. It's never forgiven me since the day I chastisedit, when it came after one of our sluts. I'd have killed the cur longago, but spared it through friendship for its master. "

An explanation plausible, and cunningly conceived; though notsatisfactory to some. Only the unsuspicious are beguiled by it. However, it holds good for the time; and, so regarded, the searchersresume their quest. 

It is no use for them to remain longer by the moss-heap. There they butsee blood; they are looking for a body. To find this they must gofarther. 

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 thebroad fan-like fronds of the saw-palmettoes, groping around thebuttressed trunks of the cypresses, sending glances into the shadowedspaces between--in short, searching everywhere. 

For more than a mile around they quarter the forest, giving it thoroughexamination. The swamp also, far as the treacherous ooze will allowthem to penetrate within its _gloomy_ portals--fit abode of death--placeappropriate for the concealment of darkest crime. 

Notwithstanding their zeal, prompted by sympathising hearts, as by asense 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 eveapproaches they again congregate around the gory spot; and, with amutual understanding to resume search on the morrow, separate, and setoff--each to his own home. 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. 

A BULLET EXTRACTED. 

Not all of the searching party leave the place. Two remain, staying asby stealth. Some time before the departure of the others, these hadslipped aside, and sauntered off several hundred yards, taking theirhorses along with them. 

Halting in an out-of-the-way spot, under deepest shadow, and thendismounting, they wait till the crowd shall disperse. To all appearanceimpatiently, as if they wanted to have the range of the forest tothemselves, and for some particular reason. Just this do they, or atleast one of them does; making his design known to the other, soon as hebelieves himself beyond earshot of those from whom they separated. 

It is the elder that instructs; who, in addition to the horse he isholding, 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; youngerin years, but, like himself, a professional follower of the chase--byname, Heywood. 

Giving his reason for the step he is taking, Woodley says, "We kin donothin' till them greenhorns air gone. Old Dan Boone hisself kedn'ttake up trail, wi' sich a noisy clanjamfry aroun him. For myself Ihain't hardly tried, seein' 'twar no use till they'd clar off out o' theway. And now the darned fools hev' made the thing more diffeequilt, trampin about, an' blottin' out every shadder o' sign, an everything aslooks 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 morepertikler examinashun. "

The younger hunter nods assent, adding a word, signifying readiness tofollow his older confrere. 

For some minutes they remain; until silence restored throughout theforest tells them it is forsaken. Then, leaving their horses behind, with bridles looped around branches--the hound also attached to one ofthe stirrups--they go back to the place, where the hat and gun werefound. 

They do not stay there; but continue a little farther on, Woodleyleading. 

At some twenty paces distance, the old hunter comes to a halt, stoppingby the side of a cypress "knee"; one of those vegetable monstrositiesthat perplex the botanist--to this hour scientifically unexplained. Inshape resembling a ham, with the shank end upwards; indeed so like tothis, that the Yankee bacon-curers have been accused, by their southerncustomers, of covering them with canvas, and selling them for the realarticle!

It may be that the Mississippian backwoodsman, Woodley, could give abetter account of these singular excrescences than all the closetscientists 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. " Hisonly thought is to show Heywood something he had espied while passing itin the search; but of which he did not then appear to take notice, andsaid nothing, so long as surrounded by the other searchers. 

The time has come to scrutinise it more closely, and ascertain if it bewhat he suspects it. 

The "knee" in question is one which could not be palmed off for aporker's ham. Its superior dimensions forbid the counterfeit. As thetwo hunters halt beside it, its bulk shows bigger than either of theirown 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 roundhole, with edge slightly ragged. The fibre appears freshly cut, andmore than cut--encrimsoned! Twenty-four hours may have elapsed, but notmany more, since that hole was made. So believe the backwoodsmen, soonas 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 standssilently regarding the perforated spot. His comrade continues:--

"Thar's a blue pill goed in thar', which jedgin' by the size and shapeo' the hole must a kum out a biggish gun barrel. An', lookin' at thered 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 beendeadened by something and don't appear to hev penetrated a great wayinto the timmer, for all o' that bein' soft as sapwood. "

Drawing out his knife, the old hunter inserts the point of its bladeinto the hole, probing it. 

"Jest as I sayed. Hain't entered the hul o' an inch. I kin feel thelead ludged thar'. "

"Suppose you cut it out, Sime?"

"Precisely what I intend doin'. But not in a careless way. I want thesurroundin' wood along wi' it. The two thegither will best answer ourpurpiss. So hyar goes to git 'em thegither. "

Saying this, he inserts his knife-blade into the bark, and first makes acircular incision around the bullet-hole. Then deepens it, taking carenot to touch the ensanguined edge of the orifice, or come near it. 

The soft vegetable substance yields to his keen steel, almost as easilyas if he were slicing a Swedish turnip; and soon he detaches apear-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' arifle. Thar's big eends o' an ounce weight o' metal inside. Only asmooth-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 ofwood, and also trying its weight. "It's a smooth-bore ball--no doubt ofit. "

"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 whichescaped the eyes o' the others. An' I'm gled it did: for I didn't wantDick Darke to be about when I war follerin' it up. For that reezun Idrawed the rest aside--so as none o' 'em shed notice it. By good luckthey didn't. "

"You saw other sign! What, Sime?"

"Tracks in the mud, clost in by the edge o' the swamp. They're a goodbit 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 beenmade 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 makeany 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 kingie them tracks a thorrer scrutination. If they don't prove to be DickDarke'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 thetracks. "

"_If_! Thar's no if. We _shall_ hev one o' his boots--ay, both--I'mboun' to hev 'em. "

"But how?"

"Leave that to me. I've thought o' a plan to git purssession o' thescoundrel's futwear, an' everythin' else belongin' to him that kin throwa ray o' daylight unto this darksome bizness. Come, Ned! Le's go tothe widder's house, an' see if we kin say a word to comfort the poorlady--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 thehusban' died. Now the son's goed too--ah! Come along, an' le's showher, she ain't forsook by everybody. "

With the alacrity of a loyal heart, alike leaning to pity, the younghunter 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, whilethey are abroad searching for her son. 

Still more terrible the night after their return--not without tidings ofthe missing man. Such tidings! The too certain assurance of hisdeath--of his murder--with the added mystery of their not having beenable to find his body. Only his hat, his gun, his blood!

Her grief, hitherto held in check by a still lingering hope, now escapesall trammels, and becomes truly agonising. Her heart seems broken, orbreaking. 

Although without wealth, and therefore with but few friends, in her hourof lamentation she is not left alone. It is never so in the backwoodsof the Far West; where, under rough home-wove coats, throb hearts gentleand sympathetic, as ever beat under the finest broadcloth. 

Among Mrs Clancy's neighbours are many of this kind; chiefly "poorwhites, "--as scornfully styled by the prouder planters. Some half-scoreof them determine to stay by her throughout the night; with a belieftheir presence may do something to solace her, and a presentiment thatere morning they may be needed for a service yet more solemn. She hasretired to her chamber--taken to her bed; she may never leave eitheralive. 

As the night chances to be a warm one--indeed stifling hot, the men stayoutside, smoking their pipes in the porch, or reclining upon the littlegrass plot in front of the dwelling, while within, by the bedside of thebereaved widow, are their wives, sisters, and daughters. 

Needless to say, that the conversation of those without relatesexclusively to the occurrences of the day, and the mystery of themurder. For this, they all believe it to have been; though utterlyunable to make out, or conjecture a motive. 

They are equally perplexed about the disappearance of the body; thoughthis adds not much to the mystery. 

They deem it simply a corollary, and consequence, of the other. He, whodid the foul deed, has taken steps to conceal it, and so far succeeded. It remains to be seen whether his astuteness will serve against thesearch 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 "DickDarke, "--that is when starting out on the search near noon. 

Now that night is on, and they have returned from it, his name is onevery lip. At first only in whispers, and guarded insinuations; butgradually pronounced in louder tone, and bolder speech--this approachingaccusation. 

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 towhich no one present holds the key. For none know aught of a rivalryhaving existed between the two men--much less a love-jealousy, thanwhich no motive more inciting to murder ever beat in human breast. 

Darke's partiality for Colonel Armstrong's eldest daughter has been nosecret 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 tohimself; influenced by the additional reason of its being clandestine. 

Therefore, those, sitting up as company to his afflicted parent, have noknowledge of the tender relations that existed between him and HelenArmstrong, any more than of their being the cause of that disaster forwhich the widow now weeps. 

She herself alone knows of them; but, in the first moment of hermisfortune, completely prostrated by it, she has not yet communicatedaught of this to the sympathetic ears around her. It is a familysecret, too sacred for their sympathy; and, with some last lingeringpride of superior birth, she keeps it to herself. The time has not comefor disclosing it. 

But it soon will--she knows that. All must needs be told. For, afterthe first throes of the overwhelming calamity, in which her thoughtsalone dwelt on the slain son, they turned towards him suspected as theslayer. In her case with something stronger than suspicion--indeedalmost belief, based on her foreknowledge of the circumstances; thesenot only accounting for the crime, but pointing to the man who must havecommitted it. 

As she lies upon her couch, with tears streaming down her cheeks, andsighs heaved from the very bottom of her breast--as she listens to thekind 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 twofaces--one of a murdered man, the other his murderer--the first her ownson, the second that of Ephraim Darke. 

Notwithstanding ignorance of all these circumstances, the thoughts ofher sympathising neighbours--those in council outside--dwell upon DickDarke; while his name is continuously upon their tongues. Hisunaccountable conduct during the day--as also the strange behaviour ofthe hound--is now called up, and commented upon. 

Why should the dog have made such demonstration? Why bark at him aboveall the others--selecting him out of the crowd--so resolutely andangrily assailing him?

His own explanation, given at the time, appeared lame andunsatisfactory. 

It looks lamer now, as they sit smoking their pipes, more coolly andclosely 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 theenclosure. 

As these draw near to the porch, where a tallow dip dimly burns, itslight is reflected from the features of Simeon Woodley and EdwardHeywood. 

The hunters are both well-known to all upon the ground; and welcomed, asmen likely to make a little less irksome that melancholy midnight watch. 

If the new-comers cannot contribute cheerfulness, they may somethingelse, as predicted by the expression observed upon their faces, atstepping into the porch. Their demeanour shows them possessed of someknowledge pertinent to the subject under discussion, as also important. 

Going close to the candle, and summoning the rest around, Woodley drawsfrom the ample pocket of his large, loose coat a bit of wood, bearingresemblance to a pine-apple, or turnip roughly peeled. 

Holding it to the light, he says: "Come hyar, fellurs! fix yar eyes onthis. "

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 childair 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 stillgreener 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'syit inside the wud, for me an' Heywood here tuk care not to extract ittill the proper time shed come. "

"It's come now; let's hev it out!" exclaims Heywood; the othersendorsing 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. Whencleft, it discloses a thing of rounded form and metallic lustre, dullleaden--a gun-bullet, as all expected. 

There is not any blood upon it, this having been brushed off in itspassage through the fibrous texture of the wood. But it still preservesits spherical shape, perfect as when it issued from the barrel of thegun that discharged, or the mould that made it. 

Soon as seeing it they all cry out, "A bullet!" several adding, "Theball of a smooth-bore. "

Then one asks, suggestingly:

"Who is there in this neighbourhood that's got a shooting-iron of suchsort?"

The question is instantly answered by another, though notsatisfactorily. 

"Plenty of smooth-bores about, though nobody as I knows of hunts withthem. "

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 repeatingit. 

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, andtying 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 himas if for further communication. 

Which they do, drawing off out of the porch, and taking stand upon grassplot 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 beheard repeatedly pronounced. 

And also a name; the same, which, throughout all the evening has beenupon their lips, bandied about, spoken of with gritting teeth and browscontracted. 

Not all of those, who watch with the widow are admitted to thismuttering council. Simon Woodley, who presides over it, has his reasonsfor excluding some. Only men take part in it who can be relied on foran emergency, such as that the hunter has before him. 

Their conference closed, four of them, as if by agreement with theothers, separate from the group, glide out through the wicket-gate, andon to their horses left tied to the roadside rail fence. 

"Unhitching" these, they climb silently into their saddles, and assilently slip away; only some muttered words passing between them, asthey ride along the road. 

Among these may be heard the name of a man, conjoined to a speech, underthe 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, andhe suspected of the crime is threatened with a prison cell, she, theinnocent cause of it, is being borne far away from the scene of itscommittal. 

The steamboat, carrying Colonel Armstrong and his belongings, havingleft port punctually at the hour advertised, has forsaken the "Father ofWaters, " entered the Red River of Louisiana, and now, on the second dayafter, is cleaving the current of this ochre-tinted stream, some fiftymiles from its mouth. 

The boat is the "Belle of Natchez. " Singular coincidence of name; sinceone aboard bears also the distinctive sobriquet. 

Oft have the young "bloods" of the "City of the Bluffs, " while quaffingtheir sherry cobblers, or champagne, toasted Helen Armstrong, with thisappellation 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 asorry craft; a little "stern-wheel" steamer, such as, in those earlydays, were oft seen ploughing the bosom of the mighty Mississippi, moreoften 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 theimpulsive power--at best giving but poor speed. 

Nevertheless, a sort of craft with correct excuse, and fair _raisond'etre_; as all know, who navigate narrow rivers, and their stillnarrower reaches, with trees from each side outstretching, as is thecase with many of the streams of Louisiana. 

Not that the noble Red River can be thus classified; nor in any sensespoken of as a narrow stream. Broad, and deep enough, for the biggestboats to navigate to Natchitoches--the butt of Colonel Armstrong'sjourney 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 alsoexpense. 

On the Mississippi, and its tributaries, a passage in "crack" boats iscostly, in proportion to their character for "crackness. " The "Belle ofNatchez, " being without reputation of this kind, carries her passengersat a reasonable rate. 

But, indeed, something beyond ideas of opportune time, or economy, influenced Colonel Armstrong in selecting her. The same thought whichhurried him away from his old home under the shadows of night, has takenhim aboard a third-rate river steamboat. Travelling thus obscurely, hehopes to shun encounter with men of his own class; to escape not onlyobservation, but the sympathy he shrinks from. 

In this hope he is disappointed, and on both horns of his fancied, notto 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 smallersteamer has started on her trip, loaded down to the water-line withfreight, her state-rooms and cabins crowded with passengers--many ofthese 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 givesgladness. For among the supernumeraries forced to take passage in thestern-wheel steamer, is a man she has met before. Not only met, butdanced with; and not only danced but been delighted with; so much, thatsouvenirs of that night, with its saltative enjoyment, have since oftoccupied her thoughts, thrilling her with sweetest reminiscence. 

He, who has produced this pleasant impression, is a young planter, byname Luis Dupre. A Louisianian by birth, therefore a "Creole. " Andwithout any taint of the African; else he would not be a Creole _pursang_. 

The English reader seems to need undeceiving about this, constantly, repeatedly. In the Creole, simply so-called, there is no admixture ofnegro blood. 

Not a drop of it in the veins of Luis Dupre; else Jessie Armstrong couldnot have danced with him at a Natchez ball; nor would her father, fallenas 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 theex-Mississippian planter. He of Louisiana is his equal in social rank, and now his superior in point of wealth, by hundreds, thousands. ForLuis Dupre is one of the largest landowners along the line of Red Riverplantations, while his slaves number several hundred field-hands, andhouse 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 reflectspainfully upon his own reduced state, it is different with his daughterJessie. 

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, butalong with them his heart and hand. 

It is but repeating what he said on the night of the Natchez ball; hisimpulsive Creole nature having then influenced him to speak as he felt. 

Now, on the gliding steamboat, he reiterates the proposal, moreearnestly pressing for an answer. 

And he gets it in the affirmative. Before the "Belle of Natchez" hasreached fifty miles from the Red River's mouth, Luis Dupre and JessieArmstrong have mutually confessed affection, clasped hands, let lipsmeet, and tongues swear, never more to live asunder. That journeycommenced upon the Mississippi is to continue throughout life. 

In their case, there is no fear of aught arising to hinder theconsummation of their hopes; no stern parent to stand in the way oftheir life's happiness. By the death of both father and mother, LuisDupre has long since been emancipated from parental authority, and is asmuch his own master as he is of his many slaves. 

On the other side, Jessie Armstrong is left free to her choice; becauseshe has chosen well. Her father has given ready consent; or at allevents said enough to ensure his doing so. 

The huge "high-pressure" steam craft which ply upon the western riversof America bear but a very slight resemblance to the black, long, low--hulled leviathans that plough the briny waste of ocean. The steamboatof 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, isuniversally painted chalk-white; the second, or cabin story, having oneach face a row of casement windows, with Venetian shutters, of emeraldgreen. These also serve as outside doors to the state-rooms--eachhaving its own. Inside ones, opposite them, give admission to the maincabin, or "saloon;" which extends longitudinally nearly the whole lengthof the vessel. Figured glass folding-doors cut it into threecompartments; the ladies' cabin aft, the dining saloon amidships, with athird division forward, containing clerk's office and "bar, " the lastdevoted to male passengers for smoking, drinking, and, too often, gambling. A gangway, some three feet in width, runs along the outsidefacade, forming a balcony to the windows of the state-rooms. It isfurnished with a balustrade, called "guard-rail, " to prevent carelesspassengers 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, pouringforth a continuous volume of whitish wood-smoke; while a smallercylinder--the "scape-pipe"--intermittently vomits a vapour yet whiter, the steam; at each emission with a hoarse belching bark, that can beheard reverberating for leagues along the river. 

Seen from the bank, as it passes, the Mississippi steamboat looks like alarge hotel, or mansion of many windows, set adrift and movingmajestically--"walking the water like a thing of life, " as it has beenpoetically described. Some of the larger ones, taking into accounttheir splendid interior decoration, and, along with it their sumptuoustable fare, may well merit the name oft bestowed upon them, of "floatingpalaces. "

Only in point of size, some inferiority in splendour, and having astern-wheel instead of side-paddles, does the "Belle of Natchez" differfrom other boats seen upon the same waters. As them, she has her largecentral saloon, with ladies' cabin astern; the flanking rows ofstate-rooms; the casements with green jalousies; the gangway andguard-rail; the twin funnels, pouring forth their fleecy cloud, and thescape-pipe, coughing in regular repetition. 

In the evening hour, after the day has cooled down, the balcony outsidethe state-room windows is a pleasant place to stand, saunter, or sit in. More especially that portion of it contiguous to the stern, andexclusively devoted to lady passengers--with only such of the male sexadmitted as can claim relationship, or liens of a like intimate order. 

On this evening--the first after leaving port--the poop deck of thelittle steamer is so occupied by several individuals; who stand gazingat the scene that passes like a panorama before their eyes. The hotsouthern sun has disappeared behind the dark belt of cypress forest, which forms, far and near, the horizon line of Louisiana; while the softevening breeze, laden with the mixed perfumes of the _liquid ambar_, and_magnolia grandiflora_, is wafted around them, like incense scatteredfrom a censer. 

Notwithstanding its delights, and loveliness, Nature does not longdetain the saunterers outside. Within is a spell more powerful, and tomany of them more attractive. It is after dinner hour; the cabin tableshave been cleared, and its lamps lit. Under the sheen of brilliantchandeliers the passengers are drawing together in groups, and coteries;some to converse, others to play _ecarte_ or _vingt-un_; here and therea solitary individual burying himself in a book; or a pair, almost asunsocial, engaging in the selfish duality of chess. 

Three alone linger outside; and of these only two appear to do so withenjoyment. They are some paces apart from the third, who is now left toherself: for it is a woman. Not that they are unacquainted with her, orin any way wishing to be churlish. But, simply, because neither canspare word or thought for any one, save their two sweet selves. 

It scarce needs telling who is the couple thus mutually engrossed. Aneasy guess gives Jessie Armstrong and Luis Dupre. The young Creole'shandsome features, black eyes, brunette complexion, and dark curly hairhave made havoc with the heart of Armstrong's youngest daughter; while, _en revanche_, her contrasting colours of red, blue, and gold have heldtheir own in the amorous encounter. They are in love with one anotherto their finger tips. 

As they stand conversing in soft whispers, the eyes of the thirdindividual are turned towards them. This only at intervals, and withnought of jealousy in the glance. For it is Jessie's own sister whogives it. Whatever of that burn in Helen's breast, not these, nor bythem, has its torch been kindled. The love that late occupied her hearthas been plucked therefrom, leaving it lacerated, and lorn. It was theone love of her life, and now crushed out, can never be rekindled. Ifshe have a thought about her sister's new-sprung happiness, it is onlyto measure it against her own misery--to contrast its light of joy, withthe 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 areminiscence too painful to be dwelt upon. She remembers how sheherself stood talking in that same way, with one she cannot, must not, know more. To escape recalling the painful souvenir, she turns her eyesfrom 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 constantrevolution, churning the ochre-coloured water into foam. This, floatingbehind, dances and simmers upon the surface, forming a wake-way of whitetinted with red. In Helen Armstrong's eyes it has the appearance ofblood-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 astate-room, or the ladies' cabin, or perhaps gone on to the generalsaloon, to take part in the sports of the evening. She sees the lightsshimmering through the latticed windows, and can hear the hum of voices, all merry. She has no desire to join in that merriment, though many maybe wishing her. Inside she would assuredly become the centre of anadmiring circle; be addressed in courtly speeches, with phrases of softflattery. 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-turningwheel. In the tumult of the water there is consonance with thatagitating her own bosom. 

Night is now down; darkness has descended upon forest and river, holdingboth in its black embrace. Along with it a kindred feeling creeps overher--a thought darker than night, more sombre than forest shadows. Itis that which oft prompts to annihilation; a memory of the past, which, making the future unendurable, calls for life to come to an end. Theman to whom she has given her heart--its firstlings, as its fulness--aheart from which there can be no second gleanings, and she knows it--hehas made light of the offering. A sacrifice grand, as complete; glowingwith all the interests of her life. The life, too, of one rarelyendowed; a woman of proud spirit, queenly and commanding, beyond airbeautiful. 

She does not think thus of herself, as, leaning over the guard-rail, with eyes mechanically bent upon the wheel, she watches it whipping thewater into spray. Her thoughts are not of lofty pride, but lowhumiliation. Spurned by him at whose feet she has flung herself, sofondly, so rashly--ay, recklessly--surrendering even that which womandeems most dear, and holds back to the ultimate moment of rendition--theword which speaks it!

To Charles Clancy she has spoken it. True, only in writing; but stillin terms unmistakeable, and with nothing reserved. And how has hetreated 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 withshame!

Both may be ended in an instant. A step over the low rail--a plungeinto the red rolling river--a momentary struggle amidst its seethingwaters--not to preserve life, but destroy it--this, and all will beover! Sadness, jealousy, the pangs of disappointed love--these balefulpassions, and all others alike, can be soothed, and set at rest, by onelittle effort--a leap into oblivion!

Her nerves are fast becoming strung to the taking it. The past seemsall dark, the future yet darker. For her, life has lost itsfascinations, while death is divested of its terrors. 

Suicide in one so young, so fair, so incomparably lovely; one capable ofcharming others, no longer to be charmed herself! A thing fearful toreflect upon. 

And yet is she contemplating it!

She stands close to the rail, wavering, irresolute. It is no lingeringlove of life which causes her to hesitate. Nor yet fear of death, evenin the horrid form, she cannot fail to see before her, spring she butover that slight railing. 

The moon has arisen, and now courses across the blue canopy of sky, infull effulgence, her beams falling bright upon the bosom of the river. At intervals the boat, keeping the deeper channel, is forced close toeither bank. Then, as the surging eddies set the floating butstationary logs in motion, the huge saurian asleep on them can be heardgiving a grunt of anger for the rude arousing, and pitching over intothe current with dull sullen plash. 

She sees, and hears all this. It should shake her nerves, and causeshivering 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, anda soft voice sounds in her ear. They are the hand and voice of hersister. 

Jessie, coming out of her state-room, has glided silently up. She seesHelen prepossessed, sad, and can somewhat divine the cause. But shelittle suspects, how near things have been to a fatal climax, and dreamsnot 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 theatmosphere of this Red River country is full of miasma, with fevers andague to shake the comb out of one's hair! Come with me inside! There'spleasant people in the saloon, and we're going to have a round game atcards--_vingt-un_, or something of the sort. Come!"

Helen turns round trembling at the touch, as if she felt herself acriminal, and it was the sheriff's hand laid upon her shoulder!

Jessie notices the strange, strong emotion. She could not fail to doso. 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'tthink of him any more. There's a new world, a new life, opening to bothof us. Forget the sorrows of the old, as I shall. Pluck Charles Clancyfrom your heart, and fling every memory, every thought of him, to thewinds! I say again, be a woman--be yourself! Bury the past, and thinkonly of the future--_of our father_!"

The last words act like a galvanic shock, at the same time soothing asbalm. 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'sneck, 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 Armstrongimprints a kiss upon her sister's cheek, at the same time bedewing itwith her tears. For she is now weeping--convulsively sobbing. 

Returning the kiss, Jessie looks not a little perplexed. She canneither comprehend the meaning of the words, nor the strange tone oftheir utterance. Equally is she at a loss to account for the tremblingthroughout her sister's frame, continued while their bosoms stay incontact. 

Helen gives her no time to ask questions. 

"Go in!" she says, spinning the other round, and pushing her towards thedoor of the state-room. Then, attuning her voice to cheerfulness, sheadds:--

"In, and set the game of _vingt-un_ going. I'll join you by the timeyou've got the cards shuffled. "

Jessie, glad to see her sister in spirits unusually gleeful, makes noprotest, 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, itspaddles beating the water into bubbles, and casting the crimson-whitespray 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 gota pack of cards to be dealt out here--among them a knave. "

While speaking, she draws forth a bundle of letters--evidently oldones--tied in a bit of blue ribbon. One after another, she drags themfree of the fastening--just as if dealing out cards. Each, as it comesclear, is rent right across the middle, and tossed disdainfully into thestream. 

At the bottom of the packet, after the letters have been all disposedof, 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 ather feet. 

She does not tear it in twain, as she has the letters; though at firstthis is nearest her intent. Some thought restraining her, she holds itup in the moon's light, her eyes for a time resting on, and closelyscanning it. Painful memories, winters of them, pass through her soul, shown upon her countenance, while she makes scrutiny of the features soindelibly graven upon her heart. She is looking her last upon them--notwith a wish to remember, but the hope to forget--of being able to erasethat image of him long-loved, wildly worshipped, from the tablets of hermemory, at once and for ever. 

Who can tell what passed through her mind at that impending moment? Whocould describe her heart's desolation? Certainly, no writer of romance. 

Whatever resolve she has arrived at, for a while she appears to hesitateabout executing it. --

Then, like an echo heard amidst the rippling waves, return to her earthe 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 theguard-rail allows, she flings the photograph upon the paddles of therevolving 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, moreresembles a subdued scream--a stifled cry of anguish, such as could onlycome from what she has just spoken of--a broken heart. 

As she turns to re-enter the cabin, she appears ill-prepared for takingpart, or pleasure, in a game of cards. 

And she takes not either. That round of _vingt-un_ is never to beplayed--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--beforemaking appearance in the brilliantly-lighted saloon, she passes aroundthe corner of the ladies' cabin, intending to enter her own state-roomby the outside door. 

It is but to spend a moment before her mirror, there to arrange herdress, the plaiting of her hair--perhaps the expression of her face--allthings that to men may appear trivial, but to women important--even inthe hour of sadness and despair. No blame to them for this. It is butan instinct--the primary care of their lives--the secret spring of theirpower. 

In repairing to her toilette, Helen Armstrong is but following theexample of her sex. 

She does not follow it far--not even so far as to get to herlooking-glass, or even inside her state-room. Before entering it, shemakes stop by the door, and tarries with face turned towards the river'sbank. 

The boat, tacking across stream, has sheered close in shore; so closethat the tall forest trees shadow her track--the tips of their branchesalmost touching the hurricane-deck. They are cypresses, festooned withgrey-beard moss, that hangs down like the drapery of a death-bed. Shesees one blighted, stretching forth bare limbs, blanched white by theweather, desiccated and jointed like the arms of a skeleton. 

'Tis a ghostly sight, and causes her weird thoughts, as under the clearmoonbeams the steamer sweeps past the place. 

It is a relief to her, when the boat, gliding on, gets back intodarkness. 

Only momentary; for there under the shadow of the cypresses, lit up bythe flash of the fire-flies, she sees, or fancies it, a face! It isthat 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 inthe trees, or on the earth. She knows it is but a deception of hersenses--an illusive vision--such as occur to clairvoyantes, at timesdeceiving themselves. 

Illusion or not, Helen Armstrong has no time to reflect upon it. Erethe 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, ormake effort to avoid them, she feels herself roughly grasped around thewaist, 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 screamresponsive to her own. 

Before she can repeat the piercing cry, the thing grasping her relaxesits hold, letting her go altogether, and she feels herself falling, asfrom a great height. The sensation of giddiness is succeeded by ashock, 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, achoking in the throat; in short, the sensation that precedes drowning. 

Notwithstanding her late suicidal thoughts, the instinctive aversion todeath is stronger than her weariness of life, and instinctively does shestrive to avert it. 

No longer crying out; she cannot; her throat is filled with the water ofthe turbid stream. It stifles, as if a noose were being drawn aroundher neck, tighter and tighter. She can neither speak nor shout, onlyplunge and struggle. 

Fortunately, while falling, the skirt of her dress, spreading as aparachute, lessened the velocity of the descent. This still extended, hinders her from sinking. As she knows not how to swim, it will notsustain her long; itself becoming weighted with the water. 

Her wild shriek, with that of her sister responding--the latter stillcontinued in terrified repetition--has summoned the passengers from thesaloon, 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 analmost instantaneous stop. The strong current, against which they arecontending, makes the movement easy of execution. 

The shout of, "some one overboard!" is quickly followed by another ofmore particular significance. "It's a lady!"

This announcement intensifies the feeling of regret and alarm. Nowherein the world more likely to do so, than among the chivalric spirits sureto be passengers on a Mississippian steamboat. Half a dozen voices areheard simultaneously asking, not "who is the lady?" but "where?" whileseveral are seen pulling off their coats, as if preparing to take to thewater. 

Foremost among them is the young Creole, Dupre. He knows who the ladyis. Another lady has met him frantically, exclaiming--

"'Tis Helen! She has fallen, or _leaped_ overboard. "

The ambiguity of expression appears strange; indeed incomprehensible, toDupre, 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, thendropped down upon the water. I heard the plunge, but did not see herafter. She has gone to the bottom. Merciful heavens! O Helen! whereare you?"

The people are puzzled by these incoherent speeches--both the passengersabove, and the boatmen on the under-deck. They stand as if spell-bound. 

Fortunately, one of the former has retained presence of mind, and alongwith it coolness. It is the young planter, Dupre. He stays not for theend of her speech, but springing over the guards, swims towards the spotpointed out. 

"Brave fellow!" is the thought of Jessie Armstrong, admiration for herlover almost making her forget her sister's peril. 

She stands, as every one else upon the steamer, watching with earnesteyes. Hers are more; they are flashing with feverish excitement, withglances of anxiety--at times the fixed gaze of fear. 

No wonder at its being so. The moon has sunk to the level of thetree-tops, and the bosom of the river is in dark shadow; darker by thebank where the boat is now drifting. But little chance to distinguishan object in the water--less for one swimming upon its surface. And theriver is deep, its current rapid, the "reach" they are in, full ofdangerous eddies. In addition, it is a spot infested, as all know--thefavourite haunt of that hideous reptile the alligator, with theequally-dreaded gar-fish--the shark of the South-western rivers. Allthese 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 quicklyas could be done. It is rowed towards the spot, where the swimmer waslast seen; and all eyes are strained upon it--all ears listening tocatch any word of cheer. 

Not long have they to listen. From the shadowed surface comes theshout, "_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, "Haulin!"

A light, held high upon the steamer, flashes its beams down into, theboat. Lying along its thwarts can be perceived a female form, in adress once white, now discoloured and dripping. Her head is held up bya man, whose scant garments show similarly stained. 

It is Helen Armstrong, supported by Dupre. 

She appears lifeless, and the first sight of her draws anxiousexclamations from those standing on the steamer. Her sister gives outan 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 buta corpse!

But no! She breathes; her pulse beats; her lips move in low murmur; herbosom'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 andpassengers alike sharing it. 

With one alone remains a thought to sadden. It is Jessie: her heart issore 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 sleepsoundly--indeed scarce at all. 

His wakefulness is not due to remorse; there is no such sentiment in hissoul. 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 itsconsequences 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 manand 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, eredawn of the following day, Helen Armstrong will be starting upon ajourney which must take her away from the place, far, and for ever. 

The only consolation he draws from her departure is, that she, too, willbe reflecting spitefully and bitterly as himself. Because of Clancy nothaving kept his appointment with her; deeming the failure due to thefalsehood by himself fabricated--the story of the Creole girl. 

Withal, it affords him but scant solace. She will be alike gone fromhim, and he may never behold her again. Her beauty will never belong tohis rival; but neither can it be his, even though chance might take himto Texas, or by design he should proceed thither. To what end shouldhe? No more now can he build castles in the air, basing them on thepower of creditor over debtor. That bubble has burst, leaving him onlythe reflection, how illusory it has been. Although, for his nefariouspurpose, it has proved weak as a spider's web, it is not likely ColonelArmstrong will ever again submit himself to be so ensnared. Broken menbecome cautious, and shun taking credit a second time. 

And yet Richard Darke does not comprehend this. Blinded by passion, hecannot see any impossibility, and already thoughts of future proceedingsbegin to flit vaguely through his mind. They are too distant to bedwelt upon now. For this night he has enough to occupy heart andbrain--keeping both on the rack and stretch, so tensely as to renderprolonged sleep impossible. Only for a few seconds at a time does heknow the sweet unconsciousness of slumber; then, suddenly startingawake, to be again the prey of galling reflections. 

Turn to which side he will, rest his head on the pillow as he may, twosounds seem ever ringing in his ears--one, a woman's voice, that speaksthe denying word, "Never!"--the other, a dog's bark, which seemspersistently to say, "I demand vengeance for my murdered master!"

If, in the first night after his nefarious deed, fears and jealousfancies chase one another through the assassin's soul, on the second itis different. Jealousy has no longer a share in his thoughts, fearhaving full possession of them. And no trifling fear of some far offdanger, 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 towardshim, but given evidence, almost conclusive, of his guilt; as though thebarking of the dumb brute were words of truthful testimony, spoken in awitness-box!

The affair cannot, will not, be allowed to rest thus. The suspicions ofthe searchers will take a more definite shape, ending in accusation, ifnot in the actual deed of his arrest. He feels convinced of this. 

Therefore, on this second night, it is no common apprehension whichkeeps 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--afear of God; or, rather of the Devil. His soul is now disturbed by adread of the supernatural. He saw Charles Clancy stretched dead, underthe cypress--was sure of it, before parting from the spot. Returning toit, what beheld he?

To him, more than any other, is the missing body a mystery. It has beenperplexing, troubling him, throughout all the afternoon, even when hisblood was up, and nerves strung with excitement. Now, at night, in thedark, silent hours, as he dwells ponderingly upon it, it more thanperplexes, more than troubles--it awes, horrifies him. 

In vain he tries to compose himself, by shaping conjectures based onnatural causes. Even these could not much benefit him; for, whetherClancy be dead or still living--whether he has walked away from theground, or been carried from it a corpse--to him, Darke, the danger willbe almost equal. Not quite. Better, of course, if Clancy be dead, forthen there will be but circumstantial evidence against, and, surely, notsufficient to convict him?

Little suspects he, that in the same hour, while he is thus distractedlycogitating, men are weighing evidence he knows not of; or that, inanother hour, they will be on the march to make him their prisoner. 

For all his ignorance of it, he has a presentiment of danger, sprungfrom the consciousness of his crime. This, and no sentiment of remorse, or repentance, wrings from him the self-interrogation, several timesrepeated:--

"Why the devil did I do it?"

He regrets the deed, not because grieving at its guilt, but the positionit has placed him in--one of dread danger, with no advantage derived, nothing to compensate him for the crime. No wonder at his asking, inthe 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 thesleep 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 comescreeping through the window, he has never closed eye; or, if so, not inthe 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 thefloor. It is the soft blue light of a southern morn, which usuallyenters accompanied by bird music--the songs of the wild forest warblersmingling 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 merriercackle of the laying hen, with the still more cheerful note of herlord--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 hisear, as he lies listening. Noises which, breaking out abruptly, at onceput an end to the singing of the forest birds, and the calling of thefarm-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, ofvengeance!

At first they seem at some distance off, but evidently drawing nigh. 

Soon they are close up to the dwelling, their voices loudlyreverberating from its walls. 

The assassin cannot any longer keep to his couch. Too well knows hewhat the noise is, his guilty heart guessing it. 

Springing to his feet, he glides across the room, and approaches thewindow--cautiously, because in fear. 

His limbs tremble, as he draws the curtain and looks out. Then almostrefusing to support him: for, in the courtyard he sees a half-score ofarmed horsemen, and hears them angrily discoursing. One at their headhe knows to be the Sheriff of the county; beside him his Deputy, andbehind a brace of constables. In rear of these, two men he has reasonto believe will be his most resolute accusers. 

He has no time to discriminate; for, soon as entering the enclosure, thehorsemen dismount, and make towards the door of the dwelling. 

In less than sixty seconds after, they knock against that of hissleeping 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 itsoutlines--the stalwart figure of a Mississippi sheriff; who, as hestands upon the threshold, says, in firm voice, with tone of legalauthority:

"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 manyrods distant, lies awake, or, at least, loses more than half hiscustomary 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 shouldscarce 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 themilk of human kindness. 

On the night succeeding his spoilt coon-chase, he has slept soundenough, his mind being unburdened by the confession to Phoebe. Besides, he had then no certain knowledge that a murder had been committed, or ofany one being even killed. He only knew there were shots, and angrywords, resembling a fight between two men; one his young master; theother, as he supposed, Charles Clancy. True, the former, rushing pastin such headlong pace, seemed to prove that the affair had a tragicaltermination. 

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 soalarmed 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'swork, no one would suspect him of being the depository of a secret somomentous. He was always noted as the gayest of the working gang--hislaugh, the loudest, longest, and merriest, carried across the plantationfields; and on this particular day, it rings with its wontedcheerfulness. 

Only during the earlier hours. When, at mid-day, a report reaches theplace 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. Forall of them know young "Massr Clancy;" respecting, many of them lovinghim. He has been accustomed to meet them with pleasant looks, andaccost them in kindly words. 

The tidings produce a painful impression upon them; and from thatmoment, though their task has to be continued, there is no morecheerfulness in the cotton field. Even their conversation is hushed, orcarried on in a subdued tone; the hoes being alone heard, as their steelblades clink against an occasional "donick. "

But while his fellow-labourers are silent through sorrow, Blue Bill isspeechless from another and different cause. They only hear that youngMassr Clancy has been killed--murdered, as the report says--while heknows how, when, where, and _by whom_. The knowledge gives him doubleuneasiness; for while sorrowing as much, perhaps more than any, forCharles Clancy's death, he has fears for his own life, with good reasonsfor having them. 

If by any sinister chance Massr Dick should get acquainted with the factof his having been witness to that rapid retreat among the trees, he, Blue Bill, would be speedily put where his tongue could never givetestimony. 

In full consciousness of his danger, he determines not to commit himselfby any voluntary avowal of what he has seen and heard; but to bury thesecret in his own breast, as also insist on its being so interred withinthe bosom of his better half. 

This day, Phoebe is not in the field along with the working gang; whichcauses him some anxiety. The coon-hunter can trust his wife'saffections, but is not so confident as to her prudence. She may saysomething in the "quarter" to compromise him. A word--the slightesthint of what has happened--may lead to his being questioned, andconfessed; with torture, if the truth be suspected. 

No wonder that during the rest of the day Blue Bill wears an air ofabstraction, and hoes the tobacco plants with a careless hand, oftenchopping off the leaves. Fortunately for him, his fellow-workers arenot in a mood to observe these vagaries, or make inquiry as to thecause. 

He is rejoiced, when the boom of the evening bell summons them back tothe "big house. "

Once more in the midst of his piccaninnies, with Phoebe by his side, heimparts to her a renewed caution, to "keep dark on dat ere seeroussubjeck. "

At supper, the two talk over the events of the day--Phoebe being thenarrator. She tells him of all that has happened--of the search, andsuch incidents connected with it as have reached the plantation of theDarkes; how both the old and young master took part in it, since havingreturned 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 bothfrom sleeping. Neither gets so much as a wink. 

As morning dawns, they are startled by strange noises in the negroquarter. These are not the usual sounds consequent on the uprising oftheir 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 ofcalamity. 

When the coon-hunter draws--back his door, and looks forth, he seesthere is commotion outside; and is soon told its cause. One of hisfellow-bondsmen, coming forward, says:--

"Massr Dick am arrested by de sheriff. Dey've tuk 'im for de murder obMassr 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, andconducted 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 nolonger so much reezun for us to hab fear. I see Sime Woodley mong demen; and dis nigger know dat he'll gub me his purtecshun, whatsomever Ido. 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 nowaysmealy-moufed 'bout it. "

"My views is den, for de tellin' ob de troof. Ole Eph Darke may flog ustill dar ain't a bit o' skin left upon our bare backs. I'll take myshare 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. Ifneed be, we'll boaf die togedder. "

And their two black faces come in contact, as also their bosoms; bothbeating 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 aplace of less note; the Court-house town of the county, within thelimits of which lie the Darke and Armstrong plantations. He is thereconsigned to the custody of Joe Harkness, jailer. 

But few, who assisted at the arrest, accompany him to the place ofimprisonment; only the Deputy, and the brace of constables. 

The sheriff himself, with the others, does not leave Ephraim Darke'spremises, till after having given them a thorough examination, in questof evidence against the accused. 

This duty done, without regard to the sensibilities of the owner, whofollows them from room to room, now childishly crying--now franticallycursing. 

Alike disregarded are his tears and oaths. 

The searchers have no sympathy for him in his hour of affliction. Someeven secretly rejoice at it. 

Ephraim Darke is not a Southerner, _pur sang_; and, though without theslightest taint of abolitionism--indeed the very opposite--he has alwaysbeen unpopular in the neighbourhood; alike detested by planter and "poorwhite. " Many of both have been his debtors, and felt his iron hand overthem, just as Archibald Armstrong. 

Besides, some of these now around his house were present two days beforeupon Armstrong's plantation; saw his establishment broken up, his goodsand chattels confiscated, his home made desolate. 

Knowing by whom all this was done, with ill-concealed satisfaction, theynow behold the _arcana_ of Ephraim Darke's dwelling exposed to publicgaze; himself humiliated, far more than the man he made homeless. 

With no more ceremony than was shown in making the arrest, do thesheriff and party explore the paternal mansion of him arrested, rudelyransacking it from cellar to garret; the outbuildings as well, even tothe grounds and garden. 

Their search is but poorly rewarded. All they get, likely to throwlight 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 isno blood; but while they are looking for it, something comes under theireyes, almost equally significant of strife. 

Through the coat-skirt is a hole, ragged, and recently made. Severalpronounce it a bullet-hole; further declaring the ball to have beendischarged from a rifle. 

For certain, a singular discovery!

But like all the others that have been made, only serving to perplexthem. 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 firedfrom both sides. The question is, "has it been a fair one?"

To negative this, a bit of adjunct evidence is adduced, which goesagainst the accused. The coat, with the perforated skirt, is _not_ theone 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 nothome. Ephraim Darke's domestics, on being sternly interrogated, andaside, disclose this fact; unaware how greatly their master may desirethem to keep it concealed. 

Still, it is not much. A man might have many reasons for changing hiscoat, especially for the dress of two different days. It would benothing, but for the conjoint circumstance of the shot through theskirt. This makes it significant. 

Another item of intelligence, of still more suspicious nature, is gotout of the domestics, whose stern questioners give them no chance toprevaricate. Indeed, terrified, they do not try. 

Their young "Massr Dick" had on a different pair of boots the day hewent out hunting, from those worn by him, when, yesterday, he wentsearching. 

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 oneis in the side-pocket of Sime Woodley's surtout, the other having a likelodgment in that of Ned Heywood. 

The two hunters, "prospecting" apart, found the boots thickly coatedwith mud, concealed under a brush pile, at the bottom of the peachorchard. Even the sheriff does not know what bulges out the coat-skirtsof the two backwoodsmen. 

Nor is he told there or then. Sime has an object in keeping that secretto himself and his companion; he will only reveal it, when the timecomes to make it more available. 

The affair of the arrest and subsequent action over, the sheriff and hisparty retire from the plantation of Ephraim Darke, leaving its owner ina state of frenzied bewilderment. 

They go direct to Mrs Clancy's cottage; not to stay there, but as astarting point, to resume the search for the body of her son, adjournedsince yester-eve. 

They do not tell her of Dick Darke's arrest. She is inside herchamber--on her couch--so prostrated by the calamity already known toher, they fear referring to it. 

The doctor in attendance tells them, that any further revelationconcerning the sad event may prove fatal to her. 

Again her neighbours, now in greater number, go off to the woods, someafoot, others on horseback. As on the day preceding, they divide intodifferent parties, and scatter in diverse directions. Though not tillafter all have revisited the ensanguined spot under the cypress, andrenewed 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" thesmooth-bore bullet, is also examined, its position noted. Attempts aremade 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 itselfgive the interpretation. 

A few linger around the place, now tracked and trodden hard by theirgoing and coming feet. The larger number proceeds upon the search, inscattered parties of six or eight each, carrying it for as many milesaround. 

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 mightbe carried for concealment. In its dim recesses they discover no body, living or dead, no trace of human being, nought save the solitude-lovingheron, the snake-bird, and scaly alligator. 

On this second day's quest they observe nothing new, either to throwadditional light on the commission of the crime, or assist them inrecovering the corpse. 

It is but an unsatisfactory report to take back to the mother of themissing man. Perhaps better for her she should never receive it?

And she never does. Before it can reach her ear, this is beyond hearingsound. The thunder of heaven could not awake Mrs Clancy from the sleepinto which she has fallen. For it is no momentary unconsciousness, butthe 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 accumulatedtrials have proved too much for her woman's strength, of late fastfailing. 

When, at evening hour, the searchers, on their return, approach thedesolated dwelling, they hear sounds within that speak of some terribledisaster. 

On the night before their ears were saluted by the same, though in tonessomewhat 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 outupon the porch, and, raising her hand in token of attention, says, insad 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 assembledbackwoodsmen 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 thoughtsturn towards Dick Darke, and become fixed upon him. 

As the announcement of Mrs Clancy's death makes complete the events ofthe 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 peoplewhose hearts beat true to the better instincts of humanity. It is onlyin Old world countries, under tyrannical rule, where these have beencrushed out, that such selfishness can prevail. 

Nothing of this around Natchez--not a spark of it in the breasts ofthose 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, aslice of his land, to restore her to life, or bring back that of herson. 

Neither being now possible, they can only show their sympathy by thepunishment of him who has caused the double desolation. 

It still needs to know who. After all, it may not be the man arrestedand arraigned, though most think it is. But, to be fully convinced, further evidence is wanted; as also a more careful sifting of thatalready obtained. 

As on the night before, a council is convened, the place being the bitof green sward, that, lawn-like, extends from the cottage front to therail fence of the road. But now the number taking part in it isdifferent. Instead of a half-score, there is nearer a half hundred. The news of the second death has been spreading meanwhile, and the addedsympathy 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 thecase; state such incidents and events as are known; recall allcircumstances that can be remembered; and inquire into their connectionwith motives. 

It is, in short, a jury, _standing_, not _sitting_, on the trial of acriminal case; and, with still greater difference between them and theordinary "twelve good men and true, " in that, unlike these, they are notmere dummies, with a strong inclination to accept the blandishments ofthe barrister, or give way to the rulings of the judge, too often wrong. On the contrary, men who, in themselves, combine the functions of allthree--judge, jury, and counsel--with this triple power, inspired by acorresponding determination to arrive at the truth. 

In short it is the court of "Justice Lynch" in session. Everycircumstance which has a possible bearing on the case, or can throwlight into its dark ambiguity, is called up and considered. Thebehaviour of the accused himself, coupled with that of the hound, arethe strongest points yet appearing against him. Though not the onlyones. The bullet extracted from the cypress knee, has been tried in thebarrel 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 morethan that it came out of a rifle. Every backwoodsman among them cantestify to this. 

A minor point against the accused man is, his having changed his clotheson the two succeeding days; though one stronger and more significant, isthe 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 hasjust expressed surprise at this. 

The old hunter has been hitherto holding back; not from any want of willto assist the lynch jury in their investigation, but because, onlylately arrived, he has scarce yet entered into the spirit of theirproceedings. 

His grief, on getting the news of Mrs Clancy's death, for a time holdshim in restraint. It is a fresh sorrow; since, not only had her sonbeen long his friend, but in like manner her husband and herself. 

In loyal memory of this friendship, he has been making every effort tobring the murderer to justice; and one just ended accounts for his latearrival at the cottage. As on the day before, he and Heywood haveremained behind the other searchers; staying in the woods till all thesereturned home. Yesterday they were detained by an affair of _bullets_--to-day it is _boots_. The same that are missing, and about whichquestions 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 upbefore their eyes; Heywood simultaneously exposing another--its fellow!

"That's the fut wear ye're in sarch o', I reck'n, " pursues Woodley. "'Tall eevents it's a pair o' boots belongin' to Dick Darke, an' war wornby him the day afore yesterday. What's more, they left thar marks downon the swamp mud, not a hunderd mile from the spot whar poor CharleyClancy hez got his death shot; an' them tracks war made not a hundredminnits from the time he got it. Now boys! what d'ye think o' thething?"

"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 yurfaces, 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 courto' Judge Lynch, or any other. "

"Well then, Woodley!" says a planter of respectability, who by tacitconsent is representing the stern terrible judge spoken of. "Supposethe 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 againstthe accused, in his statement of facts, as the deductions he draws fromthem. For the hunter has long since decided within himself, as to whokilled Clancy. 

Heywood follows him in like manner, though with no new matter. Histestimony but corroborates that of his elder confrere. 

Taken together, or separately, it makes profound impression on thejurors of Judge Lynch; almost influencing them to pronounce an instantverdict, 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 themantel strikes twelve, midnight; of late, not oft a merry hour in thecottage of the Clancys; but this night more than ever sad. 

Its striking seems the announcement of a crisis. For a time it silencesthe 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 thedeliberations. It sounds as though coming up from the road gate. 

"Mass Woodley in da?" are the words spoken interrogatively; the questionaddressed 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 thewicket. 

"Sartinly, " says the hunter, separating from the others, and stridingoff towards the entrance. 

"I reck'n I know that voice, " he adds, on drawing near the gate. "It'sBlue Bill, ain't it?"

"Hush, Mass' Woodley! For Goramity's sake doan peak out ma name. Notfo' all de worl let dem people hear it. Ef dey do, dis nigger am a deadman, shoo. "

"Darn it, Bill; what's the matter? Why d'ye talk so mysteerous? Isthar anythin' wrong? Oh! now I think o't, you're out arter time. Nevermind '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 someob dem folk see me. Les' go little way from de house, into de woodgroun' ober yonner; den I tell you wha fotch me out. Dis nigger habsometing say to you, someting berry patickler. Yes, Mass Woodley, berrypatickler. 'Tarn a matter ob life an' def. "

Sime does not stay to hear more; but, lifting the latch, quietly pushesopen 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 somebushes that form a strip of thicket running along the roadside. 

"Now, what air it?" asks Woodley of the coon-hunter, with whom he iswell 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' tofind 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 cleanbress ob de seecret. De ole ooman neider. No, Mass Woodley, Phoebe sheno let me ress till I do dat same. She say it am de duty ob a Christyunman, an', as ye know, we boaf b'long to de Methodies. Darfore, I nowtell 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 detroof. "

"But what proof have ye?"

"Proof! I moas seed it wif ma own eyes. If I didn't see, I heerd itwif 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'nectedwif de case. "

In ten minutes after, Simeon Woodley is made acquainted with everythingthe coon-hunter knows; the latter having given him full details of allthat occurred on that occasion when his coon-chase was brought to suchan unsatisfactory termination. 

To the backwoodsman it brings no surprise. He has already arrived at afixed 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 itup, 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 oleEph'm Darke hear wha dis nigger's been, an' gone, an' dud, de life obBlue Bill wuldn't be wuth a ole coon-skin--no; not so much as acorn-shuck. I'se get de cowhide ebbery hour ob de day, and de nighttoo. 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 knowon'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 weshan't wan't no more testymony, as thar ain't like to be anycrosskwestenin' lawyers in this case. Now; d'you slip back to yurquarters, and gi'e yurself no furrer consarn. I'll see you don't gitinto any trouble. May I be damned ef ye do!"

With this emphatic promise, the old bear-hunter separates from the lesspretentious votary of the chase; as he does so giving the latter asqueeze of the hand, which tells him he may go back in confidence to thenegro quarter, and sit, or sleep, by the side of his Phoebe, withoutfear. 

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 theverdict. All know it will be "Guilty, " given unanimously. Woodley'stemporary absence will not affect it. Neither the longer time allowedthem 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 isherself stricken down. This, acting as a fresh stimulus to sympathy, brings back such of the searchers as had gone home; many starting frombeds to which they had betaken themselves after the day's fatigue. 

It is past midnight, and the crowd collected around the cottage isgreater than ever. As one after another arrives upon the ground theystep across the threshold, enter the chamber of death, and look upon thecorpse, whose pale face seems to make mute appeal to them for justice. After gazing on it for an instant, their anger with difficulty subduedin the solemn presence of death, each comes out muttering a resolvethere shall be both justice and vengeance, many loudly vociferating itwith the added emphasis of an oath. 

It does not need what Simeon Woodley has in store to incite them toaction. 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, andhear what the hunter may have to say. They take it, he has been calledfrom them on some matter connected with the subject under consideration. At such a time who would dare interrupt their deliberations for anytrivial purpose? Although none of them has recognised Blue Bill'svoice, they know it to have been that of a negro. This, however, is noreason why he should not have made some communication likely to thrownew light on the affair. So, on Woodley's return, once more gatheringaround him, they demand to hear what it is. 

He tells all that has been imparted to him; but without making known thename of his informant, or in any way compromising the brave fellow witha black skin, who has risked life itself by making disclosure of thetruth. 

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 thecircumstances communicated by the coon-hunter, "has guv me the letterdropped by Dick Darke; which, as I've tolt, ye, he picked up. Here airthe 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 declaringthat. One now cries out--

"What need to talk any more? Charley Clancy's been killed--he's beenmurdered. An' Dick Darke's the man that did it!"

It is not from any lack of convincing evidence, but rather a feeling ofcuriosity, that prompts them to call for the reading of the letter, which the hunter now holds conspicuously in his hand. Its contents mayhave no bearing upon the case. Still it can be no harm to know whatthey are. 

"You read it, Henry Spence! You're a scholart, an' I ain't, " saysWoodley, handing the letter over to a young fellow of learned look--theschoolmaster of the settlement. 

Spence, stepping close up to the porch--into which some one has carrieda candle--and holding the letter before the light, first reads thesuperscription, 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 ofsurprise. 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 JusticeLynch; "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, showingthe portrait of a young lady, recognised by all as a likeness of HelenArmstrong, there is a fresh outburst of exclamations which betokenincreased surprise; this stronger still, after Spence reads out theinscript upon the picture:

"Helen Armstrong--for him she loves. "

The letter is addressed to Charles Clancy; to him the photograph musthave been sent. A love-affair between Miss Armstrong and the man whohas been murdered! A new revelation to all--startling, as pertinent tothe case. --

"Go on, Spence! Give us the contents of the letter!" demands animpatient voice. 

"Yes, give them!" adds another. "I reckon we're on the right tracknow. "

The epistle is taken out of the envelope. The schoolmaster, unfoldingit, reads aloud:--

"Dear Charles, --

"When we last met under the magnolia, you asked me a question. I toldyou I would answer it in writing. I now keep my promise, and you willfind the answer underneath my own very imperfect image, which I herewithsend in closed. Papa has finally fixed the day of our departure fromthe 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 willdepend upon--need I say whom? After reading what I have written uponthe _carte_, surely you can guess. There, I have confessed all--allwoman can, could, or should. In six little words I have made over toyou my heart. Accept them as its surrender!

"And now, Charles, to speak of things prosaic, as in this hard world weare too oft constrained to do. On Tuesday morning--at a very earlyhour, I believe--a boat will leave Natchez, bound up the Red River. Upon it we travel, as far as Natchitoches. There to remain for sometime, while papa is completing preparations for our farther transportinto Texas, I am not certain what part of the `Lone Star' State he willselect for our future home. He speaks of a place upon some branch ofthe Colorado River, said to be a beautiful country; which, you, havingbeen out there, will know all about. In any case, we are to remain fora time, a month or more, in Nachitoches; and there, _Carlos mio_, I neednot tell you, there is a post-office for receiving letters, as also fordelivering them. Mind, I say for _delivering_ them! Before we leavefor the far frontier, where there may be neither post-office nor post, Ishall write you full particulars about our intended `location'--withdirections how to reach it. Need I be very minute? Or can I promisemyself, 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, yourswill not be so: else you may fail in finding the way to your sweetheartin the wilderness. 

"How I go on talking, or rather writing, things I intended to say to youat our next meeting tinder the magnolia--our magnolia! Sad thoughtthis, tagged to a pleasant expectation: for it must be our lastinterview under the dear old tree. Our last anywhere, until we cometogether again in Texas--perhaps on some prairie where there are notrees. Well; we shall then meet, I hope, never more to part; and in theopen daylight, with no need either of night, or tree-shadows to concealus. I'm sure father, humbled as he now is, will no longer object. DearCharles, I don't think he would have done so at any time, but for hisreverses. They made him think of--never mind what. I shall tell youall 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? Ishall be gone--long before the wild-wood songsters are singing their`_reveille_' to awake you. Jule will drop this into our treepost-office this evening--Saturday. As you've told me you go thereevery day, you'll be sure of getting it in time; and once more I maylisten to your flattery, as when you quoted the words of the old song, making me promise to come, saying you would `show the night flowerstheir queen. '

"Ah! Charles, how easy to keep that promise! How sweet the flatterywas, is, and ever will be, to yours, --

"Helen Armstrong. "

"And that letter was found on Dick Darke?" questions a voice, as soon asthe reading has come to an end. 

"It war dropped by him, " answers Woodley; "and tharfor ye may say it warfound 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 itmyself wi' my own eyes. For all that, I've had proof clar enough toconvince me; an' I'm reddy to stan' at the back o' it. "

"Damn the letter!" exclaims one of the impatient ones, who has alreadyspoken in similar strain; "the picture, too! Don't mistake me, boys. Iain't referrin' eyther to the young lady as wrote it, nor him she wroteto. I only mean that neither letter nor picture are needed to provewhat we're all wantin' to know, an' do know. They arn't nor warn'treequired. To my mind, from the fust go off, nothin' ked be clarer thanthat 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 manon the ground who can't call out the murderer?"

The interrogatory is answered by a unanimous negative, followed by thename, "Dick Darke. "

And along with the answer commences a movement throughout the crowd. Ascattering with threats heard--some muttered, some spoken aloud--whilemen are observed looking to their guns, and striding towards theirhorses; as they do so, saying sternly, --

"To the jail!"

In ten minutes after both men and horses are in motion moving along theroad 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 seethat approaching cavalcade, hear the conversation of those who composeit, 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 ofLouisiana--stands the town of Natchitoches. The name is Indian, andpronounced as if written "Nak-e-tosh. " Though never a populous place, it is one of peculiar interest, historically and ethnologically. Datingfrom the earliest days of French and Spanish colonisation, on the LowerMississippi, it has at different periods been in possession of boththese nations; finally falling to the United States, at the transfer ofthe Louisiana territory by Napoleon Bonaparte. Hence, around itshistory is woven much of romantic interest; while from the same causeits population, composed of many various nationalities, with theirdistinctive physical types and idiosyncracies of custom, offers to theeye of the stranger a picturesqueness unknown to northern towns. Placedon a projecting bluff of the river's bank, its painted wooden houses, ofFrench Creole fashion, with "piazzas" and high-pitched roofs, itstrottoirs brick-paved, and shaded by trees of sub-tropical foliage--among them the odoriferous magnolia, and _melia azedarach_, or "Pride ofChina, "--these, in places, completely arcading the street--Natchitocheshas the orthodox aspect of a _rus in urbe_, or _urbs in rure_, whicheverway you wish it. 

Its porticoes, entwined with parasites, here and there show stretches oftrellis, along which meander the cord-like tendrils of bignonias, aristolochias, and orchids, the flowers of which, drooping over windowsand doorways, shut out the too garish sunlight, while filling the airwith fragrance. Among these whirr tiny humming birds, buzz humble beesalmost as big, while butterflies bigger than either lazily flout andflap about on soft, silent wing. 

Such sights greet you at every turning as you make promenade through thestreets of Natchitoches. 

And there are others equally gratifying. Within these same trellisedverandahs, you may observe young girls of graceful mien, elegantlyapparelled, lounging on cane rocking-chairs, or perhaps peering coylythrough the half-closed jalousies, their eyes invariably dark brown orcoal black, the marble forehead above surmounted with a chevelure in hueresembling the plumage of the raven. For most of these demoiselles aredescended from the old colonists of the two Latinic races; not a fewwith some admixture of African, or Indian. The flaxen hair, blue eyes, and blonde complexion of the Northland are only exceptional appearancesin the town of Natchitoches. 

Meet these same young ladies in the street, it is the custom, and _commeil faut_, to take off your hat, and make a bow. Every man who claims tobe a gentleman does this deference; while every woman, with a whiteskin, expects it. On whichever side the privilege may be supposed tolie, it is certainly denied to none. The humblest shop clerk orartisan--even the dray-driver--may thus make obeisance to the proudestand daintiest damsel who treads the trottoirs of Natchitoches. It givesno right of converse, nor the slightest claim to acquaintanceship. Amere formality of politeness; and to presume carrying it further wouldnot only be deemed a rudeness, but instantly, perhaps very seriously, resented. 

Such is the polished town to which the Belle of Natchez has broughtColonel Armstrong, with his belongings, and from which he intends takingfinal departure for Texas. The "Lone Star State" lies a little beyond--the Sabine River forming the boundary line. But from earliest time ofTexan settlement on the north-eastern side, Natchitoches has been theplace of ultimate outfit and departure. 

Here the ex-Mississippian planter has made halt, and purposes to remainfor a much longer time than originally intended. For a far granderscheme of migration, than that he started out with, is now in his mind. Born upon the Belle of Natchez, it has been gradually developing itselfduring the remainder of the voyage, and is now complete--at least as togeneral design. 

It has not originated with Archibald Armstrong himself, but one, whom heis soon to call son-in-law. The young Creole, Dupre, entranced withlove, has nevertheless not permitted its delirium to destroy all ideasof other kind. Rather has it re-inspired him with one alreadyconceived, but which, for some time, has been in abeyance. He, too, hasbeen casting thoughts towards Texas, with a view to migrating thither. Of late travelling in Europe--more particularly in France--with some ofwhose noblest families he holds relationship, he has there been smittenwith a grand idea, dictated by a spirit of ambition. In Louisiana he isonly a planter among planters and though a rich one, is still notsatisfied, either with the number of his negroes, or the area of hisacres. In Texas, where land is comparatively low priced, he hasconceived a project of colonisation, on an extended scale--in short, thefounding a sort of Transatlantic _seigneurie_. For some months has thisambitious dream been brooding in his brain; and now, meeting theMississippian planter aboard the boat and learning the latter'sintentions, this, and the more tender _liens_ late established between, them, have determined Louis Dupre to make his dream a reality, andbecome one of the migrating party. He will sell his Louisiana housesand lands, but not his slaves. These can be taken to Texas. 

Scarce necessary to say, that, on thus declaring himself, he becomes thereal chief of the proposed settlement. Whether showing conspicuously infront, or remaining obscurely in the rear, the capitalist controls all;and Dupre is this. 

Still, though virtually the controlling spirit, apparently the powerremains in the hands of Colonel Armstrong. The young Creole wishes itto appear so. He has no jealousy of him, who is soon to be his secondfather. Besides, there is another and substantial reason why ColonelArmstrong should assume the chieftainship of the purposed expedition. Though reduced in circumstances, the ex-Mississippian planter is held inhigh respect. His character commands it; while his name, knownthroughout all the South-west, will be sure to draw around, and rallyunder his standard, some of those strong stalwart men of the backwoods, equally apt with axe and rifle, without whom no settlement on the farfrontier 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 gotat government prices, and where they intend to purchase it not by theacre, but in square miles--in leagues. 

Such is Dupre's design, easy of execution with the capital he cancommand after disposing of his Red River plantation. 

And within a week after his arrival in Natchitoches, he has disposed ofit; signed the deed of delivery, and received the money. An immensesum, notwithstanding the sacrifice of a sale requiring quick despatch. On the transfer being completed, the Creole holds in hand a cash capitalof $200, 000; in those days sufficient not only for the purchase of alarge tract of territory, but enough to make the dream of a seignorialestate appear a possible reality. 

Not much of the future is he reflecting upon now. If, at times, he casta chance thought towards it, it may be to picture to himself how hisblonde beauty will look as lady _suzeraine_--_chatelaine_ of the castleto be erected in Texas. 

In his fancy, no doubt, he figures her as the handsomest creature thatever carried keys at her belt. 

If these fancies of the future are sweet, the facts of the present areeven more so. Daring their sojourn in Natchitoches the life of LouisDupre and Jessie Armstrong is almost a continuous chapter of amorousconverse and dalliance; left hands mutually clasped, right ones aroundwaists, or playing with curls and tresses; lips at intervals meeting ina 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 youngerdaughter, to the elder they are drear and dark. No love lights up thepath of _her_ life, no sun shines upon it; nothing save shadow andclouds. 

More than a week has elapsed since their arrival in Natchitoches, andfor much of this time has she been left alone. Love, reputed a generouspassion, is of all the most selfish. Kind to its own chosen, to othersit can be cruel; often is, when the open exhibition of its fervid zealrecalls 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 triesto comfort her, by words such as she has already spoken, beseeching herto forget--to pluck the poison from out her heart. 

Easy to counsel thus, for one in whose heart there is no poison; insteada honeyed sweetness, almost seraphic. She, who this enjoys can illunderstand the opposite; and, Jessie, benighted with her own bliss, gives less thought to the unhappiness of Helen. Even less than shemight, were it more known to her. For the proud elder sister keeps hersorrow to herself, eschewing sympathy, and scarce ever recurring to thepast. On her side the younger rarely refers to it. She knows it wouldcause pain. Though once a reference to it has given pleasure toherself; when Helen explained to her the mystery of that midnight plungeinto the river. This, shortly after its occurrence; soon as she herselfcame to a clear comprehension of it. It was no mystery after all. Theface seen among the cypress tops was but the fancy of an overwroughtbrain; 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 ofself-destruction. She is further comforted by the reflection, thatHelen has no need to repine, and the hope it may not be for long. Someother and truer lover will replace the lost false one, and she will soonforget his falsehood. So reasons the happy heart. Indeed, judging bywhat 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. Thereare planters, lawyers, members of the State Assembly--one of the GeneralCongress--and military men, young officers stationed at Fort Jessup, higher up the river; who, forsaking the lonely post, occasionally comedown on a day's furlough to enjoy the delights of town life, and dip alittle 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 thebilliard table. 

Some of them too much for their safety, since already two or three duelshave 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 thecontrary, she has met their approaches if not frowningly, at least withdenying indifference. All suspect there is _un ver_--_rongeur_--a wormeating at her heart; that she suffers from a passion of the past. Thisdoes not dismay her Natchitoches adorers, nor hinder them fromcontinuing their adoration. On the contrary it deepens it; herindifference only attracting them, her very coldness setting their hotsouthern hearts aflame, maddening them all the more. 

She is not unconscious of the admiration thus excited. If she were, shewould not be woman. But also, because being a true woman, she has nocare for, and does not accept it. Instead of oft showing herself insociety to receive homage and hear flattering speeches, she stays almostconstantly 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'scompany; having to content herself with that of her mulatto maid. 

A companion who can well sympathise; for Jule, like herself, has acanker at the heart. The "yellow girl" on leaving Mississippi State hasalso left a lover behind. True, not one who has proved false--far fromit. But one who every day, every hour of his life, is in danger oflosing it. Jupe she supposes to be still safe, within the recesses ofthe cypress swamp, but cannot tell how long his security may continue. If taken, she may never see him more, and can only think of hisreceiving some terrible chastisement. But she is sustained by thereflection, that her Jupiter is a brave fellow, and crafty ascourageous; by the hope he will yet get away from that horridhiding-place, and rejoin her, in a land where the dogs of Dick Darke canno 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 fromdespairing. 

She is almost as much alarmed about her young mistress whom she seesgrieving, 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 thewench can read; and made the messenger of that correspondence carried onclandestinely, strange, if, herself a woman, she should not surmise manythings beyond what could be gleaned from the superscription on theexchanged epistles. 

She has surmised; but, like her mistress, something wide away from thereality. No wonder at her being surprised at what she sees in a Natcheznewspaper--brought to the hotel from a boat just arrived atNatchitoches--something concerning Charles Clancy, very different fromthat suspected of him. She stays not to consider what impression it mayproduce on the mind of the young lady. Unpleasant no doubt; but awoman's instinct whispers the maid, it will not be worse than the agonyher mistress is now enduring. 

Entering the chamber, where the latter is alone, she places the paper inher hands, saying: "Missy Helen, here's a newspaper from Natchez, brought by a boat just arrived. There's something in it, I think, willbe 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 searchesthrough its columns. 

At the same time her eyes glow, burn, almost blaze, with a wildunnatural light--an expression telling of jealousy roused, rekindled, ina last spurt of desperation. Among the marriage notices she expects tosee that of Charles Clancy with a Creole girl, whose name is unknown toher. It will be the latest chapter, climax and culminating point, ofhis perfidy!

Who could describe the sudden revulsion of thought; what pen depict thehorror that sweeps through her soul; or pencil portray the expression ofher countenance, as, with eyes glaring aghast, she rests them on a largetype 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. Herbosom late burning with indignant jealousy, is now the prey of a verydifferent passion. 

Letting the paper fall to the floor, she sinks back into her chair, herheart audibly beating--threatening to beat no more. 

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. 

SPECTRES IN THE STREET. 

Colonel Armstrong is staying at the "Planters' House, " the chief hotelin 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 everyway comfortable; and what it may lack in architectural style is made upin natural adornment; a fine effect, produced by trees surrounding ando'ershading it. 

A hotel of the true Southern States type: weather-board walls, paintedchalk-white, with green Venetian shutters to the windows; a raisedverandah--the "piazza"--running all around it; a portion of this usuallyoccupied by gentlemen in white linen coats, sky-blue "cottonade" pants, and Panama hats, who drink mint-juleps all day long; while anotherportion, furnished with cane rocking-chairs, presents a certain air ofexclusiveness, which tells of its being tabooed to the sterner sex, ormore particularly meant for ladies. 

A pleasant snuggery this, giving a good view of the street, while itsprivacy is secured by a trellis, which extends between the supportingpillars, clustered with Virginia creepers and other plants trained tosuch service. A row of grand magnolias stands along the brick banquettein front, their broad glabrous leaves effectually fending off the sun;while at the ladies' end two large Persian lilacs, rivalling theindigenous tree both in the beauty of their leaves and the fragrance oftheir flowers, waft delicious odours into the windows of the chambersadjacent, ever open. 

Orange-trees grow contiguous, and so close to the verandah rail, thatone leaning over may pluck either their ripe golden globes, or whitewax-like blossoms in all stages of expansion; these beautiful evergreensbearing fruit and flower at the same time. 

A pleasant place at all hours this open air boudoir; and none moreenjoyable than at night, just after sunset. For then the hot atmospherehas cooled down, and the soft southern breeze coming up from the bosomof the river, stirs the leaves of the lilacs into gentle rustling, andshakes their flower-spikes, scattering sweet incense around. Then thelight from street lamps and house windows, gleaming through the foliage, mingles with that of the fire-flies crossing and scintillating likesparks in a pyrotechnic display. Then the tree-crickets have commencedtheir continuous trill, a sound by no means disagreeable; if it were, there is compensation in the song of the mock-bird, that, perched uponthe top of some tall tree, makes the night cheerful with itsever-changing notes. Sometimes there are other sounds in this shadyretreat, still more congenial to the ears of those who hear them. Oftis it tenanted by dark-eyed demoiselles, and their Creole cavaliers, whoconverse in the low whisperings of love, to them far sweeter than songof thrush, or note of nightingale--words speaking the surrender of aheart, 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 fromstreet lamps and open casements, from moonbeams shining through thelilac leaves, from fire-flies hovering and shooting about, it can beseen 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 othersof 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 onthe business of their colonising scheme. About this everything has beenarranged, even to selection of the place. A Texan land speculator, whoholds a large "grant" upon the San Saba river, opportunely chances to bein Natchitoches at the time. It is a tract of territory surrounding, and formerly belonging to, an old mission by the monks, long agoabandoned. Dupre has purchased it; and all now remaining to be done isto complete the make-up of the migrating party, and start off to takepossession. 

Busied with these preparations, the young Creole, and his futurefather-in-law, are out to a later hour than usual, which accounts forthe ladies being left alone. Otherwise, one, at least, would not belong left to herself. If within the hotel, Dupre would certainly be bythe side of his Jessie. 

The girls are together, standing by the baluster rail, with eyes bentupon the street. They have been conversing, but have ceased. As usual, the younger has been trying to cheer the elder, still sad, though nowfrom a far different cause. The pain at her heart is no longer that ofjealousy, but pure grief, with an admixture of remorse. The Natcheznewspaper has caused this change; what she read there, clearing Clancyof all treason, leaving herself guilty for having suspected him. 

But, oh! such an _eclaircissement_! Obtained at the expense of a lifedear to her as her own--dearer now she knows he is dead!

The newspaper has furnished but a meagre account of the murder. Itbears date but two days subsequent, and must have been issued subsequentto 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 bemurdered; by name, Charles Clancy. That search is being made for hisbody, not yet found. That the son of a well-known planter, EphraimDarke, himself called Richard, has been arrested on suspicion, andlodged in the county jail; and, just as the paper is going to press, ithas received the additional intelligence, that the mother of themurdered man has succumbed to the shock, and followed her unfortunateson to the "bourne from which no traveller returns. "

The report is in the flowery phraseology usually indulged, in by thesouth-western journals. It is accompanied by comments and conjecturesas to the motive of the crime. Among these Helen Armstrong has read herown name, with the contents of that letter addressed to Clancy, butproved to have been in the possession of Darke. Though given only inepitome--for the editor confesses not to have seen the epistle, but onlyhad account of it from him who furnished the report--still to HelenArmstrong is the thing painfully compromising. All the world will nowknow the relations that existed between her and Charles Clancy. Whatwould 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 butbring him to life again, she would laugh the world to scorn, brave thefrowns of her father, to prove herself a true woman by becoming the wifeof 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 theirpainfulness, 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 themalone. 

Jessie remains with hands rested on the rail, gazing down into thestreet. She is looking for her Luis, who should now soon be returningto 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 afeeling of fear, or rather repulsion. A man of large stature is seenloitering under the shadow of a tree, and looking at her as though hewould devour her. Even in his figure there is an expression of sinisterand slouching brutality. Still more on his face, visible by the lightof a lamp which beams over the entrance door of the hotel. The younggirl does not stay to scrutinise it; but shrinking back, cowers by theside of her sister. 

"What's the matter, Jess?" asks Helen, observing her frayed aspect, andin 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, uglyenough to frighten any one. I've met him several times when outwalking, 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 astrange way. And such horrid eyes! They're hollow, gowlish like analligator's. I'd half a mind to tell father, or Luis, about it; but Iknow Luis would go wild, and want to kill the big brute. I saw him justnow, 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 therail, 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 Jessiehas spoken; he is on the opposite side of the street. Neither is he aman 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; thenhis figure, and, finally, his face, as the last comes under thelamp-light. They attract and fix it, sending a cold shiver through herframe. 

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 ofNatchitoches? No; it cannot be! It is a reality; assuredly the manmoving 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, notstirring, scarce breathing. 

Thus, till the assassin is out of sight. 

Then she totters back to the side of her sister, to tell in tremblingaccents, 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' yournewspaper. I like to see men in the way o' acquirin' knowledge. Butwe're all of us here goin' to licker up. Won't you join?"

The invitation, brusquely, if not uncourteously, extended, comes from aman of middle age, in height at least six feet three, without reckoningthe thick soles of his bull-skin boots--the tops of which rise severalinches above the knee. A personage, rawboned, and of rough exterior, wearing a red blanket-coat; his trousers tucked into the aforesaidboots; with a leather belt buckled around his waist, under the coat, butover the haft of a bowie-knife, alongside which peeps out the butt of aColt's revolving pistol. In correspondence with his clothing andequipment, he shows a cut-throat countenance, typical of the StatePenitentiary; cheeks bloated as from excessive indulgence in drink; eyeswatery and somewhat bloodshot; lips thick and sensual; with a nose setobliquely, looking as if it had received hard treatment in somepugilistic encounter. His hair is of a yellowish clay colour, lighterin 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 itmay need something stiffer than a beard to protect it from the hemp ofthe hangman. 

He, to whom the invitation has been extended, is of quite a differentappearance. In age a little over half that of the individual who hasaddressed him; complexion dark and cadaverous; the cheeks hollow andhaggard, as from sleepless anxiety; the upper lip showing two elongatedbluish blotches--the stub of moustaches recently removed; the eyes coalblack, with sinister glances sent in suspicious furtiveness from under abroad hat-brim pulled low down over the brow; the figure fairly shaped, but with garments coarse and clumsily fitting, too ample both for bodyand limbs, as if intended to conceal rather than show them to advantage. 

A practised detective, after scanning this individual, taking note ofhis habiliments, with the hat and his manner of wearing it, wouldpronounce 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 roughHercules, who has invited him to "licker up;" though _he_ is nodetective. 

"Thank you, " rejoins the young fellow, lowering the newspaper to hisknee, and raising the rim of his hat, as little as possible; "I've justhad 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, layingaside his reluctance, and along with it the paper--at the same timerising to his feet. Then, stepping up to the bar, he adds, in a tone ofapparent frankness: "Phil Quantrell ain't the man to back out wherethere's glasses going. But, gentlemen, as I'm the stranger in thiscrowd, I hope you'll let me pay for the drinks. "

The men thus addressed as "gentlemen" are seven or eight in number; notone of whom, from outward seeming, could lay claim to the epithet. Sofar as this goes, they are all of a sort with the brutal-looking bullyin the blanket-coat who commenced the conversation. Did Phil Quantrelladdress them as "blackguards, " he would be much nearer the mark. Villainous scoundrels they appear, every one of them, though ofdifferent degrees, judging by their countenances, and with like varietyin their costumes. 

"No--no!" respond several, determined to show themselves gentlemen ingenerosity. "No stranger can stand treat here. You must drink with us, Mr Quantrell. "

"This score's mine!" proclaims the first spokesman, in an authoritativevoice. "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 theparty upon whom he is called to wait--with that dexterity peculiar tohis craft, soon furnishes the counter with bottles and decanterscontaining several sorts of liquors. After which he arranges a row oftumblers alongside, corresponding to the number of those designing todrink. 

And soon they are all drinking; each the mixture most agreeable to hispalate. 

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 peculiarityin this case being, that the Natchitoches tavern in which it takes placeis very different from the ordinary village inn, or roadside hotel. Itstands upon the outskirts of the town, in a suburb known as the "Indianquarter;" sometimes also called "Spanish town"--both name havingreference to the fact, that some queer little shanties around areinhabited by pure-blooded Indians and half-breeds, with poor whites ofSpanish extraction--these last the degenerate descendants of heroicsoldiers who originally established the settlement. 

The tavern itself, bearing an old weather-washed swing-sign, on which isdepicted 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 anythingelse; having for his bar-keeper the afore-mentioned "Johnny, " apersonage supposed to be an Irishman, though of like dubious nationalityas his employer. 

The Choctaw Chief takes in travellers; giving them bed, board, andlodging, without asking them any questions, beyond a demand of paymentbefore they have either eaten or slept under its roof. It usually has agoodly number, and of a peculiar kind--strange both in aspect andmanners--no one knowing whence they come, or whither bent when takingtheir departure. 

As the house stands out of the ordinary path of town promenaders, in anoutskirt scarce ever visited by respectable people, no one cares toinquire 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 ofcheap hostelry, that gives shelter to all sorts of odd customers--hunters, trappers, small Indian traders, returned from an expedition onthe prairies; along with these, such travellers as are without the meansto stop at the more pretentious inns of the village; or, having themeans, prefer, for reasons of their own, to put up at the Choctaw Chief. 

Such is the reputation of the hostelry, before whose drinking bar standsPhil Quantrell--so calling himself--with the men to whose booncompanionship he has been so unceremoniously introduced; as declared byhis introducer, according to the custom of the establishment. 

The first drinks swallowed, Quantrell calls for another round; and thena third is ordered, by some one else, who pays, or promises to pay forit. 

A fourth "smile" is insisted upon by another some one who announceshimself 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 generousimpulse the drink has produced, sings out "Champagne!" a wine which thepoorest tavern in the Southern States, even the Choctaw Chief, canplentifully supply. 

After this the choice vintage of France, or its gooseberry counterfeit, flows feebly; Johnny with gleeful alacrity stripping off the leadencapsules, twisting the wires, and letting pop the corks. For thestranger guest has taken a wallet from his pocket, which all canperceive to be "chock full" of gold "eagles, " some reflecting upon, butsaying nothing about, the singular contrast between this plethoricpurse, and the coarse coat out of whose pocket it is pulled. 

After all, not much in this. Within the wooden walls of the ChoctawChief there have been seen many contrasts quite as curious. Neither itshybrid landlord, nor his bar-keeper, nor its guests are addicted to takenote--or, at all events make remarks upon--circumstances which elsewherewould seem singular. 

Still, is there one among the roystering crowd who does note this; asalso other acts done, and sayings spoken, by Phil Quantrell in his cups. It is the Colossus who has introduced him to the jovial company, andwho still sticks to him as chaperon. 

Some of this man's associates, who appear on familiar footing, calledhim "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, keepshis bloodshot eyes bent upon their new acquaintance, noting his everymovement. His ears, too, are strained to catch every word Quantrellutters, weighing its import. 

For all he neither says nor does aught to tell of his being thusattentive to the stranger--at first his guest, but now a spendthrifthost to himself and his party. 

While the champagne is being freely quaffed, of course there is muchconversation, and on many subjects. But one is special; seeming morethan all others to engross the attention of the roysterers under theroof of the Choctaw Chief. 

It is a murder that has been committed in the State of Mississippi, nearthe town of Natchez; an account of which has just appeared in the localjournal of Natchitoches. The paper is lying on the bar-room table; andall of them, who can read, have already made themselves acquainted withthe particulars of the crime. Those, whose scholarship does not extendso far, have learnt them at secondhand from their better-educatedassociates. 

The murdered man is called Clancy--Charles Clancy--while the murderer, or he under suspicion of being so, is named Richard Darke, the son ofEphraim Darke, a rich Mississippi planter. 

The paper gives further details: that the body of the murdered man hasnot been found, before the time of its going to press; though theevidence collected leaves no doubt of a foul deed having been done;adding, that Darke, the man accused of it, after being arrested andlodged in the county jail, has managed to make his escape--this throughconnivance with his jailer, who has also disappeared from the place. Just in time, pursues the report, to save the culprit's neck from arope, made ready for him by the executioners of Justice Lynch, a partyof whom had burst open the doors of the prison, only to find ituntenanted. The paper likewise mentions the motive for the committal ofthe crime--at least as conjectured; giving the name of a young lady, Miss Helen Armstrong, and speaking of a letter, with her picture, foundupon the suspected assassin. It winds up by saying, that no doubt bothprisoner and jailer have G. T. T. --"Gone to Texas"--a phrase of frequentuse in the Southern States, applied to fugitives from justice. Thenfollows the copy of a proclamation from the State authorities, offeringa reward of two thousand dollars for the apprehension of Richard Darke, and five hundred for Joe Harkness--this being the name of the connivingprison-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 astrange fascination for them--Borlasse, who has become elevated with thealcohol, though usually a man of taciturn habit, breaks out with anasseveration, which causes surprise to all, even his intimateassociates. 

"Damn the luck!" he vociferates, bringing his fist down upon the countertill the decanters dance at the concussion; "I'd 'a given a hundreddollars to 'a been in the place o' that fellow Darke, whoever he is!"

"Why?" interrogate several of his confreres, in tones that express thedifferent 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, andcausing decanters and glasses to jingle. "Why? Because that Clancy--that same Clancy--is the skunk that, before a packed jury, half o' themyellar-bellied Mexikins, in the town of Nacogdoches, swore I stealed ahorse 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 thebargain. Yes, boys, whipped! An' by a damned Mexikin nigger, under theorders o' one o' their constables, they call algazeels. I've got themark o' them lashes on me now, and can show them, if any o' ye hev adoubt about it. I ain't 'shamed to show 'em to _you_ fellows; as ye'veall got something o' the same, I guess. But I'm burnin' mad to thinkthat Charley Clancy's escaped clear o' the vengeance I'd sworn againhim. I know'd he was comin' back to Texas, him and his. That's whattook him out thar, when I met him at Nacogdoches. I've been waitin' andwatchin' till he shed stray this way. Now, it appears, somebody hasspoilt my plans--somebody o' the name Richard Darke. An', while I envythis Dick Darke, I say damn him for doin' it!"

"Damn Dick Darke! Damn him for doin' it!" they shout, till the wallsre-echo their ribald blasphemy. 

The drinking debauch is continued till a late hour, Quantrell payingshot for the whole party. Maudlin as most of them have become, theystill wonder that a man so shabbily dressed can command so much cash andcoin. Some of them are not a little perplexed by it. 

Borlasse is less so than any of his fellow-tipplers. He has notedcertain 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, hishandkerchief employed to wipe the wine from his lips, and carelesslyreturned to his pocket, slips out, and fails upon the floor. Borlassestooping, picks it up, but without restoring it to its owner. 

Instead, he retires to one side; and, unobserved, makes himselfacquainted with a name embroidered on its corner. 

When, at a later hour, the two sit together, drinking a last good-nightdraught, Borlasse places his lips close to the stranger's ear, whispering as if it were Satan himself who spoke, "_Your name is notPhilip Quantrell: 'tis Richard Darke_!"

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. 

THE MURDERER UNMASKED. 

A rattlesnake sounding its harsh "skirr" under the chair on which thestranger is sitting could not cause him to start up more abruptly thanhe 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 whiletrembling in such fashion, that the wine goes over the edge of hisglass, sprinkling the sanded floor. 

Fortunately for him, all the others have retired to their beds, it beingnow a very late hour of the night--near midnight. The drinking "saloon"of the Choctaw Chief is quite emptied of its guests. Even Johnny, thebar-keeper, has gone kitchen-wards to look after his supper. 

Only Borlasse witnesses the effect of his own speech; which, though butwhispered, has proved so impressive. 

The speaker, on his side, shows no surprise. Throughout all the eveninghe has been taking the measure of his man, and has arrived at a clearcomprehension of the case. He now knows he is in the company of CharlesClancy's assassin. The disguise which Darke has adopted--the mereshaving off moustaches and donning a dress of home-wove "cottonade"--thecommon wear of the Louisiana Creole--with slouch hat to correspond, istoo flimsy to deceive Captain Jim Borlasse, himself accustomed tometamorphoses more ingenious, it is nothing new for him to meet amurderer fleeing from the scene of his crime--stealthily, disguisedlymaking way towards that boundary line, between the United States andTexas--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--thesooner by your puttin' on no nonsensical airs, but confessin' the clarand candid truth. First, then, answer me this questyun: Air you, or airyou not, Richard Darke? If ye air, don't be afeerd to say so. Nohumbuggery! 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 atombstone, and stern as an Inquisitor. The bloodshot eyes look upon himwith 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 existbetween two scoundrels equally steeped in crime. 

The murderer of Charles Clancy--now for many days and nights wanderingthe earth, a fugitive from foiled justice, taking untrodden paths, hiding in holes and corners, at length seeking shelter under the roof ofthe Choctaw Chief, because of its repute, sees he has reached a haven ofsafety. 

The volunteered confessions of Borlasse--the tale of his hostility toClancy, and its cause--inspire him with confidence about any revelationshe may make in return. Beyond all doubt his new acquaintance stands inmud, 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, Ilike your manly way of answerin' the question I've put ye. Same time, Imay as well remark, 'twould 'a been all one if ye'd sayed _no_! Thischild hain't been hidin' half o' his life, 'count o' some littlemistakes made at the beginnin' of it, not to know when a man's got intoa sim'lar fix. First day you showed your face inside the Choctaw ChiefI seed thar war something amiss; tho', in course, I couldn't gie thething 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 tharby the planter's, spyin' after one of them Armstrong girls; which ofthem 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 looksand ways since you first came hyar, I guessed that the something wrongmust be different from a love-scrape. Sartint, a man stayin' at theChoctaw Chief, and sporting the cheap rig as you've got on, wan't likelyto 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 anassumed tone of devil-may-care-ishness. 

"You don't! Well, I thought so, up to the time o' gettin' back to thetavern hyar--not many minutes afore my meetin' and askin' you to jine usin drinks. If you've any curiosity to know what changed my mind, I'lltell ye. "

"What?" asks Darke, scarcely reflecting on his words. 

"That ere newspaper you war readin' when I gave you the invite. I readit _afore_ you did, and had ciphered out the whole thing. Puttin' sixand six thegither, I could easy make the dozen. The same bein', thatone of the young ladies stayin' at the hotel is the Miss Helen Armstrongspoke of in the paper; and the man I observed watchin' her is RichardDarke, who killed Charles Clancy--_yourself_!"

"I--I am--I won't--I don't deny it to you, Mr Borlasse. I am RichardDarke. I did kill Charles Clancy; though I protest against its beingsaid I _murdered_ him. "

"Never mind that. Between friends, as I suppose we can now callourselves, there need be no nice distinguishin' of tarms. Murder ormanslaughter, 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' huntedfrom the settlements, he's not like to lose the respect of them who'sbeen sarved the same way. Your bein' Richard Darke an' havin' killedCharles Clancy, in no ways makes you an enemy o' Jim Borlasse--except inyour havin' robbed me of a revenge I'd sworn to take myself. Let thatgo now. I ain't angry, but only envious o' you, for havin' thesatisfaction of sendin' the skunk to kingdom come, without givin' me thechance. An' now, Mister Darke, what do you intend doin'?"

The question comes upon the assassin with a sobering effect. Hiscopious 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 ofa 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. Isee that curse, Johnny, sneakin' about, pretendin' to be lookin' afterhis supper. If he knew as much about you as I do, you'd be in limboafore you ked get into your bed. I needn't tell you thar's a rewardoffered; for you seed that yourself in the newspaper. Two thousanddollars for you, an' five hundred dollars for the fellow as I've seedabout along wi' you, and who I'd already figured up as bein' jailer JoeHarkness. Johnny, an' a good many more, would be glad to go halves withme, for tellin' them only half of what I now know. _I_ ain't goin' tobetray you. I've my reasons for not. After what's been said I reckonyou can trust me?"

"I can, " rejoins the assassin, heaving a sigh of relief. 

"All right, then, " resumes Borlasse; "we understand one another. But itwon'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 fora nightcap. Over that we can talk things straight, without any onehavin' the chance to set them crooked. Come along!"

Darke, without protest, accepts the invitation. He dares not dootherwise. It sounds more like a command. The man extending it has nowfull control over him; can deliver him to justice--have him dragged to ajail. 

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. 

"WILL YOU BE ONE OF US?"

Once inside his sleeping apartment, Borlasse shuts the door, points outa chair to his invited guest, and plants himself upon another. With thepromised bottle of whisky between them, he resumes speech. 

"I've asked you, Quantrell, to be one o' us. I've done it for your owngood, as you ought to know without my tellin' ye. Well; you asked me inreturn 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 offellows as ever lived. That we're a cheerful party, you've seen foryourself. What's passed this night ain't nowheres to the merry times wespend 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 mostlyhorse-catchin'. We rope wild horses, _mustangs_, as they're called; an'sometimes them that ain't jest so wild. We bring 'em into thesettlements for sale. For which reason we pass by the name of_mustangers_. Between whiles, when business isn't very brisk, we spendour time in some of the Texas towns--them what's well in to'rds the RioGrande, 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'lltake 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 apretty face yourself, with sloe-black eyes in it. You'll see them amongthe 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 hotelgallery. "

"Glancing at me?" exclaims Darke, showing surprise, not unmixed withalarm. 

"Glancing at ye; strait custrut; them same eyes as inspired ye to dothat 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 couldtell that from the way she shot back into the shadow. Did ye not noticeit yourself?"

"No, " rejoins Darke, the monosyllable issuing mechanically from hislips, 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 longthere, 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 forher. Believe me, you'll soon forget her. "

"Never!" exclaims Darke, in the fervour of his passion--thwarted thoughit has been--forgetting the danger he is in. 

"If that's your detarmination, " returns Borlasse, "an' you've made upyour mind to keep that sweetheart in sight, you won't be likely to livelong. As sure as you're sittin' thar, afore breakfast time to-morrowmornin' 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 bescared at what I'm sayin'. Thar's no great danger jest yet. Theremight be, if you were in that chair, or this room, eight hours later. Iwon'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 ChoctawChief. 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'sadvice, and make tracks along wi' us. Will you?"

Darke still hesitates to give an affirmative answer. His love for HelenArmstrong--wild, wanton passion though it be--is the controllinginfluence of his life. It has influenced him to follow her thus far, almost as much as the hope of escaping punishment for his crime. Andthough knowing, that the officers of justice are after him, he clings tothe spot where she is staying, with that fascination which keeps the foxby the kennel holding the hounds. The thought of leaving her behind--perhaps never to see her again--is more repugnant than the spectre of ascaffold!

The Texan guesses the reason of his irresolution. More than this, heknows 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 newlight. "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 isJim Borlasse like to forget the younger. I thought nothin' could 'afetched that soft feelin' over me. 'Twant likely, after what I've gonethrough in my time. But she's done it--them blue eyes of hers; hangedif 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 withinthese 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 temptercontinues--

"Now, Phil Quantrell, or Dick Darke, as in confidence I may call ye, areyou willin' to be one o' us?"

"I am. "

"Good! That's settled. An' your comrade, Harkness; I take it, he'llgo, too, when told o' the danger of staying behind; not that he appearso' much account, anyway. Still, among us _mustangers_, the more themerrier; 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. Bothof ye must be ready at once. Slip out to the stable, an' see to thesaddles of your horses. You needn't trouble about settlin' the tavernbill. That's all scored to me; we kin fix the proportions of itafterward. Now, Quantrell, look sharp; in twenty minutes, time, Iexpect 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 precedinghim. In the dimly-lighted passage they part company, Borlasse openingdoor after door of several bedrooms, ranged on both sides of it; intoeach, speaking a word, which, though only in whisper, seems to awake asleeper as if a cannon were discharged close to his ears. Then succeedsa general shuffling, as of men hastily putting on coats and boots, withan occasional grunt of discontent at slumber disturbed; but neithertalking nor angry protest. Soon, one after another, is seen issuingforth from his sleeping apartment, skulking along the corridor, outthrough 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 thetrees; Borlasse at their head, Quantrell by his side, Harkness amongthose behind. 

Almost instantly they are in the thick forest which comes close up tothe suburbs of Natchitoches; the Choctaw Chief standing among treesnever 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 thedoor as their guests go off; the landlord chuckling at the large pile ofglittering coins left behind; Johnny scratching his carroty poll, andsaying, --

"Be japers! they intind clearin' that fellow Quantrell out. He won'tlong be throubled wid that shinin' stuff as seems burnin' the bottom outav his pocket. I wudn't be surrprized if they putt both him an' 'totherfool past tillin' tales afore ayther sees sun. Will, boss, it's nobizness av ours. "

With this self-consolatory remark, to which the "boss" assents, Johnnyproceeds to shut and lock the tavern door. Soon after the windows ofthe Choctaw Chief show lightless, its interior silent, the moonbeamsshining upon its shingled roof peacefully and innocently, as though ithad never sheltered robber, and drunken talk or ribald blasphemy beenheard under it. 

So, till morning's dawn; till daylight; till the sun is o'ertopping thetrees. Then is it surrounded by angry men; its wooden walls re-echoingtheir demand for admittance. 

They are the local authorities of the district; the sheriff ofNatchitoches with his _posse_ of constables, and a crowd of peopleaccompanying. 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 nearNatchez, as also of the murderer having broken jail. Only this morninghave they learnt that the escaped criminal has been seen in the streetsof their town. From an early hour they have been scouring these insearch of him; and, at length, reached the Choctaw Chief--the placewhere he should be found, if found at all. 

On its doors being opened, they discover traces of him. No man namedDarke 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 interestin screening that particular pair of their late guests, they make noattempt 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 paidtheir 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 thejailer, Joe Harkness. 

He, sheriff, constables, crowd, stand with countenances expressingdefeat--disappointment. They have reached the Choctaw Chief a littletoo late. They know nothing of Borlasse, or how he has baffled them. They but believe, that, for the second time, the assassin of CharlesClancy 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 theexcitement caused by it, though to some extent subsided, has not diedout. Curiosity and speculation are kept alive by the fact of the bodynot having been found. For it has not. Search has been made everywherefor miles around. Field and forest, creeks, ponds, swamp, and river, have all been traversed and interrogated, in vain. All have refused tosurrender up the dead. 

That Clancy is dead no one has a doubt. To say nothing of the bloodspilt beside his abandoned hat and gun, with the other circumstancesattendant, there is testimony of a moral nature, to many quite asconvincing. 

Alive he would long since have returned home, at thought of what hismother must be suffering. He was just the man to do that, as all whoknew him are aware. Even wounded and crippled, if able to crawl, itwould be to the side of the only woman at such a crisis he should carefor. 

Though it is now known that he cared for another, no one entertains athought of his having gone off after _her_. It would not be in keepingwith his character, any more than with the incidents and events thathave conspired to make the mystery. Days pass, and it still remainsone. 

The sun rises and sets, without throwing any light upon it. Conjecturecan 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 beendisposed of, there is no speculation as to who was his murderer, or howthe latter made escape. 

The treason of the jail-keeper explains this--itself accounted for byEphraim Darke having on the previous day paid a visit to his son in thecell, and left with him a key that ere now has opened many a prisondoor. Joe Harkness, a weak-witted fellow, long suspected offaithlessness, was not the man to resist the temptation with which hispalm had been touched. 

Since that day some changes have taken place in the settlement. Theplantation late Armstrong's has passed into the hands of a newproprietor--Darke having disposed of it--while the cottage of theClancys, now ownerless, stays untenanted. Unfurnished too: for thebailiff has been there, and a bill of sale, which covered its scantplenishing, farm-stock, implements and utensils, has swept all away. 

For a single day there was a stir about the place, with noisecorresponding, when the chattels were being disposed of by publicauction. Then the household gods of the decayed Irish gentleman wereknocked down to the highest bidder, and scattered throughout thedistrict. Rare books, pictures, and other articles, telling of refinedtaste, with some slight remnants of _bijouterie_, were carried off tolog-cabins, there to be esteemed in proportion to the prices paid forthem. In fine, the Clancy cottage, stripped of everything, has beenleft untenanted. Lone as to the situation in which it stands, it is yetlonelier in its desolation. Even the dog, that did such service inpointing out the criminality of him who caused all the ruin, no longerguards its enclosures, or cheers them with his familiar bark. Thefaithful animal, adopted by Simeon Woodley, has found a home in thecabin of the hunter. 

It is midnight; an hour still and voiceless in Northern climes, but notso in the Southern. Far from it in the State of Mississippi. There thesun's excessive heat keeps Nature alert and alive, even at night, and indays of December. 

Though night, it is not December, but a date nearer Spring. February iswritten on the heading of letters, and this, a Spring month on the LowerMississippi, 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; forthe mock-bird, taking up the strain, carries it on through the hours ofnight; so well counterfeiting the notes of his fellow-songsters, onemight fancy them awake--still singing. 

Not so melodious are other voices disturbing the stillness of theSouthern night. Quite the opposite are the croaking of frogs, thescreeching of owls, the jerking call of tree-crickets, and the bellowingof the alligator. Still, the ear accustomed to such sounds is notjarred by them. They are but the bass notes, needed to complete thesymphony of Nature's concert. 

In the midst of this melange, --the hour, as already stated, midnight--aman, or something bearing man's semblance, is seen gliding along theedge of the cypress swamp, not far from the place where Charles Clancyfell. 

After skirting the mud-flat for a time, the figure--whether ghost orhuman--turns face toward the tract of lighter woodland, extendingbetween the thick timber and cleared ground of the plantations. 

Having traversed this, the nocturnal wayfarer comes within sight of thedeserted cottage, late occupied by the Clancys. 

The moonlight, falling upon his face, shows it to be white. Also, thathis cheeks are pallid, with eyes hollow and sunken, as from sickness--some malady long-endured, and not yet cured. As he strides over fallenlogs, or climbs fences stretching athwart his course, his tottering steptells of a frame enfeebled. 

When at length clear of the woods, and within sight of the untenanteddwelling, he stops, and for a time remains contemplating it. That he isaware of its being unoccupied is evident, from the glance with which heregards it. 

His familiarity with the place is equally evident. On entering thecottage grounds, which he soon after does, through, some shrubbery atthe back, he takes the path leading up to the house, without appearingto have any doubt about its being the right one. 

For all this he makes approach with caution, looking suspiciouslyaround--either actually afraid, or not desiring to be observed. 

There is little likelihood of his being so. At that hour all in thesettlement should be asleep. The house stands remote, more than a milefrom its nearest neighbour. It is empty; has been stripped of itsfurniture, of everything. What should any one be doing there?

What is _he_ doing there? A question which would suggest itself to oneseeing him; with interest added on making note of his movements. 

There is no one to do either; and he continues on to the house, makingfor 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 atouch goes open. There is no lock, or if there was, it has not beenthought worth while to turn the key in it. There are no burglars in thebackwoods. 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 isin unison with the sighs that come, deep-drawn, from his breast; attimes so sonorous as to be audible all over the house. 

He passes from room to room. There are not many--only five of them. Ineach he remains a few moments, gazing dismally around. But in one--thatwhich was the widow's sleeping chamber--he tarries a longer time;regarding a particular spot--the place formerly occupied by a bed. Thena 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 ofsorrow--sobs and weeping. As the moonbeams, pouring in through the openwindow, fall upon his face, their pale silvery light sparkles upontears, streaming from hollow eyes, chasing one another down emaciatedcheeks. 

After surrendering himself some minutes to what appears a very agony ofgrief, he turns out of the sleeping chamber; passes through the narrowhall-way; and on into the porch. Not now the back one, but that facingfront to the road. 

On the other side of this is an open tract of ground, half cleared, halfwoodland; the former sterile, the latter scraggy. It seems to belong tono 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 thepublic as the site for a schoolhouse, and a common burying-ground--freeto all desiring to be instructed, or needing to be interred. Theschoolhouse has disappeared, but the cemetery is still there--onlydistinguishable from the surrounding _terrain_ by some oblongelevations, having the well-known configuration of graves. There are inall about a score of them; some having a plain head-board--a piece ofpainted plank, with letters rudely limned, recording the name and age ofhim or her resting underneath. 

Time and the weather have turned most of them greyish, with datesdecayed, and names scarcely legible. But there is one upon which thepaint shows fresh and white; in the clear moonlight gleaming like ameteor. 

He who has explored the deserted dwelling, stands for a while with eyesdirected on this recently erected memorial. Then, stepping down fromthe porch, he passes through the wicket-gate; crosses the road; and goesstraight towards it, as though a hand beckoned him thither. 

When close up, he sees it to be by a grave upon which the herbage hasnot yet grown. 

The night is a cold one--chill for that Southern clime. The dew uponthe withered grass of the grave turf is almost congealed into hoarfrost, adding to its ghostly aspect. 

The lettering upon the head-board is in shadow, the moon being on theopposite side. 

But stooping forward, so as to bring his eyes close to the slab, he isenabled to decipher the inscription. 

It is the simplest form of memento--only a name, with the date ofdeath--

 "Caroline Clancy, Died January 18--"

After reading it, a fresh sob bursts from his bosom, new tears startfrom his eyes, and he flings himself down upon the grave. Disregardingthe dew, thinking nought of the night's dullness, he stretches his armsover the cold turf, embracing it as though it were the warm body of onebeloved!

For several minutes he remains in this attitude. Then, suddenly risingerect, 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 hesays. 

Presently, sober reason seems to assert itself, and he again resumesspeech; but now with voice, expression of features, attitude, everythingso changed, that no one, seeing him the moment before, would believe itthe same man. 

Upon his countenance sternness has replaced sorrow; the soft lines havebecome rigid; the melancholy glance is gone, replaced by one that tellsof determination--of vengeance. 

Once more he glances down at the grave; then up to the sky, till themoon, coursing across high heaven, falls full upon his face. With hisbody slightly leaning backward, the arms along his sides, stifflyextended, the hands closed in convulsive clutch, he cries out:--

"By the heavens above--by the shade of my murdered mother, who liesbeneath--I swear not to know rest, never more seek contentment, tillI've punished her murderer! Night and day--through summer and winter--shall I search for him. Yes; search till I've found and chastised thisman, this monster, who has brought blight on me, death to my mother, anddesolation 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 itswilderness wide enough to screen you from my vengeance. If not foundthere, I shall follow you to the end of the earth--to the end of theearth, Richard Darke!"

"Charley Clancy!"

He turns as if a shot had struck him. He sees a man standing within sixpaces 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 bearthem. For it is, in truth, Charles Clancy who stands by the grave, andSimeon Woodley who has saluted him. 

The surprise is all upon the side of Sime, and something more. Hebeholds a man all supposed to be dead, apparently returned from thetomb! Sees him in a place appropriate to resurrection, in the centre ofa burying-ground, by the side of a recently made grave!

The backwoodsman is not above believing in spiritual existences, and foran instant he is under a spell of the supernatural. 

It passes off on his perceiving that real flesh and blood is beforehim--Charles Clancy himself, and not his wraith. 

He reaches this conclusion the sooner from having all along entertaineda doubt about Clancy being dead. Despite the many circumstancespointing to, almost proving, his death, Woodley was never quiteconvinced of it. No one has taken so much trouble, or made so manyefforts, to clear up the mystery. He has been foremost in the attemptto get punishment for the guilty man, as in the search for the body ofhis victim; both of which failed, to his great humiliation; his grieftoo, for he sincerely lamented his lost friend. Friends they were of nocommon kind. Not only had they oft hunted in company, but been togetherin Texas during Clancy's visit to the Lone Star State; together atNacogdoches, where Borlasse received chastisement for stealing thehorse; together saw the thief tied to the stake, Woodley being one ofthe stern jury who sentenced him to be whipped, and saw to the sentencebeing carried into execution. 

The hunter had been to Natchez for the disposal of some pelts anddeer-meat, a week's produce of his gun. Returning at a late hour, hemust needs pass the cottage of the Clancys, his own humble domicilelying beyond. At sight of the deserted dwelling a painful throb passedthrough his heart, as he recalled the sad fate of those who onceoccupied it. 

Making an effort to forget the gloomy record, he was riding on, when afigure flitting across the road arrested his attention. The clearmoonlight showed the figure to be that of a man, and one whose movementsbetrayed 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 hissaddle he watched the midnight wanderer, whose eccentric movementscontinued to cause him surprise. He saw the latter walk on to thelittle woodland cemetery, take stand by the side of a grave, bendingforward as if to read the epitaph on its painted slab. Soon afterkneeling down as in prayer, then throwing himself prostrate along theearth. Woodley well knew the grave thus venerated. For he had himselfassisted in digging and smoothing down the turf that covered it. He hadalso been instrumental in erecting the frail tablet that stood over. Who was this man, in the chill, silent hour of midnight, flinginghimself upon it in sorrow or adoration?

With a feeling far different from curiosity, the hunter slipped out ofhis saddle, and leaving his horse behind, cautiously approached thespot. As the man upon the grave was too much absorbed with his ownthoughts, he got close up without being observed; so close as to hearthat strange adjuration, and see a face he never expected to look uponagain. Despite the features, pale and marked with emaciation, thehollow cheeks, and sunken but glaring eyeballs, he recognised thecountenance of Charles Clancy; soon as he did so, mechanically callingout his name. 

Hearing his own pronounced, in response, Sime again exclaims, "CharleyClancy!" adding the interrogatory, "Is it yurself or yur shader?"

Then, becoming assured, he throws open his arms, and closes them aroundhis old hunting associate. 

Joy, at seeing the latter still alive, expels every trace ofsupernatural thought, and he gives way--to exuberant congratulation. 

On Clancy's side the only return is a faint smile, with a few confusedwords, that seem to speak more of sadness than satisfaction. Theexpression upon his face is rather or chagrin, as if sorry at theencounter having occurred. His words are proof of it. 

"Simeon Woodley, " he says, "I should have been happy to meet you at anyother time, but not now. "

"Why, Clancy!" returns the hunter, supremely astonished at the coldnesswith which his warm advances have been received. "Surely you know I'myur friend?"

"Right well I know it. "

"Wal, then, believin' you to be dead--tho' I for one never felt sureo't--still thinking it might be--didn't I do all my possible to gitjustice done for ye?"

"You did. I've heard all--everything that has happened. Too much I'veheard. 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 gotup. We all know that Dick Darke has done whatever hez been done. Wehed 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'sever been since heerd 'bout eyther. I guess they've put for Texas, wharevery scoundrel goes nowadays. Wal, Lordy! I'm so glad to see ye stillalive. 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 thegrandest, 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 moreof 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 toTexas?"

"To Texas, or anywhars. In coorse I will. An' I reck'n we'll hev agood chance o' meetin' Dick Darke thar, an' then--"

"Meet him!" exclaimed Clancy, without waiting for the backwoodsman tofinish 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, orsupposed to be, there's a woman gone to Texas who will welcome him--receive him with open arms; lovingly entwine them around his neck. OGod!"

"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 nodoubt o' Miss Armstrong's being the innercent cause of most o' what'sbeen did. But as to her hevin' a likin' for Dick Darke, or puttin' themsoft white arms o' hern willingly or lovingly aroun' his neck, tharyou're clar off the trail--a million miles off o' it. That ere gurlhates the very sight o' the man, as Sime Woodley hev' good reason toknow. An' I know, too, that she's nuts on another man--leastwise hasbeen afore all this happened, and I reck'n still continue to be. Weemen--that air, weemen o' her kidney--ain't so changeable as peoplesupposes. 'Bout Miss Helen Armstrong hevin' once been inclined to'ardstthis other man, an' ready to freeze to him, I hev' the proof in mypocket. "

"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'. Toexamine 'em, we must have a clarer light than what's unner this tree, orkin be got out o' that 'ere moon. S'pose we adjern to my shanty. Tharwe kin set the logs a-bleezin'. When they throw thar glint on the bito' paper I've spoke about, I'll take long odds you won't be so down inthe mouth. Come along, Charley Clancy! Ye've had a durned dodrotteddeal both o' sufferin' an' sorrow. Be cheered! Sime Woodley's gotsomethin' thet's likely to put ye straight upright on your pins. It'sonly a bit o' pasteboard an' a sheet o' paper--both inside what inNatcheez they calls a enwelope. Come wi' me to the ole cabin, an' tharyou kin take a squint at 'em. "

Clancy's heart is too full to make rejoinder. The words of Woodley haveinspired him with new hope. Health, long doubtful, seems suddenlyrestored to him. The colour comes back to his cheeks; and, as hefollows the hunter to his hut, his stride exhibits all its old vigourand elasticity. 

When the burning logs are kicked into a blaze; when by its light hereads Helen Armstrong's letter, and looks upon her photograph--on thatsweet 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 lifeagain? Or, but half killed and recovered? Where the while hidden? Andwhy? Questions that in quick succession occur to Simeon Woodley meetinghim by his mother's grave. 

Not all put then or there; but afterwards on the hunter's own hearth, asthe two sit before the blazing logs, by whose light Clancy has read theletter so cheering him. 

Then Woodley asks them, and impatiently awaits the answers. 

The reader may be asking the same questions, and in like mannerexpecting reply. 

He shall have it, as Woodley, not in a word or at once, but in a seriesof incidents, for the narration of which it is necessary to return upontime; as also to introduce a personage hitherto known but by repute--thefugitive slave, Jupiter. 

"Jupe" is of the colour called "light mulatto, " closely approximating tothat of newly tanned leather. His features are naturally of a pleasingexpression; only now and then showing fierce, when he reflects on aterrible flogging, and general ill treatment experienced, at the handsof the cruel master from whom he has absconded. 

He is still but a young fellow, with face beardless; only two darkishstreaks of down along the upper lip. But the absence of virile signupon his cheeks has full compensation in a thick shock covering hiscrown, where the hair of Shem struggles for supremacy with the wool ofHam, and so successfully, as to result in a profusion of curls of whichApollo might be proud. The god of Beauty need not want a better form orface; nor he of Strength a set of sinews tougher, or limbs more terselyknit. Young though he may be, Jupe has performed feats of Herculeanstrength, requiring courage as well. No wonder at his having won Jule!

A free fearless spirit he: somewhat wild, though not heart-wicked; agood deal given to nocturnal excursions to neighbouring plantations;hence the infliction of the lash, which has finally caused hisabsconding from that of Ephraim Darke. 

A merry jovial fellow he has been--would be still--but for the cloud ofdanger that hangs over him; dark as the den in which he has found ahiding-place. This is in the very heart and centre of the cypressswamp, 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, notimmediately surrounded by water, but marsh and mud. There is waterbeyond, on every side, extending more than a mile, with trees standingin 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 savagehounds, and the trailing of men almost as savage as they; for the placecannot be approached by water-craft, and is equally unapproachable byland. 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, masterof this darksome domain. Still is there a way to traverse thetreacherous ground, for one knowing it, as does Darke's runaway slave. Here, again, has Nature intervened, lending her beneficent aid to theoppressed fleeing from oppression. The elements in their anger, spokenby 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 theconnecting link, making it as much as possible to look like Nature's ownhandiwork; though it is that of Jupiter himself. The hollow tree hasgiven him a house ready built, with walls strong as any constructed byhuman hands, and a roof to shelter him from the rain. If no better thanthe lair of a wild beast, still is it snug and safe. The winds may blowabove, the thunder rattle, and the lightning flash; but below, under theclose canopy of leaves and thickly-woven parasites, he but hears thefirst in soft sighings, the second in distant reverberation, and seesthe last only in faint phosphoric gleams. Far brighter the sparkle ofinsects that nightly play around the door of his dwelling. 

A month has elapsed since the day when, incensed at the floggingreceived--this cruel as causeless--he ran away, resolved to riskeverything, life itself, rather than longer endure the tyrannoustreatment of the Darkes. 

Though suspected of having taken refuge in the swamp, and thererepeatedly sought for, throughout all this time he has contrived tobaffle search. Nor has he either starved or suffered, except fromsolitude. Naturally of a social disposition, this has been irksome tohim. Otherwise, he has comforts enough. Though rude his domicile, andremote from a market, it is sufficiently furnished and provided. TheSpanish moss makes a soft couch, on which he can peacefully repose. Andfor food he need not be hard up, nor has he been for a single day. Ifit come to that, he can easily entrap an alligator, and make a meal offthe tenderest part of its tail; this yielding a steak which, if notequal to best beef, is at all events eatable. 

But Jupe has never been driven to diet on alligator meat too much ofmusky flavour. His usual fare is roast pork, with now and then broiledham and chicken; failing which, a _fricassee_ of 'coon or a _barbecue_of 'possum. No lack of bread besides--maize bread--in its variousbakings of "pone", "hoe cake, " and "dodger. " Sometimes, too, heindulges in "Virginia biscuit, " of sweetest and whitest flour. 

The question is called up, Whence gets he such good things? The 'coonand 'possum may be accounted for, these being wild game of the woods, which he can procure by capture; but the other viands are domestic, andcould only be obtained from a plantation. 

And from one they are obtained--that of Ephraim Darke! How? DoesJupiter himself steal them? Not likely. The theft would be attendedwith too much danger. To attempt it would be to risk not only hisliberty, but his life. He does not speculate on such rashness, feelingsure 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 inprovisions--the faithful friend and confederate--is no other than thecoon-hunter. 

Something more than bread and meat has Blue Bill brought to the swamp'sedge, there storing them in a safe place of deposit, mutually agreedupon. Oft, as he starts forth "a-cooning, " may he be observed withsomething swelling out his coat-pockets, seemingly carried withcircumspection. Were they at such times searched, they would be foundto contain a gourd of corn whisky, and beside it a plug of tobacco. Butno one searches them; no one can guess at their contents--except Phoebe. To her the little matter of commissariat has necessarily been madeknown, by repeated drafts on her meat-safe, and calls upon her culinaryskill. She has no jealous suspicion as to why her scanty store is thusalmost daily depleted--no thought of its being for Brown Bet. She knowsit 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 samehour in which the strife is taking place between them, the fugitiveslave is standing by the side of his hollow tree, on the bit of dry landaround its roots. 

His air and bearing indicate intention not to stay there long. Ever andanon he casts a glance upward, as if endeavouring to make out the timeof day. A thing not easily done in that sombre spot. For he can see nosun, and only knows there is such by a faint reflection of its lightscarce 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 minutespreceding it. For, to a minute he knows how long it will take him toreach the edge of the swamp, at a certain point to which he contemplatesproceeding. It is the place of deposit for the stores he receives fromthe coon-hunter. 

On this particular evening he expects something besides provender, andis more than usually anxious about it. Mental, not bodily food, is whathe is craving. He hopes to get tidings of her, whose image is engravenupon his heart--his yellow girl, Jule. For under his coarse cottonshirt, and saddle-coloured skin, Jupe's breast burns with a love pureand passionate, as it could, be were the skin white, and the shirtfinest linen. 

He knows of all that is taking place in the plantations; is aware ofwhat has been done by Ephraim Darke in the matter of the mortgage, andwhat is about to be done by Colonel Armstrong. The coon-hunter has kepthim posted up in everything--facts and fancies, rumours and realities. 

One of the last, and latest, is the intention of the Armstrongs toremove from the neighbourhood. He has already heard of this, as alsotheir destination. It might not so much concern him, but for theimplied supposition that his sweetheart will be going along with them. In fact, he feels sure of it; an assurance that, so far from causingregret, rather gives him gladness. It promises a happier future forall. Jupe, too, has had thoughts about Texas. Not that the Lone StarState is at all a safe asylum for such as he; but upon its wildborderland there may be a chance for him to escape the bondage ofcivilisation, by alliance with the savage! Even this idea of a freedomfar off, difficult of realisation, and if realised not so delectable, has nevertheless been flitting before the mind of the mulatto. Any lifebut that of a slave! His purpose, modified by late events andoccurrences, is likely to be altogether changed by them. His Jule willbe going to Texas, along with her master and young mistresses. In thehope of rejoining her, he will go there too--as soon as he can escape tothe swamp. 

On this evening he expects later news, with a more particular account ofwhat is about to be done. Blue Bill is to bring them, and direct fromJule, whom the coon-hunter has promised to see. Moreover, Jupe has ahope of being able to see her himself, previous to departure; and toarrange an interview, through the intervention of his friend, is thematter now most on his mind. No wonder, then, his scanning the sky, orits faint reflection, with glances that speak impatience. 

At length, becoming satisfied it must be near night, he starts off fromthe eyot, and makes way along the causeway furnished by the trunks ofthe 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 mossin profusion. This hanging down in streamers, scatters over the surfaceand dips underneath, like the tails of white horses wading knee-deep. In its midst appears something, which would escape the eye of onepassing carelessly by. On close scrutiny it is seen to be a craft ofrude construction--a log with the heart wood removed--in short, a canoeof the kind called "dug-out. "

No surprise to the runaway slave seeing it there; no more at its seemingto have been placed in concealment. It is his own property, by himselfsecreted. 

Gliding down through the moss-bedecked branches, he steps into it; and, after balancing himself aboard, dips his paddle into the water, and setsthe dug-out adrift. 

A way for a while through thick standing trunks that require manytortuous turnings to avoid them. 

At length a creek is reached, a _bayou_ with scarce any current; alongwhich the canoe-man continues his course, propelling the craftup-stream. He has made way for something more than a mile, when a noisereaches his ear, causing him to suspend stroke, with a suddenness thatshows alarm. 

It is only the barking of a dog; but to him no sound could be moresignificant--more indicative of danger. 

On its repetition, which almost instantly occurs, he plucks his paddleout of the water, leaving the dug-out to drift. 

On his head is a wool hat of the cheap fabric supplied by thePenitentiaries of the Southern States, chiefly for negro wear. Tiltingit to one side, he bends low, and listens. 

Certainly a dog giving tongue--but in tone strange, unintelligible. Itis 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, orbeing chastised!

After listening to it for some time--for it is nearly continuous--themulatto makes remark to himself. "There's no danger in the growl ofthat dog. I know it nearly as well as my own voice. It's thedeer-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 morenoiselessly than ever. So slight is the plash of his paddle, it doesnot hinder him from noting every sound--the slightest that stirs amongthe 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 toconjectures, "what can be the matter with the poor brute? There must besomething amiss to make it cry; out in that strain. Hope 'taint nomischance 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 ownerhas been accustomed to moor it, for meeting Blue Bill; and where on thisevening, as on others, he has arranged his interview with thecoon-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 footstepswill 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 thereroping it fast, the mulatto mounts upon the bank. Then after standingsome seconds to listen, he goes gliding off through the trees. 

If cautious while making approach by water, he is even more so on theland; 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 savecaution. The knowledge that he may be endangering his liberty--hislife--stimulates him to observe this. Treading as if on eggs, he glidesfrom trunk to trunk; for a time sheltering behind each, till assured hecan reach another without being seen. 

He at length arrives at one, in rear of which he remains for a moreprolonged period. 

For he now sees the dog--as conjectured, Clancy's deer-hound. Theanimal is standing, or rather crouching, beside a heap of moss, ever andanon raising its head and howling, till the forest is filled with theplaintive refrain. 

For what is it lamenting? What can the creature mean? Interrogativeswhich the mulatto puts to himself; for there is none else to whom he mayaddress 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 thehound. Had he been there half-an-hour sooner, he need not now beracking his brain with conjectures. For he would have witnessed thestrife, with all the incidents succeeding, and already known to thereader--with others not yet related, in which the hound was itself soleactor. For the animal, after being struck by Darke's bullet, did not godirectly home. There could be no home where its master was not; and itknew he would not be there. In the heart of the faithful creature, while retreating, affection got the better of its fears; and once moreturning, it trotted back to the scene of the tragedy. 

This time not hindered from approaching the spot; the assassin--as hesupposed himself--having wound up his cruel work, and hurriedly madeaway. Despite the shroud thrown over its master's body, the dog soondiscovered it--dead, no doubt the animal believed, while tearing asidethe moss with claws and teeth, and afterwards with warm tongue lickingthe cold face. 

Believing it still, as crouched beside the seeming corpse it continuesits plaintive lamentation, which yet perplexes the runaway, whilealarming him. 

Not for long does he listen to it. There is no one in sight, thereforeno one to be feared. Certainly not Charles Clancy, nor his dog. Withconfidence thus restored, he forsakes his place of concealment, andstrides on to the spot where the hound has couched itself. At hisapproach the animal starts up with an angry growl, and advances to meethim. Then, as if in the mulatto recognising a friend of its master, itsuddenly changes tone, bounding towards and fawning upon him. 

After answering its caresses, Jupe continues on till up to the side ofthe moss pile. Protruding from it he sees a human head, with faceturned towards him--the lips apart, livid, and bloodless; the teethclenched; the eyes fixed and filmy. 

And beneath the half-scattered heap he knows there is a body; believesit 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 onthe face. "Dead--shot--murdered!"

For a time he stands aghast, with arms upraised, and eyes staringwildly. 

Then, as if struck by something in the appearance of the corpse, hemutteringly interrogates: "Is he sure gone dead?"

To convince himself he kneels down beside the body, having cleared awaythe loose coverlet still partially shrouding it. 

He sees the blood, and the wound from which it is yet welling. Heplaces 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, takingthe 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, hetries the artery at different points, with a touch as tender, as ifholding in his hand the life of an infant. 

He becomes certain that the heart throbs; that there is yet breath inthe 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 himselfto a white man would be to go back into hated bondage--to the slaveryfrom which he has so lately, and at risk of life, escaped. It would bean act of grand generosity--a self-sacrifice--more than man, more thanhuman being is capable of. Could a poor runaway slave be expected tomake it?

Some sacrifice he intends making, as may be gathered from his mutteredwords:

"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. Whatwould Miss Helen say if she see him now? What will she say when shehear o' it? I wonder who's done it? No, I don't--not a bit. There'sonly one likely. From what Jule told me, I thought 't would come tothis, some day. Wish I could a been about to warn him. Well, it's toolate 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 loveJule, or Jule me. "

For a time he stands considering what he ought to do. The dreadspectacle has driven out of his mind all thoughts of his appointmentwith Blue Bell; just as what preceded hindered the coon-hunter fromkeeping it with him. For the latter, terrified, has taken departurefrom the dangerous place, and is now hastening homeward. 

Only for a short while does the mulatto remain hesitating. His eyes areupon the form at his feet. He sees warm blood still oozing from thewound, and knows, or hopes, Clancy is not dead. Something must be doneimmediately. 

"Dead or alive, " he mutters. "I mustn't, shan't leave him here. Thewolves would soon make bare bones of him, and the carrion crows peckthat handsome face of his. They shan't either get at him. No. He'sdid 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 therecan 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 methere isn't. But there might be, if I stand shilly-shallying here. Imustn't a minute longer. "

Bracing himself for an effort, he opens his arms, and stoops as to takeup the body. Just then the hound, for some time silent, again gives outits mournful monotone--continuing the dirge the runaway had interrupted. 

Suddenly he rises erect, and glances around, a new fear showing upon hisface. 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 tomy 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 tothe water an' swim after 'twould know where the dug-out lay, an' mightshow them the place. I shan't make any tracks; for all that they'dsuspect somethin', down the creek, an' come that way sarchin'. 'Twontdo take the dog--'twont do to leave it--what _will_ do?"

The series of reflections, and questions, runs rapidly as thoughtitself. And to the last, quick as thought, comes an answer--a planwhich promises a solution of the difficulty. He thinks of killing thedog--cutting its throat with his knife. 

Only for an instant is the murderous intent in his mind. In the next hechanges 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 wontdo it. "

Another pause spent in considering; another plan soon suggesting itself. 

"Ah!" he exclaims, with air showing satisfied, "I have it now. That'llbe just the thing. "

The "thing" thus approved of, is to tie the hound to a tree, and soleave it. 

First to get hold of it. For this he turns towards the animal, andcommences 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! Comenow; come!"

The deer-hound, not afraid, does not flee him; and soon he has his handsupon it. 

Pulling a piece of cord out of his pocket, he continues to apostrophiseit, 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 abit. "

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 looksout for a tree to which he may attach it. 

A thought now strikes him, another step calling for caution. It willnot 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 houndloose. Still, time will likely elapse; the scent will be cold, as faras the creek's edge, and cannot be lifted. With the water beyond therewill be no danger. 

The runaway, glancing around, espies a palmetto brake; these forming asort of underwood in the cypress forest, their fan-shaped leaves growingon stalks that rise directly out of the earth to a height of three orfour feet, covering the ground with a _chevaux de frise_ of deepestgreen, but hirsute and spinous as hedgehogs. 

The very place for his purpose. So mutters he to himself, as heconducts the dog towards it. Still thinking the same, after he has tiedthe animal to a palmetto shank near the middle of the brake, and thereleft it. He goes off, regardless of its convulsive struggles to setitself free, with accompanying yelps, by which the betrayed quadrupedseems to protest against such unexpected as ill-deserved, captivity. 

Not five minutes time has all this action occupied. In less than fivemore a second chapter is complete, by the carrying of Clancy's body--itmay be his corpse--to the creek, and laying it along the bottom of thecanoe. 

Notwithstanding the weight of his burden, the mulatto, a man of uncommonstrength, takes care to make no footmarks along the forest path, or atthe point of embarkation. The ground, thickly strewn with the leaves ofthe deciduous _taxodium_, does not betray a trace, any more than if hewere treading on thrashed straw. 

Undoing the slip-knot of his painter, he shoves the canoe clear of itsentanglement among the roots of the tree. Then plying his paddle, directs its course down stream, silently as he ascended, but with lookmore troubled, and air intensely solemnal. This continuing, while heagain shoulders the insensible form, and carries it along the causewayof logs, until he has laid it upon soft moss within the cavity of thecypress--his own couch. Then, once more taking Clancy's wrist betweenhis fingers, and placing his ear opposite the heart, he feels the pulseof the first, and listens for the beatings of the last. 

A ray of joy illuminates his countenance, as both respond to hisexamination. It grows brighter, on perceiving a muscular movement ofthe limbs, late rigid and seemingly inanimate, a light in the eyeslooking like life; above all, words from the lips so long mute. Wordslow-murmured, but still distinguishable; telling him a tale, at the sametime giving its interpretation. That in this hour of hisunconsciousness Clancy should in his speech couple the names of RichardDarke and Helen Armstrong is a fact strangely significant, he does thesame 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, confideseverything to the faithful fellow who has so befriended him. Everycircumstance he ought to know, at the same time imparting secrecy. 

This, so closely kept, that even Blue Bill, while himself disclosingmany an item, of news exciting the settlement, is not entrusted with onethe most interesting, and which would have answered the questions onevery tongue:--"What has become of Charles Clancy?" and "Where is hisbody?"

Clancy still in it, living and breathing, has his reasons for keepingthe fact concealed. He has succeeded in doing so till this night; tillencountering Simeon Woodley by the side of his mother's tomb. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

And now on Woodley's own hearth, after all has been explained, Clancyonce more returns to speak of the purpose he has but half communicatedto 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 atmeetin' me the night. That war a mystery to me. "

"There was nothing in it, Sime. Only that I didn't care to meet, or beseen 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 amstill alive. That secret I shall expect you to keep. "

"You kin trust to me for that; an' yur plans too. Don't be afeerd toconfide them to Sime Woodley. Maybe he may help ye to gettin' 'emship-shape. "

Clancy is gratified at this offer of aid. For he knows that in thebackwoodsman he will find his best ally; that besides his friendshiptested and proved, he is the very man to be with him in the work he hascut out for himself--a purpose which has engrossed his thoughts eversince consciousness came back after his long dream of delirium. It isthat so solemnly proclaimed, as he stood in the cemetery, with nothought 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; stillthe criminality remained the same. But the second had succeeded. Hismother's corpse was under the cold sod at his feet, her blood calling tohim for vengeance. And still another passion prompted him to seek it--perhaps the darkest of all, jealousy in its direst shape, the sting froma love promised but unbestowed. For the coon-hunter had never told Jupeof Helen Armstrong's letter. Perhaps, engrossed with other cares, hehad forgotten it; or, supposing the circumstance known to all, had notthought it worth communicating. Clancy, therefore, up to that hour, believed his sweetheart not only false to himself, but having favouredhis rival. 

The bitter delusion, now removed, does not in any way alter hisdetermination. That is fixed beyond change, as he tells Simeon Woodleywhile 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 iton return to the swamp. "No more mine! Empty--every stick sold out ofit, 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 traillike that. But, say! don't ye think we'd be more likely o' findin' thegame by stayin' hyar? Ef ye make it known that you're still alive, thenthar ain't been no murder done, an' Dick Darke 'll be sure to kum homeagin. "

"If he came what could I do? Shoot him down like a dog, as he thoughthe had me? That would make _me_ a murderer, with good chance of beinghanged 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 youngNed 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 onthe 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 itby-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 RichardDarke. There's some one else in danger from him--"

Here Clancy's utterance becomes indistinct, as if his voice were stifledby 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 dangerfrom Dick Darke. Thet ere gurl hev courage enuf to take care o'herself, an' the spirit too. Besides, she'll hev about her purtectors aplenty. "

"There can be no safety against an assassin. Who should know thatbetter 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, aState of the Federal Union, the phrase, "Across the Sabine" was one ofnoted signification. 

Its significance lay in the fact, that fugitives from States' justice, once over the Sabine, felt themselves safe; extradition laws beingsomewhat loose in the letter, and more so in the spirit, at any attemptmade to carry them into execution. 

As a consequence, the fleeing malefactor could breathe freely--even themurderer imagine the weight of guilt lifted from off his soul--themoment his foot touched Texan soil. 

On a morning of early spring--the season when settlers most affectmigration to the Lone Star State--a party of horsemen is seen crossingthe boundary river, with faces turned toward Texas. The place wherethey are making passage is not the usual emigrants' crossing--on the oldSpanish military road between Natchitoches and Nacogdoches, --but severalmiles above, at a point where the stream is, at certain seasons, fordable. From the Louisiana side this ford is approached through atract of heavy timber, mostly pine forest, along a trail little used bytravellers, still less by those who enter Texas with honest intent, orleave Louisiana with unblemished reputations. 

That these horsemen belong not to either category can be told at aglance. They have no waggons, nor other wheeled vehicles, to give themthe semblance of emigrants; no baggage to embarrass them on their march. Without it, they might be explorers, land speculators, surveyors, orhunters. But no. They have not the look of persons who pursue any ofthese callings; no semblance of aught honest or honourable. In allthere are twelve of them; among them not a face but speaks of thePenitentiary--not one which does not brighten up, and show morecheerful, as the hooves of their horses strike the Texan bank of theSabine. 

While on the _terrain_ of Louisiana, they have been riding fast andhard--silent, and with pent-up thoughts, as though pursuers were after. Once on the Texan side all seem relieved, as if conscious of having atlength reached a haven of safety. 

Then he who appears leader of the party, reining up his horse, breakssilence, 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 ournext 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 youngfriend Quantrell here, has given us a double dose, the which I for onewon't get over in a week. "

It is scarcely necessary to say the speaker is Jim Borlasse, and thosespoken to his drinking companions in the Choctaw Chief. 

To a man, they all make affirmative response. Like himself, they tooare fatigued--dead done up by being all night in the saddle, --to saynought about the debilitating effects of their debauch, and ridingrapidly with beard upon the shoulder, under the apprehension that asheriff and posse may be coming on behind. For, during the period oftheir sojourn in Natchitoches, nearly every one of them has committedsome crime that renders him amenable to the laws. 

It may be wondered how such roughs could carry on and escapeobservation, much more, punishment. But at the time Natchitoches was atrue frontier town, and almost every day witnessed the arrival anddeparture of characters "queer" as to dress and discipline--the trappersand prairie traders. Like the sailor in port, when paid off and withfull pockets--making every effort to deplete them--so is the trapperduring 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 ofthe Choctaw Chief would not, and did not, attract particular attention. Not much was said or thought of them, till after they were gone; andthen but by those who had been victimised, resignedly abandoning claimsand losses with the laconic remark, "The scoundrels have G. T. T. "

It was supposed the assassin of Charles Clancy had gone with them; butthis, affecting the authorities more than the general public, was leftto the former to deal with; and in a land of many like affairs, soonceased to be spoken of. 

Borlasse's visit to Natchitoches had not been for mere pleasure. It wasbusiness that took him thither--to concoct a scheme of villainy such asmight be supposed unknown among Anglo-Saxon people, and practised onlyby 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 Texasmay be encountered brigandage as rife and ruthless as among themountains of the Sierra Morena, or the defiles of the Appenines. 

That the Texan bandit has succeeded in arranging everything to hissatisfaction may be learnt from his hilarious demeanour, with the speechnow 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'llbeat horse-ropin' all to shucks. Most o' ye, I reckin, know what Imean; 'ceptin', perhaps, our friends here, who've just joined us. "

The speaker looks towards Phil Quantrell _alias_ Dick Darke, andanother, 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, cananswer for their standin' by us in the bizness. Thar's fifty thousanddollars, clar cash, at the bottom of it; besides sundries in the trinketline. The question then is, whether we'd best wait till this niceassortment of property gets conveyed to the place intended for itsdestination, 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 thattrouble ye. An' most all o' ye know it yourselves. As good luck hasit, 'taint over twenty mile from our old stampin' groun' o' last year. Thar, if we let em' alone, everythin' air sure to be lodged 'ithinless'n a month from now. Thar, we'll find the specie, trinkets, an'other fixins not forgetting the petticoats--sure as eggs is eggs. Tosome o' ye it may appear only a question o' time and patience. I'msorry to tell ye it may turn out somethin' more. "

"Why d'ye say that, capting? What's the use o' waitin' till they getthere?"

CHAPTER FORTY ONE. 

A REPENTANT SINNER. 

Nearly three weeks after Borlasse and his brigands crossed the Sabine, asecond party is seen travelling towards the same river through theforests 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 fourthbestriding 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 ofdeference--to say nothing of his coloured skin--proclaiming him aservant, or slave. 

Still further rearward, and seemingly careful to keep beyond reach ofthe hybrid's heels, is a large dog--a deer-hound. The individuals ofthis second cavalcade will be easily identified, as also the dog thataccompanies it. The three whites are Charles Clancy, Simeon Woodley, and Ned Heywood; he with the tawny complexion Jupiter; while the houndis 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 ofbeing pursued! Yet seems it so, judging from the rapid pace at whichthey ride, and there anxious glances occasionally cast behind. It isso; though for very different reasons from those that affected thefreebooters. 

None of the white men has reason to fear for himself--only for thefugitive slave whom they are assisting to escape from slavery. Partlyon this account are they taking the route, described as rarely travelledby honest men. But not altogether. Another reason has influenced theirselection of it while in Natchitoches they too have put up at theChoctaw Chief; their plans requiring that privacy which an obscurehostelry affords. To have been seen with Jupiter at the Planter's Housemight have been for some Mississippian planter to remember, andidentify, him as the absconded slave of Ephraim Darke. A _contretemps_less likely to occur at the Choctaw Chief, and there stayed they. Itwould have been Woodley's choice anyhow; the hunter having frequentlybefore made this house his home; there meeting many others of his kindand calling. 

On this occasion his sojourn in it has been short; only long enough forhim and his travelling companions to procure a mount for their journeyinto Texas. And while thus occupied they have learnt something, whichdetermined them as to the route they should take. Not the direct roadfor Nacogdoches by which Colonel Armstrong and his emigrants have gone, some ten days before; but a trail taken by another party that had beenstaying at the Choctaw Chief, and left Natchitoches at an earlierperiod--that they are now on. 

Of this party Woodley has received information, sufficiently minute forhim to identify more than one of the personages composing it. Johnnyhas given him the clue. For the Hibernian innkeeper, with his nationalhabit of wagging a free tongue, has besides a sort of liking for Sime, as an antipathy towards Sime's old enemy, Jim Borlasse. The consequenceof which has been a tale told in confidence to the hunter, about thetwelve men late sojourning at the Choctaw Chief, that was kept back fromthe Sheriff on the morning after their departure. The result being, that in choice of a route to Texas, Woodley has chosen that by whichthey are now travelling. For he knows--has told Clancy--that by it hasgone Jim Borlasse, and along with him Richard Darke. 

The last is enough for Clancy. He is making towards Texas with twodistinct aims, the motives diametrically opposite. One is to comfortthe woman he loves, the other to kill the man he hates. 

For both he is eagerly impatient; but he has vowed that the last shallbe first--sworn it upon the grave of his mother. 

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Having reached the river, and crossed it, Clancy and his travellingcompanions, just as Borlasse and his, seek relaxation under the shade ofthe trees. Perhaps, not quite so easy in their minds. For themurderer, on entering Texas, may feel less anxiety than he who has withhim a runaway slave!

Still in that solitary place--on a path rarely trodden--there is nogreat danger; and knowing this, they dismount and make their bivouac_sans souci_. The spot chosen is the same as was occupied by Borlasseand his band. Near the bank of the river is a spreading tree, underneath which a log affords sitting accommodation for at least ascore of men. Seated on this, smoking his pipe, after a refection ofcorn-bread and bacon, Sime Woodley unburdens himself of some secrets heobtained in the Choctaw Chief, which up to this time he has kept backfrom the others. 

"Boys!" he begins, addressing himself to Clancy and Heywood, the mulattostill keeping respectfully apart. "We're now on a spot, whar less'n twoweeks agone, sot or stud, two o' the darndest scoundrels as iver madefutmark on Texan soil. _You_ know one o' 'em, Ned Heywood, but not thetother. Charley Clancy hev akwaintance wi' both, an' a uglyreccoleckshun 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 musta 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 layup a bit. Look! thar's the ashes o' thar fire, whar I 'spose theycooked somethin'. Thar hain't been a critter crossed the river sincethe big rain, else we'd a seed tracks along the way. For they startedjest 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 theEturnal! Roun' the bleeze o' them sticks has sot seven, eight, nine, ormay 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 kumpnybein' 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 allthe while silent, brooding with clouded brow--only now and then showinga faint smile as the hound comes up, and licks his outstretched hand. Heywood has nothing to say; while Jupiter is not expected to take anypart in the conversation. 

For a time they all seem under a spell of lethargy--the lassitude offatigue. They have ridden a long way, and need rest. They might go tosleep alongside the log, but none of them thinks of doing so, least ofall Clancy. There is that in his breast forbidding sleep, and he is buttoo glad when Woodley's next words arouse him from the torpid repose towhich 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 wharPlanter Armstrong intends settin' up his sticks. I know the place 'mostas well as the public squar o' Natchez. This chile intends jeinin' theole kurnel, anyhow. As for you, Charley Clancy, we know whar ye want togo, an' the game ye intend trackin' up. Wal; ef you'll put trust inwhat Sime Woodley say, he sez this: ye'll find that game in theneighbourhood o' Helen Armstrong;--nigh to her as it dar' ventur'. "

The final words have an inflammatory effect upon Clancy. He springs upfrom the log, and strides over the ground, with a wild look andstrangely 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 makethar livin' by ropin' wild horses? I guess he gits more by takin' themas air tame;--as you, Clancy, hev reezun to know. I hain't a doubt he'ddo wuss than that, ef opportunity offered. Thar's been more'n one caseo' highway robbery out thar in West Texas, on emigrant people goin' thatway; an' I don't know a likelier than Borlasse to a had a hand in't. EfKurnel Armstrong's party wan't so strong as 'tis, an' the kurnel hisselfa old campayner, I mout hev my fears for 'em. I reckin they're safeenuf. Borlasse an' his fellurs won't dar tech them. Johnny sez tharwar but ten or twelve in all. Still, tho' they moutn't openly attackthe 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 Creoleplanter, by name Dupray, who's goed wi' Armstrong, an's tuk a big counto' dollars along. Jest the bait to temp Jim Borlasse; an' as for DickDarke, 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 attemptto restrain him. They have rested and sufficiently refreshedthemselves. There is no reason for their remaining any longer on theground. 

Rising simultaneously, each unhitches his horse, and stands by thestirrup, taking in the slack of his reins. 

Before they can spring into their saddles, the deer-hound darts off fromtheir midst--as he does so giving out a growl. 

The stroke of a hoof tells them of some one approaching, and the nextmoment a horseman is seen through the trees. 

Apparently undaunted, he comes on towards their camp ground; but whennear enough to have fair view of their faces, he suddenly reins up, andshows 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 barrelbearing 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 uponhis rein, and permits his horse to stand still. 

Then, at a second command from Woodley, accompanied by; a similarmenace, he urges the animal into action, and moves on towards theirbivouac. 

In less than sixty seconds after, he is in their midst, dismounted anddown 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 bythe 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 hisill-gotten gains. Still more, beaten, and otherwise so roughly handledthat he has been long trying to get quit of their company. Havingstolen away from their camp--while the robbers were asleep--he is nowreturning along the trail they had taken into Texas, on his way back tothe States, with not much left him, except a very sorry horse and asorrowing heart. 

His captors soon discover that, with his sorrow, there is an admixtureof spite against his late associates. Against Darke in particular, whohas 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 muchimpression upon his fellow-travellers. 

After hearing it they bound instantly to their saddles, and spur awayfrom the spot; Harkness, as commanded, following at their horses' heels. This he does without daring to disobey; trotting after, in company withthe dog, seemingly less cur than himself. 

They have no fear of his falling back. Woodley's rifle, whose barrelhas been already borne upon him, can be again brought to the level in aninstant of time. 

The thought holds him secure, as if a trail-rope attached him to thetail of the hunter's horse. 

CHAPTER FORTY TWO. 

THE PRAIRIE CARAVAN. 

Picture in imagination meadows, on which scythe of mower has never cutsward, nor haymaker set foot; meadows loaded with such luxuriance ofvegetation--lush, tall grass--that tons of hay might be garnered off asingle acre; meadows of such extent, that in speaking of them you maynot use the word acres, but miles, even this but faintly conveying theidea of their immensity; in fancy summon up such a scene, and you willhave before you what is a reality in Texas. 

In seeming these plains have no boundary save the sky--no limit nearerthan the horizon. And since to the eye of the traveller this keepscontinually changing, he may well believe them without limit at all, andfancy himself moving in the midst of a green sea, boundless as oceanitself, 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 pleasantlyinterspersed with trees, some standing solitary, but mostly in groves, copses, or belts; these looking, for all the world, like islands in theocean. So perfect is the resemblance, that this very name has beengiven them, by men of Norman and Saxon race; whose ancestors, aftercrossing the Atlantic, carried into the colonies many ideas of themariner, with much of his nomenclature. To them the isolated groves are"islands;" larger tracts of timber, seen afar, "land;" narrow spacesbetween, "straits;" and indentations along their edges "bays. "

To carry the analogy further, the herds of buffalo, with bodies halfburied in the tall grass, may be likened to "schools" of whales; thewild horses to porpoises at play; the deer to dolphins; and the fleetantelopes to flying-fish. 

Completing the figure, we have the vultures that soar above, performingthe part of predatory sea-gulls; the eagle representing the rarerfrigate-bird, or albatross. 

In the midst of this verdant expanse, less than a quarter of a centuryago, man was rarely met; still more rarely civilised man; and rarer yethis dwelling-place. If at times a human being appeared among theprairie groves, he was not there as a sojourner--only a traveller, passing from place to place. The herds of cattle, with shaggy frontletsand humped shoulders--the droves of horses, long-tailed and with fullflowing manes--the proud antlered stags, and prong-horned antelopes, were not his. He had no control over them. The turf he trod was freeto them for pasture, as to him for passage; and, as he made way throughtheir midst, his presence scarce affrighted them. He and his mightboast of being "war's arbiter's, " and lords of the great ocean. Theywere not lords of that emerald sea stretching between the Sabine Riverand the Rio Grande. Civilised man had as yet but shown himself upon itsshores. 

Since then he has entered upon, and scratched a portion of its surface;though not much, compared with its immensity. There are still grandexpanses of the Texan prairie unfurrowed by the ploughshare of thecolonist--almost untrodden by the foot of the explorer. Even at thishour, the traveller may journey for days on grass-grown plains, amidstgroves of timber, without seeing tower, steeple, or so much as a chimneyrising above the tree-tops. If he perceive a solitary smoke, curlingskyward, he knows that it is over the camp-fire of some one likehimself--a wayfarer. 

And it may be above the bivouac of those he would do well to shun. Forupon the green surface of the prairie, as upon the blue expanse of theocean, all men met with are not honest. There be land-sharks as well aswater-sharks--prairie pirates as corsairs of the sea. 

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No spectacle more picturesque, nor yet more pleasing, than that of anemigrant caravan _en route_ over the plains. The huge waggons--"prairieships, " 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 partyriding behind, to look after strays and stragglers, the rear-guard. Usually a herd of cattle along--steers for the plough, young bullocks tosupply beef for consumption on the journey, milch kine to give comfortto the children and colour to the tea and coffee--among them an old bullor two, to propagate the species on reaching the projected settlement. Not unfrequently a drove of pigs, or flock of sheep, with coopscontaining ducks, geese, turkeys, Guinea-fowl--perhaps a screamingpeacock, but certainly Chanticleer and his harem. 

A train of Texan settlers has its peculiarities, though now not somarked as in the times of which we write. Then a noted feature was thenegro--his _status_ a slave. He would be seen afoot, toiling on at thetails of the waggons, not in silence or despondingly, as if the marchwere a forced one. Footsore he might be, in his cheap "brogans" ofPenitentiary fabric, and sore aweary of the way, but never sad. On thecontrary, ever hilarious, exchanging jests with his fellow-pedestrians, or a word with Dinah in the wagon, jibing the teamsters, mocking themule-drivers, sending his cachinations in sonorous ring along the movingline; himself far more mirthful than his master--more enjoying themarch. 

Strange it is, but true, that a lifetime of bondage does not stiflemerriment in the heart of the Ethiopian. Grace of God to the sons ofHam--merciful compensation for mercies endured by them from the dayCanaan 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 sometwenty days ago, it has reached the Colorado river, crossed it, and isnow wending its way towards the San Saba, a tributary of the formerstream. 

It is one of the largest caravans that has yet passed over the prairiesof Texas, counting between twenty and thirty "Conestoga" wagons, withseveral "carrioles" and vehicles of varied kind. Full fifty horsemenride in its front, on its flank, and rear; while five times the numberof pedestrians, men with black or yellow skins, keep pace with it. Aproportionate number of women and children are carried in the wagons, their dusky faces peeping out from under the tilts, in contrast with thecolour of the rain-bleached canvass; while other women and children ofwhite complexion ride in the vehicles with springs. 

In one of the latter--a barouche of the American build--travel two youngladies, distinguished by particular attentions. Half a dozen horsemenhover around their carriage, acting as its escort, each apparentlyanxious to exchange words with them. With one they can talk, jest, laugh, chatter as much as they like; but the other repels them. For thesoul of the former is full of joy; that of the latter steeped insadness. 

Superfluous to say, they are Jessie and Helen Armstrong. And needlessto tell why the one is gay, the other grave. Since we last saw them inthe hotel of Natchitoches, no change has taken place in their hearts ortheir hopes. The younger of the two, Jessie, is still an expectantbride, certain soon to be a wife; and with this certainty rejoices inthe future. Helen, with no such expectation, no wish for it, feeling asone widowed, grieves over the past. The former sees her lover by herside living and loving, constantly, caressingly; the latter can butthink of hers as something afar off--a dream--a dread vision--a coldcorpse--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 thatthe supremest, most painful suffering that can afflict humanity--themalady of _melancholia_. The word conveys but a faint idea of thesuffering itself. Only they who have known it--fortunately but few--cancomprehend the terror, the wan, wasting misery, endured by those whosenerves have given way under some terrible stroke of misfortune. 'Tisthe story of a broken heart. 

Byron has told us "the heart may break and brokenly live on. " In thisher hour of unhappiness, Helen Armstrong would not and could not believehim. It may seem strange that Jessie is still only a bride to be. Butno. She remembers the promise made to her father--to share with him ahome in Texas, however humble it might be. All the same, now that sheknows 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; whichthey will be soon as the new home is reached. 

The goal of their journey is to be the culminating point of Jessie'sjoy--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. Thereis a valley or "bottom-land, " only a little elevated above the water'ssurface, and often submerged during inundations, --beyond this thebluffs. 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-shotapart. And of these there are frequently two or three tiers, orterraces, receding backward from the river, the crest of the last andoutmost being but the edge of an upland plain, which is often sterileand treeless. Any timber upon it is stunted, and of those species towhich a dry soil is congenial. Mezquite, juniper, and "black-jack" oaksgrow in groves or spinneys; while standing apart may be observed thearborescent jucca--the "dragon-tree" of the Western world, toweringabove an underwood unlike any other, composed of _cactaceae_ in all thevarieties of cereus, cactus, and echinocactus. Altogether unlike is thebottom-land bordering upon the river. There the vegetation is lush andluxuriant, showing a growth of large forest timber--the trees setthickly, and matted with many parasites, that look like cables coilingaround and keeping them together. These timbered tracts are notcontinuous, but show stretches of open between, --here little gladesfilled with flowers, there grand meadows overgrown with grass--so tallthat the horseman riding through it has his shoulders swept by thespikes, 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 theLlano Estacado, it espouses the Colorado--gliding softly, like a shybride, into the embrace of the larger and stronger-flowing stream. 

For a moment departing from the field of romance, and treading upon thedomain of history--or it may be but legend--a word about this Coloradoriver may interest the reader. 

Possibly, probably, almost lor certain, there is no province in allSpanish America without its "Rio Colorado. " The geographer could countsome scores of rivers so named--point them out on any map. They areseen in every latitude, trending in all directions, from the greatColorado of _canon_ celebrity in the north to another far south, whichcuts a deep groove through the plains of Patagonia. All these streamshave been so designated from the hue of their waters--muddy, with apronounced tinge of red: this from the ochreous earth through which theyhave coursed, holding it in suspension. 

In the Texan Colorado there is nothing of this; on the contrary, it is aclear water stream. A circumstance that may seem strange, till theexplanation be given--which is, that the name is a _misnomer_. In otherwords, the Texan river now bearing the designation Colorado is not thatso-called by the Spaniards, but their Rio Brazos; while the presentBrazos is their Rio Colorado--a true red-tinted stream. The exchange ofnames is due to an error of the American map-makers, unacquainted withthe Spanish tongue. Giving the Colorado its true name of Brazos, ormore correctly "Brazos de Dios" ("The Arms of God"), the origin of thissingular title for a stream presents us with a history, or legend, alikesingular. As all know, Texas was first colonised by Spaniards, orSpanish Mexicans, on what might be termed the "militant missionarysystem. " Monks were sent into the province, cross in hand, withsoldiers at their back, bearing the sword. Establishments were formedin different parts of the country; San Antonio de Bejar being theecclesiastical centre, as also the political capital. Around these theaborigines were collected, and after a fashion converted toChristianity. With the christianising process, however, there wereother motives mixed up, having very little to do either with morality orreligion. Comfortable subsistence, with the accumulation of wealth bythe missionaries themselves, was in most instances the lure whichattracted them to Texas, tempting them to risk their lives in theso-called conversion of the heathen. 

The mission-houses were in the monasterial style, many of them on agrand scale--mansions in fact, with roomy refectories, and kitchens tocorrespond; snug sitting and sleeping-chambers; well-paved courts andspacious gardens attached. Outside the main building, sometimes formingpart of it, was a church, or _capilla_; near by the _presidio_, orbarrack for their military protectors; and beyond, the _rancheria_, orvillage of huts, the homes of the new-made neophytes. 

No great difficulty had the fathers in thus handsomely housingthemselves. The converts did all the work, willingly, for the sake andin the name of the "Holy Faith, " into which they had been recentlyinducted. Nor did their toil end with the erection of themission-buildings. It was only transferred to a more layical kind; tothe herding of cattle, and tillage of the surrounding land; thiscontinued throughout their whole lives--not for their own benefit, butto enrich those idle and lazy friars, in many cases men of the mostprofligate character. It was, in fact, a system of slavery, based uponand sustained by religious fanaticism. The result as might beexpected--failure and far worse. Instead of civilising the aboriginesof America, it has but brutalised them the more--by eradicating fromtheir hearts whatever of savage virtue they had, and implanting in itsplace 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, havegiven it to the world. Many of these writers are, or were, officers inthe United States army, deputed to explore the wild territories in whichthe missions existed. Having received their education in Roman Catholicseminaries, they have been inducted into taking a too lenient view ofthe doings of the "old Spanish padres;" hence their testimony sofavourable to the system. 

The facts are all against them; these showing it a scheme of_villeinage_, more oppressive than the European serfdom of the MiddleAges. The issue is sufficient proof of this. For it was falling topieces, long before the Anglo-Saxon race entered into possession of theterritory where it once flourished. The missions are now in a state ofdecadence, their buildings fast falling into decay; while the red man, disgusted at the attempt to enslave, under the clock of christianisinghim, has returned to his idolatry, as to his savage life. 

Several of these _misiones_ were established on the San Saba river; oneof which for a considerable period enjoyed a prosperous existence, andnumbered among its neophytes many Indians of the Lipan and Comanchetribes. 

But the tyranny of their monkish teachers by exactions of tenths andalmost continuous toil--themselves living in luxurious ease, and withoutmuch regard to that continence they inculcated--at length provoked thesuffering serfs to revolt. In which they were aided by those Indianswho had remained unconverted, and still heretically roamed around theenvirons. The consequence was that, on a certain day when the huntersof the _mision_ were abroad, and the soldiers of the _presidio_ alikeabsent on some expedition, a band of the outside idolaters, in leaguewith the discontented converts, entered the mission-building, with armsconcealed under their ample cloaks of buffalo skin. After prowlingabout for a while in an insolent manner, they at length, at a givensignal from their chief, attacked the proselytising _padres_, with thosewho 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 ofTexas. Stealing off at the commencement of the massacre, he succeededin making his way down the valley of the San Saba, to its confluencewith the Colorado. But to reach an asylum of safety it was necessaryfor him to cross the latter stream; in which unfortunately there was afreshet, its current so swollen that neither man nor horse could fordit. 

The _padre_ stood upon its bank, looking covetously across, andlistening in terror to the sounds behind; these being the war-cries ofthe pursuing Comanches. 

For a moment the monk believed himself lost. But just then the arm ofGod was stretched forth to save him. This done in a fashion somewhatdifficult to give credence to, though easy enough for believers in HolyFaith. It was a mere miracle; not stranger, or more apocryphal, than wehear of at this day in France, Spain, or Italy. The only singularityabout the Texan tale is the fact of its not being original; for it is apure piracy from Sacred Writ--that passage of it which relates to thecrossing of the Red Sea by Moses and his Israelites. 

The Spanish monk stood on the river's bank, his eyes fixed despairinglyon its deep rapid-running current, which he knew he could not crosswithout danger of being drowned. Just at this crisis he saw the watersseparate; the current suddenly stayed, and the pebbly bed showing dry asa shingle!

Tucking his gown under his girdle, he struck into the channel; and, nodoubt, making good time--though the legend does not speak of this--hesucceeded in planting his sandalled feet, dry shod, on the oppositeshore! So far the Texan story closely corresponds with the Mosaic. Beyond, the incidents as related, are slightly different. Pharaoh'sfollowing host was overwhelmed by the closing waters. The pursuingComanches did not so much as enter the charmed stream; which, withchannel filled up, as before, was running rapidly on. They were foundnext morning upon the bank where they had arrived in pursuit, all dead, all lying at full stretch along the sward, their heads turned in thesame direction, like trees struck down by a tornado!

Only the Omnipotent could have done this. No mortal hand could makesuch a _coup_. Hence the name which the Spaniards bestowed upon thepresent Colorado, _Brazos de Dios_--the "Hand of God. " Hence also thehistory, or rather fable, intended to awe the minds of the rebelliousredskins, and restore them to Christanity, or serfdom. 

Which it did not; since from that day the _misiones_ of San Sabaremained abandoned, running into ruin. 

It is to one of these forsaken establishments Colonel Armstrong isconducting his colony; his future son-in-law having purchased the largetract of territory attached to it. 

To that spot, where more than a century ago the monks made halt, withcross borne conspicuously in one hand, and sword carried surreptitiouslyin the other, there is now approaching a new invasion--that of axe andrifle--neither ostentatiously paraded, but neither insidiouslyconcealed. 

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. 

A CLOUD ON THE CLIFFS. 

After a long toilsome journey through Eastern Texas, the emigrant trainhas reached the San Saba, and is working its way up-stream. Slowly, forthe bottom-land is in some places heavily timbered, and the roadrequires clearing for the waggons. 

The caravan has entered the valley on the left, or northern, bank of theriver, while its point of destination is the southern; but a few milesabove its confluence with the Colorado is a ford, by which the rightside may be reached at low water. Luckily it is now at its lowest, andthe waggons are got across without accident, or any great difficulty. 

Once on the southern side, there is nothing to obstruct or further delaythem. Some ten miles above is the abandoned mission-house, which theyexpect to reach that day, before going down of the sun. 

With perhaps one exception, the emigrants are all happy, most of them inexuberant spirits. They are nearing a new home, having long ago leftthe old one behind; left also a thousand cankering cares, --many of themmore than half a life spent in struggles and disappointments. In theuntried field before them there is hope; it may be success andsplendour; a prospect like the renewing of life's lease, the younger tofind fresh joys, the older to grow young again. 

For weeks has the San Saba mission-house been the theme of theirthoughts, and topic of discourse. They will re-people the deserteddwelling, restore it to its pristine splendour; bring its long neglectedfields under tillage--out of them make fortunes by the cultivation ofcotton. 

There is no cloud to darken the horizon of their hopes. The toilsomejourney is nearly at an end, and rejoicingly they hail its termination. Whether their train of white tilted wagons winds its way under shadowingtrees, or across sunlit glades, there is heard along its line onlyjoyous speech and loud hilarious laughter. 

So go they on, regardless about the future, or only thinking of it asfull of bright promise. Little do they dream how it may be affected bysomething seen upon the cliffs above, though not seen by them. At thepoint they have now reached, the bottom-land is several miles wide, withits bordering of grim bluffs rising on either flank, and running far aseye can see. On the left side, that they have just forsaken, not uponthe river's bank, but the cliff far back, is a cloud. No darkness ofthe sky, or concentration of unsubstantial vapour. But a gathering onthe earth, and of men; who, but for their being on horseback, might bemistaken for devils. In Satan's history the horse has no part; though, strange to say, Satan's sons are those who most affect friendship forthe noble animal. Of the horsemen seen hovering above the San Sabathere are in all twenty; most of them mounted upon mustangs, the nativesteed 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 havebeen sun-tanned beyond anything commonly seen. In addition to theirtint of burnt umber, they are all garishly painted; their facesescutcheoned with chalk-white, charcoal-black, and vermillion-red. Oftheir bodies not much can be seen. Blankets of blue and scarlet, orbuffalo robes, shroud their shoulders; while buckskin breeches andleggings wrap their lower limbs; mocassins encasing their feet. Inaddition to its dress, they wear the usual Indian adornments. Stainedeagle-plumes stand tuft-like out of their raven-black hair, which, intrailing tresses, sweeps back over the hips of their horses; whilestrings of peccaries' teeth and claws of the grizzly bear fall overtheir breasts in bountiful profusion. 

It is true, they are not in correct fighting costume. Nor would theirtoilet betoken them on the "war-trail. " But the Texan Indian does notalways dress warrior-fashion, when he goes forth upon a predatoryexcursion. More rarely when on a mere pilfering maraud, directedagainst some frontier settlement, or travelling party of whites. Onsuch occasions he does not intend fighting, but rather shuns it. And, as thieving is more congenial to him, he can steal as cleverly andadroitly in a buckskin hunting-shirt, as with bare arms. 

The Indians in question number too few for a war party. At the sametime, their being without women is evidence they are on no errand ofpeace. 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 silentarrow. 

In their armour, and equipment there are other peculiarities theordinary traveller might not comprehend, but which to the eye of an oldprairie man would be regarded as suspicious. Such an one would at oncepronounce them a band of _prairie pirates_, and of the most dangerouskind to be encountered in all the territory of Texas. 

Whoever they may be, and whatever their design, their behaviour iscertainly singular. Both by their looks and gestures it can be toldthey are watching the waggon train, and interested in its everymovement; as also taking care not to be themselves observed by thosebelonging to it. To avoid this they keep back from the crest of theescarpment; so far, it would not be possible to see them from any partof the bottom-land below. 

One of their number, afoot, goes closer to the cliff's edge, evidentlysent there by the others as a sort of moving vidette. Screened by thecedars that form its _criniere_, he commands a view of the river valleybelow, without danger of being himself seen from it. 

At short intervals he passes back a pace or two, and gesticulates to theothers. 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 bewatching the travellers with the intention of waylaying them. 

Afar off are the waggons, just distinguishable as such by their whitecanvas tilts--the latter in contrast with the surface of vivid greenover which they are progressing. Slowly crawling along, they bearsimilitude to a string of gigantic _termites_ bent on some industrialexcursion. Still the forms of mounted men--at least forty in number, can be distinguished. Some riding in front of the train, some in itsrear, and others alongside of it. No wonder the twenty savage men, whopursue the parallel line along the cliff, are taking care not toapproach it too nearly. One would suppose that from such a strongtravelling party their chance of obtaining plunder would seem to thembut slight. And yet they do not appear to think so. For as the caravantrain tardily toils on up the bottom-land, they too move along the upperplain 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 sinkslow--almost to the horizon. Then they halt upon a spot thickly besetwith cedar trees--a sort of promontory projecting over the river valley. 

On its opposite side they can see the waggons still slowly creepingalong, though now not all in motion. Those in the lead have stopped;the others doing likewise, as, successively, they arrive at the sameplace. 

This in front of a large building, just discernible in the distance, itsoutlines with difficulty traceable under the fast gathering gloom of thetwilight. 

But the savages who survey it from the bluff have seen that buildingbefore, 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 astop before its walls. 

While watching these, but few words are exchanged between them, and onlyin an under tone. Much or loud talk would not be in keeping with theirIndian character. Still enough passes in their muttered speeches--observable also in the expression of their features--for any one hearingthe first, or seeing the last, to predict danger to the colony ofColonel Armstrong. If looks count for aught, or words can be relied onthe 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 thedwelling-place of the ci-devant Mississippi planter, calls for a word ofdescription. 

It stands on the right side of the river, several hundred yards from thebank, on a platform slightly elevated above the general level of thesurrounding _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, andin all countries, has characterised these spiritual teachers of theheathen. 

Its elevated position gives it command of a fine prospect, at the sametime securing it against the danger of inundation, when the river is inflood. 

In architectural style the mission-building itself does not much differfrom that of most Mexican country houses--called _haciendas_. 

Usually a grand quadrangular structure, with an uncovered court in thecentre, 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, ofgaol-like aspect, giving admittance to the passage-way, called _saguan_;this of sufficient capacity to admit a waggon with its load, intendedfor those grand old coaches that lumbered along our own highways in thedays of Dick Turpin, and in which Sir Charles Grandison used luxuriouslyto ride. Vehicles of the exact size, and pattern, may be seen to thisday crawling along the country roads of modern Mexico--relics of agrandeur long since gone. 

The _patio_ is paved with stone flags, or tesselated tiles; and, where ahead of water can be had, a fountain plays in the centre, surrounded byorange-trees, or other evergreens, with flowering-plants in pots. Torearward of this inner court, a second passage-way gives entrance toanother, and larger, if not so sumptuously arrayed; this devoted tostables, store-rooms, and other domestic offices. Still farther back isthe _huerta_, or garden. 

That attached to the ancient monastery is an enclosure of several acresin extent, surrounded by a high wall of _adobes_; made to look stillhigher from being crested with a palisade of the organ cactus. Filledwith fruit trees and flowering shrubs, these once carefully cultivated, but for long neglected, now cover the walks in wild luxuriance. Undertheir shade, silently treading with sandalled feet, or reclining onrustic benches, the Texan friars used to spend their idle hours, quiteas pleasantly as their British brethren of Tintern and Tewkesbury. Ofthave the walls of the San Saba mission-house echoed their "ha, ha!" asthey quaffed the choicest vintage of Xeres, and laughed at jests ribaldas any ever perpetrated in a pot-house. Not heard, however, by theconverted heathen under their care; nor intended to be. For them therewere dwellings apart; a collection of rude hovels, styled the_rancheria_. These were screened from view by a thick grove ofevergreen trees; the _padres_ not relishing a too close contact withtheir half-naked neophytes, who were but their _peons_--in short theirslaves. In point of fact, it was the feudal system of the Old Worldtransported to the New; with the exception that the manorial lords weremonks, and the _villeins_ savage men. And the pretence atproselytising, with its mongrel mixture of Christianity andsuperstition, did not make this Transatlantic _villeinage_ a whit lessirksome to endure. Proof, that the red-skinned serfs required the ironhand of control is found in the _presidio_, or soldier's barrack--standing close by--its ruin overlooking those of the _rancheria_. Theywho had been conquered by the Cross, still needed the sword to keep themin 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 uptheir abode in them. They are only to serve as temporary residences, until better homes can be built. There is no time for this now. Thespring is on, and the cotton-seed must be got into the ground, to theneglect of everything else. 

Colonel Armstrong himself, with his daughters and domestics, occupiesthe old mission-building, which also gives lodgment to Luis Dupre andhis belongings. For the young planter is now looked upon as a member ofthe Armstrong family, and it wants but a word from one in holy orders tomake him really so. And such an one has come out with the colonists. The marriage ceremony is but deferred until the cotton-seed be safeunder the soil. Then there will be a day of jubilee, such as has neverbeen seen upon the San Saba; a _fiesta_, which in splendour will eclipseanything the Spanish monks, celebrated for such exhibitions, have evergot up, or attempted. 

But "business before pleasure" is the adage of the hour; and, after aday or two given to rest, with the arrangement of household affairs, thereal work of colonising commences. The little painted ploughs, transported from the States, are set to soiling their paint, by turningup the fertile clod of the San Saba valley, which has so long lainfallow; while the seed of the cotton-plant is scattered far and wideover hundreds--ay, thousands of acres. 

Around the ancient mission is inaugurated a new life, with scenes ofindustry, 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 vigorousactivity there displayed--would answer this question in the affirmative. 

But he who looks farther off--raising his eyes to the bluff on theopposite side of the river, fixing them on that spot where the Indiansmade halt--would hesitate before thus prognosticating. In the duskycohort he might suspect some danger threatening the new settlement. 

True, the savages are no longer there. After seeing the waggons oneafter another becoming stationary, like vultures deprived of a carrionrepast, they moved away. But not far. Only about five miles, to agrove of timber standing back upon the plain, where they have made amore 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. Especiallyduring the night hours do they appear on the alert--with eyes bent onthe far off mission-buildings--watching the window-lights that steadilyshine, and the torches that flit to and fro. Watching for something notyet seen. What can it be?

And what is the design of these painted savages, who look more likedemons than men? Is it to attack the new colony, plunder, and destroyit?

Regarding their numbers, this would seem absurd. They are in all onlytwenty; while the colonists count at least fifty fighting men. Nocommon men either; but most of them accustomed to the use of arms; manybackwoodsmen, born borderers, staunch as steel. Against such, twentyIndians--though the picked warriors of the warlike Comanche tribe--wouldstand no chance in fair open fight. But they may not mean this; andtheir 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 manoeuvringcan mean no good, but may be fraught with evil to Colonel Armstrong andhis colonists. 

For several successive days is this surveillance maintained, and stillnothing seems to come of it. The party of savages remains encamped inthe timber at back; while the two sentinels keep their place upon thepromontory; though now and then going and coming, as before. 

But on a certain night they forsake their post altogether, as if theirobject 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 themission-building, and making away from its walls. He is not seen, nevertheless. For it is the hour of midnight, and all have retired torest--the whole household seemingly wrapt in profoundest slumber. Moreover, the man slips out stealthily, through the backdoor; thenceacross the second courtyard, and along a narrow passage leading into thegarden. Having reached this, he keeps on down the centre walk, and overthe wall at bottom, through which there chances to be a breach. Allthese mysterious movements are in keeping with the appearance of theman. For his countenance shows cunning of no ordinary kind. At firstglance, and under the moonlight, he might be mistaken for a mulatto. But, though coloured, he is not of this kind. His tawny skin shows atinge of red, which tells of Indian, rather than African blood. He is, in truth, a _mestizo_--half Spaniard or Mexican, the other half beingthe aboriginal race of America. 

It is a breed not always evil-disposed, still less frequentlyill-featured; and, so far as looks go, the individual in question mightclaim to be called handsome. He has a plenteous profusion of dark curlyhair, framing a countenance by no means common. A face of oval form, regular features, the nose and chin markedly prominent, a pair of coalblack eyes, with a well-defined crescent over each. Between his lipsare teeth, sound and of ivory whiteness, seeming whiter in contrast witha pair of jet black moustaches. 

Taking his features singly, any of them might be pronounced comely. Andyet the _tout ensemble_ is not pleasing. Despite physical beauty, thereis something in the man's face that appears repulsive, and causesshrinking in the heart of the beholder. Chiefly is it his eyes thatseem to produce this effect; their glance inspiring fear, such as onefeels while being gazed at by an adder. 

Not always can this sinister look be observed. For the _mestizo_, whenface to face with his superiors, has the habit of holding his eyesaverted--cast down, as if conscious of having committed crime, or anintention to commit it. 

Most with whom he comes in contact are impressed with the idea, that heeither has sinned, or intends sinning; so all are chary of giving himconfidence. 

No--not all. There is one exception: one man who has trusted, and stillcontinues to trust him--the young planter, Dupre. So far, that he hasmade 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 whorendered it habitable, by filling it with furniture and giving it astaff of servants. Colonel Armstrong is but its head through courtesydue 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 onecan clearly comprehend. For he is not one of those domestics, whoseintegrity 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 thatsection of Texas whither the colony was to be conducted. But longbefore reaching their destination, Dupre had promoted him to a higherand 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, inwhispers, that the thing is strange, and adding, "No good can come ofit. "

Could any of them observe the _mestizo_ at this midnight hour, skulkingaway 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 onthe edge of attract of timber lying between--its outer edge, opentowards the river's bank, and the bluffs beyond. 

There, crouching down by the side of a flat stone, he pours somegunpowder upon it, from a horn taken out of his pocket. 

This done, he draws forth a box of lucifer matches; scrapes one acrossthe 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 thedwelling-house, entering it by the way he went out, and stealthily asbefore. 

No one within its walls has been witness to the pyrotechnic display. 

For all, it has not been unobserved. The Indian videttes, stationed onthe far-off bluff, see it. See, and furthermore, seem to accept it as asignal--a cue for action. What but this could have caused them tospring upon the backs of their horses, forsake their post ofobservation, and gallop off to the bivouac of their comrades; which theydo, 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 ishis telegraph, by which he can communicate with far off friends, tellingthem where an enemy is, and how or when he should be "struck. " A singlespark, or smoke, has in it much of meaning. A flash may mean more; butten following in succession were alphabet enough to tell a tale of nocommon 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 Mississippihas been a lucky move; so far all has gone well; and if the future butrespond to its promise, his star, long waning, will be once more in theascendant. There is but one thought to darken this bright dream: thecondition of his eldest daughter. Where all others are rejoicing, thereis no gladness for her. Sombre melancholy seems to have takenpossession of her spirit, its shadow almost continuously seated on herbrow. Her eyes tell of mental anguish, which, affecting her heart, isalso making inroad on her health. Already the roses have gone out ofher cheeks, leaving only lilies; the pale flowers foretelling an earlytomb. 

The distressing symptoms do not escape the fond father's observation. Indeed he knows all about them, now knowing their cause. Only throughthe Natchez newspapers was he first made aware of that secretcorrespondence between his daughter and Clancy. But since she hasconfessed all--how her heart went with her words; is still true to whatshe then said. The last an avowal not needed: her pallid cheeksproclaiming it. The frank confession, instead of enraging her father, but gives him regret, and along with it self-reproach. But for hisaristocratic pride, with some admixture of cupidity, he would havepermitted Clancy's addresses to his daughter. With an open honourablecourtship, 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 arisingtherefrom, may throw oblivion over the past. And perchance a new lovermay cause the lost one to be less painfully remembered. Severalaspirants have already presented themselves; more than one of theyounger members of the colony having accompanied it, with no view ofmaking fortunes by the cultivation of cotton, but solely to be besideHelen Armstrong. 

Her suitors one and all will be disappointed. She to whom they sue isnot an ordinary woman; nor her affections of the fickle kind. Like theeagle's mate, deprived of her proud lord, she will live all her afterlife in lone solitude--or die. She has lost her lover, or thinks so, believing Clancy dead; but the love still burns within her bosom, andwill, so long as her life may last. Colonel Armstrong soon begins tosee this, and despairs of the roses ever again returning to the cheeksof his elder daughter. 

It would, no doubt, be different were the blighted heart that of hisyounger. With her the Spanish proverb, "_un clavo saca otro clavo_, "might have meaning. By good fortune, Jessie needs no nail to drive outanother. Her natural exuberance of spirits grown to greater joy fromthe hopes that now halo her young life, is flung over the future of all. Some compensation for her sister's sadness--something to cheer theircommon father. There is also the excitement attendant on the industriesof the hour--the cares of the cotton-planting, with speculations aboutthe success of the crop--these, with a hundred like thoughts and things, hinder him from so frequently recurring to, or so long dwelling on, thatwhich can but cruelly distress. 

It is the night succeeding that in which the mestizo made his privatepyrotechnic display; and Colonel Armstrong with his future son-in-law isseated in the former refectory of the mission, which they have convertedinto a decent dining-room. 

They are not alone, or, as in French phraseology better expressed, _chezeux memes_. Six or seven of their fellow-colonists of the better classshare the saloon with them--these being guests whom they have invited todinner. 

The meal is over, the hour touching ten, the ladies have retired fromthe table, only the gentlemen remain, drinking choice claret, whichDupre, a sort of Transatlantic Lucullus, has brought with him from hisLouisiana wine bins. 

Armstrong himself, being of Scotch ancestry, has the national preferencefor whisky punch; and a tumbler of this beverage--the best in theworld--stands on the table before him. His glass has been filled threetimes, and is as often emptied. 

It need not be said, at this moment he is not sad. After three tumblersof whisky toddy no man can help being hilarious; and so is it withColonel Armstrong. Seated at the head of his dining-table, the steamingpunch before him, he converses with his guests, gay as the gayest. Fora time their conversation is on general topics; but at length changes toone more particular. Something said has directed their attention to aman, 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 affairsgenerally. 

As is usual with such grand dignitaries, he has withdrawn simultaneouslywith the removal of the tablecloth, leaving a deputy to look to thedecanting of the wine. Therefore, there is nothing remarkable in hisdisappearance; nor would aught be observed about it, but for a remarkmade by one of the guests during the course of conversation. A youngsurgeon, who has cast in his lot with the new colony, is he who startsthe topic, thus introducing it:--

"Friend Dupre, where did you get that fellow Fernand? I don't rememberhaving seen him on your Louisiana plantation. "

"I picked him up in Natchitoches while we were organising. You know Ilost my old major-domo last fall by the yellow fever. It took him offwhile we were down in New Orleans. Fernand, however, is his superior inevery sense; can keep plantation accounts, wait at table, drive acarriage, or help in a hunt. He's a fellow of wonderful versatility; inshort, a genius. And what is rare in such a combination of talents, heis 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 hisown account his father was a Spaniard, or rather a Mexican, and hismother an Indian of the Seminole tribe. His real name is Fernandez; butfor convenience I've dropped the final syllable. "

"It's a bad sort of mixture, that between Spaniard and Seminole, and notimproved by the Spaniard being a Mexican, " remarks he who made theinquiry. 

"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 ofthe major-domo. Instead of going on to explain, he puts a secondinterrogatory--

"May I ask, M. Dupre, whether you had any character with him?"

"No, indeed, " admits the master. "He came to me just before we leftNatchitoches asking for an engagement. He professed to know all aboutTexas, and offered to act as a guide. As I had engaged guides, I didn'twant him for that when he said any other place would do. Seeing him tobe a smart sort of fellow, which he certainly has proved, I engaged himto look after my baggage. Since, I've found him useful in other ways, and have given him full charge of everything--even to entrusting himwith the care of my modest money chest. "

"In doing that, " rejoins the surgeon, "I should say you've actedsomewhat 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 didsince the day of our starting. Since I never set eyes on him before, Icould have had no impression to prejudice me against him. I admit that, judging by physiognomy, any one may be mistaken; and I shouldn't haveallowed myself to be led by that. In this case, however, a circumstancehas contributed to shaping my judgment; in fact, deciding me in theopinion, that your fellow Fernand is not only dishonest, but somethingworse than a thief. "

"Worse than a thief!" is the simultaneous echo from all sides of thetable, succeeded by a universal demand for explanation. 

"Your words have a weighty sound, doctor, " is Colonel Armstrong's way ofputting it. "We are anxious to hear what they mean. "

"Well, " responds Wharton, "you shall know why I've spoken them, andwhat's led me to suspect this fellow Fernand. You can draw your ownconclusions, from the premises I put before you. Last night at a latehour--near midnight--I took a fancy into my head to have a strolltowards the river. Lighting a weed, I started out. I can't say exactlyhow far I may have gone; but I know that the cigar--a long `HenryClay'--was burnt to the end before I thought of turning back. As I wasabout doing so, I heard a sound, easily made out to be the footsteps ofa man, treading the firm prairie turf. As it chanced just then, I wasunder a pecan-tree that screened me with its shadow; and I kept myground without making any noise. 

"Shortly after, I saw the man whose footfall I had heard, and recognisedhim as M. Dupre's head-servant. He was coming up the valley, toward thehouse here, as if returning from some excursion. I mightn't havethought much of that, but for noticing, as he passed me, that he didn'twalk erect or on the path, but crouchingly, among the trees skirting it. 

"Throwing away the stump of my cigar, I set out after him, treadingstealthily as he. Instead of entering by the front, he went round thegarden, all the way to its rear; where suddenly I lost sight of him. Onarriving at the spot where he had disappeared, I saw there was a breakin the wall. Through that, of course, he must have passed, and enteredthe mission-building at the back. Now, what are we to make of allthis?"

"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 confessmyself at fault; and cannot account for the fellow's movements; though Itake you'll all acknowledge they were odd. As I've said, M. Dupre, Ididn't from the first like your man of versatile talents; and I'm nowmore than ever distrustful of him. Still I profess myself unable toguess what he was after last night. Can any of you, gentlemen?"

No one can. The singular behaviour of Dupre's servant is a puzzle toall present. At the same time, under the circumstances, it has aserious aspect. 

Were there any neighbouring settlement, the man might be supposedreturning from a visit to it; entering stealthily, from being out late, and under fear of rebuke from his master. As there are no suchneighbours, this theory cannot be entertained. 

On the other hand, there has been no report of Indians having been seenin proximity to the place. If there had, the mestizo's conduct might beaccounted for, upon an hypothesis that would certainly causeapprehension to those discussing it. 

But no savages have been seen, or heard of; and it is known that theSouthern Comanches--the only Indians likely to be there encountered--arein treaty of peace with the Texan Government. Therefore, the nocturnalexcursion of the half-blood could not be connected with anything of thiskind. 

His singular, and seemingly eccentric, behaviour, remains an unsolvedproblem to the guests around the table; and the subject is eventuallydropped their conversation changing to other and pleasanter themes. 

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. 

OPPOSITE EMBLEMS. 

Pleasure has not been the sole purpose for which Colonel Armstrong isgiving his little dinner party, else there would have been ladiesinvited along with the gentlemen. It is rather a re-union to talk overthe affairs of the colony; hence the only ladies present were thedaughters of the host. And, for the same reason, these have retiredfrom the table at an early hour, betaking themselves to the _sala_ ofthe old monastery, their sitting and drawing-room. This, though anample apartment, is anything but a pleasant one; never much affected bythe monks, who in their post-prandial hours, preferred sticking to therefectory. A hasty attempt has been made to modernise it; but the lightfurniture of French Creole fabric, brought along from Louisiana, illaccords with its heavy style of architecture, while its decayed wallsand ceilings _lezardee_, give it a gloomy dismal look, all the more fromthe large room being but dimly lit up. As it is not a drawing-roomparty, the ladies expect that for a long while, if not all evening, theywill be left alone in it. For a time they scarce know how to employthemselves. With Helen, amusement is out of the question. She hasflung 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 toher, which chances to be "Lucy Neal, " a negro melody, at the time muchin vogue on the plantations of the South. She has chosen the patheticstrain without thought of the effect it may produce upon her sister. Observing it to be painful she abruptly breaks off, and with a sweep ofher fingers across the guitar strings, changes to the merrier refrain of"Old Dan Tucker. " Helen, touched by the delicate consideration, rewardsit with a faint smile. Then, Jessie rattles on through a _melange_ ofnegro ministrelsy, all of the light comical kind, her only thought beingto chase away her sister's despondency. 

Still is she unsuccessful. Her merry voice, her laughter, and thecheerful tinkle of the guitar strings, are all exerted in vain. Thesounds so little in consonance with Helen's thoughts seem sorely out ofplace in that gloomy apartment; whose walls, though they once echoed thelaughter of roystering friars, have, no doubt, also heard the sighs ofmany a poor _peon_ suffering chastisement for disobedience, or apostacy. 

At length perceiving how idle are her efforts, the younger sister laysaside her guitar, at the same time starting to her feet, andsaying:--"Come, Helen! suppose we go outside for a stroll? That will bemore agreeable than moping in this gloomsome cavern. There's abeautiful 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 alittle weedy. A queer weird place it is--looks as if it might behaunted. I shouldn't wonder if we met a ghost in it--some of the oldmonks; or it might be one of their victims. 'Tis said they were verycruel, and killed people--ay, tortured them. Only think of the savagemonsters! True, the ones that were here, as I've heard, got killedthemselves in the end--that's some satisfaction. But it's all the morereason for their ghosts being about. If we should meet one, what wouldyou 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 candare both, having nought to make me care for life--"

"Come on!" cries Jessie, interrupting the melancholy train ofreflection, "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 onthrough a narrow passage communicating with the walled enclosure atback; once a grand garden under careful cultivation, still grand in itsneglect. 

After entering it, the sisters make stop, and for a while standsurveying the scene. The moon at full, coursing through a cloudlesssky, flings her soft light upon gorgeous flowers with corollas buthalf-closed, in the sultry southern night giving out their fragrance asby 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_, theMexican nightingale. One of these birds perched upon a branch, andpouring forth its love-lay in loud passionate strain, breaks off atsight of them. Only for a short interval is it silent; then resumingits 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 theyhave not hitherto heard. It is their own mocking-bird of the States, introducing into its mimic minstrelsy certain variations, the imitationsof sounds peculiar to Texas. 

After having listened to it for a short while, the girls move on downthe centre walk, now under the shadow of trees, anon emerging into themoonlight; which shimmering on their white evening robes, and reflectingthe sparkle of their jewellery, produces a pretty effect. 

The garden ground slopes gently backward; and about half-way between thehouse and the bottom wall is, or has been, a fountain. The basin isstill there, and with water in it, trickling over its edge. But the jetno longer plays, and the mason-work shows greatly dilapidated. So alsothe seats and statues around, some of the latter yet standing, othersbroken off, and lying alongside their pedestals. 

Arriving at this spot, the sisters again stop, and for a time standcontemplating the ruins; the younger making a remark, suggested by athought of their grandeur gone. 

"Fountains, statues, seats under shade trees, every luxury to be got outof a garden! What Sybarites the Holy Fathers must have been!"

"Truly so, " assents Helen. "They seem to have made themselves quitecomfortable; and whatever their morals, it must be admitted theydisplayed good taste in landscape gardening, with an eye on good livingas 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 havethe benefit of their industry, when the fruit season comes round. Won'tit be a grand thing when we get the walks gravelled, these statuesrestored, and that fountain once more in full play. Luis has promisedme it shall be done, soon as the cotton crop is in. Oh! it will be aParadise 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, likemyself, once smiling; and now like me all desolation. "

"O sister! do not speak so. It pains me--indeed it does. Besides yourwords only go half-way. As you say, it's had a smiling past, and'sgoing to have a smiling future. And so will you sis. I'm determined tohave 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 asadder expression, as from some fresh pang shooting through her heart. It is even this; for, once again, she cannot help contrasting her ownpoor position with the proud one attained by her sister. She knows thatDupre is in reality master of all around, as Jessie will be mistress, she herself little better than their dependant. No wonder the thoughtshould cause her humiliation, or that, with a spirit imperious as her's, she should feel it acutely. Still, in her crushed heart there is noenvy at her sister's good fortune. Could Charles Clancy come to lifeagain, now she knows him true--were he but there to share with her thehumblest 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 topleasant fancies, dreams of future designs, with her fan playfullystriking at the flowers as she passes them. 

In silence Helen follows; and no word is exchanged between them tillthey reach the lower end; when Jessie, turning round, the two are faceto face. The place, where they have stopped is another opening withseats and statues, admitting the moonlight. By its bright beam theyounger 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 canspeak, 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 symbolisingthe most joyous hour of existence, the other its saddest. They are anorange, and a cypress. The former is in bloom, as it always is; thelatter only in leaf, without a blossom on its branches. 

Helen, stepping between them, and extending an arm to each, plucks fromthe one a sprig, from the other a flower. Raising the orange blossombetween her white fingers, more attenuated than of yore, she plants itamid Jessie's golden tresses. At the same time she sets the cypresssprig 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--aswe shall both soon be--_you for the bridal, I for the tomb_!"

The words, seeming but too prophetic, pierce Jessie's heart as arrowwith poisoned barb. In an instant, her joy is gone, sunk into thesorrow of her sister. Herself sinking upon that sister's bosom, witharms around her neck, and tears falling thick and fast over herswan-white shoulders. 

Never more than now has her heart overflowed with compassion, for neveras now has Helen appeared to suffer so acutely. As she stood, holdingin one hand the symbol of bright happy life, in the other the darkemblem of death, she looked the very personification of sorrow. Withher magnificent outline of form, and splendid features, all the moremarked in their melancholy, she might have passed for its divinity. Theancient sculptors would have given much for such a model, to mould thestatue of Despair. 

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT. 

A BLANK DAY. 

On the frontier every settlement has its professional hunter. Oftenseveral, seldom less than two or three; their _metier_ being to supplythe settlers with meat and game--venison, the standing dish--now andthen bear hams, much relished--and, when the place is upon prairie-land, the flesh of the antelope and buffalo. The wild turkey, too--grandestof 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 socialinclining, who hunt in couples; one of the pair being almost universal aveteran, the other a young man--as in the case of Sime Woodley and NedHeywood. By the inequality of age the danger of professional jealousyis avoided; the younger looking up to his senior, and treating him withthe deference due to greater knowledge and experience. 

Just such a brace of professionals has come out with the Armstrongcolony--their names, Alec Hawkins and Cris Tucker--the former an oldbear-hunter, who has slain his hundreds; the latter, though an excellentmarksman, in the art of _venerie_ but a tyro compared with his partner. 

Since their arrival on the San Saba, they have kept the settlementplentifully 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 itsnuts and berry-bearing trees. 

But there is a yet nobler game, to the hunting of which Hawkins and hisyounger associate aspire; both being eager to add it to the list oftheir trophies. It is that which has tempted many an English Nimrod totake three thousand miles of sea voyage across the Atlantic, and by landnearly as many more--the buffalo. Hawkins and Tucker, though havingquartered the river bottom, for ten miles above and below themission-building, have as yet come across none of these grandquadrupeds, nor seen "sign" of them. 

This day, when Armstrong has his dinner party, the hunters bethinkthemselves of ascending to the upper plain, in the hope of there findingthe game so much desired. 

The place promising best is on the opposite side of the valley, to reachwhich the river must be crossed. 

There are two fords at nearly equal distances from the oldmission-house, one about ten miles above, the other as many below. Bythe latter the waggons came over, and it is the one chosen by thehunters. 

Crossing it, they continue on to the bluffs rising beyond, and ascendthese through a lateral ravine, the channel of a watercourse--whichaffords a practicable pass to the plain. On reaching its summit theybehold a steppe to all appearance; illimitable, almost as sterile asSaara itself. Treeless save a skirting of dwarf cedars along thecliff's edge, with here and there a _motte_ of black-jack oaks, acluster of cactus plants, or a solitary yucca of the arborescentspecies--the _palmilla_ of the Mexicans. 

Withal, not an unlikely place to encounter the cattle with; hunchedbacks, and shaggy shoulders. None are in sight; but hoping they soonwill 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 forthe bluff, they ride back towards it. Some three or four hundred yardsfrom the summit of the pass is a _motte_ of black-jacks, the treesstanding close, in full leaf, and looking shady. As it is more thanfifteen miles to the mission, and they have not eaten since morning, they resolve to make halt, and have a sneck. The black-jack grove isright 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 haversackssummoned to disgorge. Some corn-bread and bacon is all these contain;but, no better refection needs a prairie hunter, nor cares for, so longhe has a little distilled corn-juice to wash it down, with a pipe oftobacco to follow. They have eaten, drunk, and are making ready tosmoke, when an object upon the plain attracts their attention. Only acloud of dust, and far off--on the edge of the horizon. For all that asign significant. It may be a "gang" of buffaloes, the thing they havebeen all day vainly searching for. 

Thrusting the pipes back into their pouches, they grasp their guns, witheyes eagerly scanning the dust-cloud. At first dim, it graduallybecomes darker. For a whiff of wind has blown the "stoor" aside, disclosing not a drove of buffaloes, but instead a troop of horses, atthe same time showing them to have riders on their backs, as the hunterscan perceive Indians. 

Also that the troop is coming towards them, and advancing at such rapidpace, that in less than twenty minutes after being descried, it is closeto the clump of black-jacks. Fortunately for Alec Hawkins and OrisTucker, the Indian horsemen have no intention to halt there, or restthemselves under the shadow of the copse. To all appearance they areriding in hot haste, and with a purpose which carries them straighttowards the pass. They do not even stop on arrival at its--summit; butdash down the ravine, disappearing suddenly as though they had droppedinto a trap!

It is some time before the two hunters have recovered from theirsurprise, and can compare notes about what they have seen, withconjectures as to its bearing. They have witnessed a spectaclesufficiently alarming, --a band of fierce-looking savages, armed withspear and tomahawk--some carrying guns--all plumed and painted, allalike terrible in aspect. 

Quick the apparition has passed before their eyes, as suddenlydisappearing. The haste in which the Indians rode down the ravine tellsof their being bent on some fore-arranged purpose that calls for earlyexecution. It may be murder, or only plunder; and the men may beComanches--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 toour new settlement. They appear to be going that way--at all eventsthey are bound for the river bottom, and the lower crossing. We mustfollow them, Oris, an' see if we can make out what's their game. Thered devils mayn't mean downright robbery, but like enough they intendstealin'. Hitch up, and let's after em'. "

In a trice the two hunters are in their saddles; and proceeding to thesummit of the pass, look down at the valley below. Not carelessly, butcautiously. 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 instructinghis comrade to do the same, he reconnoitres the bottom-land, beforeattempting to descend to it. 

As expected, he sees the Indians making for the ford. At the pointbetween the San Saba, and either of its bluffs is a breadth of some fourmiles, part open meadow land, the other part, contiguous to the riverovergrown with heavy timber. Into this the red horsemen are riding, asthe two hunters reach the summit of the pass, the latter arriving justin time to see their last files disappear among the trees. It is theircue to descend also, which they do, without further delay. 

Hastening down the ravine and on to the river ford, they discover thatthe Indians have crossed it. The tracks of their horses are on bothbanks. Beyond, the hunters cannot tell which way they have taken. Forthough still only twilight it is dark as night under the thick standingtrees; 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 themission-building nor yet any of the huts of the _rancheria_. Their ownresidence is a tent, standing in the grove between; and to it theybetake themselves. Once under canvass their first thought is supper, and they set about cooking it. Though they have brought back no buffalomeat a twenty pound turkey "gobbler" has been all day dangling at thehorn of Hawkins' saddle--enough for a plentiful repast. 

Oris, who acts as cook, sets to plucking the bird, while Hawkinscommences kindling a fire outside the tent. But before the fagots areablaze, the old hunter, all along abstracted, becomes fidgetty, as iftroubled with the reflection of having neglected some duty he ought tohave done. 

Abruptly breaking off, and pitching aside the sticks, he says:--"Thiswont do, Cris, nohow. I've got a notion in my head there's somethingnot right about them Indyens. I must up to the house an' tell theColonel. You go on, and get the gobbler roasted. I'll be back by thetime 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 toeat 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 tocontinue the preparations for their repast. 

From the hunter's tent, the house is approached by a narrow path, nearlyall 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 nightmakes 'em chirp their loudest. "

Listening a little longer, he becomes convinced it was but the cricketshe heard, and keeps on to the house. 

CHAPTER FORTY NINE. 

WAITING THE WORD. 

To all appearance Fernand's fireworks are about to bear fruit, thislikely to be bitter. As the sky, darker after the lightning's flash, acloud is collecting over the new settlement, which threatens to sweepdown upon it in a rain storm of ruin. What but they could have causedthis 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 andplumed. No need to say, they are the same that were seen by Hawkins andTucker. 

Having crossed the river at its lower ford, where so far the hunters sawtheir tracks, there losing them, the savages continued on. Not by themain road leading to the mission, but along a path which deflects fromit soon after leaving the river's bank. A narrower trace, indeed thecontinuation of that they had been following all along--the transverseroute across the bottom-land from bluff to bluff, on both sidesascending 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 itsbase, by another and still narrower trace, which they knew would takethem up to the mission-building. A route tortuous, the path beset withmany obstacles; hence their having spent several hours in passing fromthe ford to the mission-house, though the distance between is barely tenmiles. 

No doubt they have good reason for submitting to the irksome delaycaused by the difficult track, as also for the cautious manner in whichthey have been coming along it. Otherwise, they would certainly havechosen the direct road running nearer the river's bank. 

While Colonel Armstrong, and his friends, are enjoying themselves in therefectory of the ancient mission-house, in the midst of their laughinghilarity, the painted cavaliers have been making approach, and are nowhalted, within less than half-a-mile from its walls. In such fashion asshows, they do not intend a long stay in their stopping place. Not asaddle is removed, or girth untightened; while the bridles, remaining ontheir horses' heads, are but used as halters to attach them to thetrees. 

The men have dismounted, but not to form camp, or make bivouac. Theykindle no fires, nor seem caring to cook, or eat. They drink, however;several of them taking flasks from their saddle pouches, and holdingthem to their heads bottom upward. Nothing strange in this. The TexanIndian, whether Comanche, Kiowa, or Lipan, likes his fire-water as muchas a white man, and as constantly carries it along with him. The onlypeculiarity about these is that, while quaffing, they do not talk in theIndian tongue, but English of the Texan idiom, with all its wildswearing!

The place where they have halted is a bit of glade-ground, nearlycircular in shape, only half-encompassed by timber, the other half beingan embayment of the bluffs, twin to those on the opposite side of theriver bottom. It is shaded three-quarters across by the cliff, the moonbeing behind this. The other quarter, on the side of the trees, isbrilliantly lit up by her beams, showing the timber thick and closealong its edge, to all appearance impassable as the _facade_ of ruggedrock frowning from the opposite concave of the enclosed circle. Communicating with this are but two paths possible for man or horse, andfor either only in single file. One enters the glade coming up theriver bottom along the base of the bluff; the other debouches at theopposite end, still following the cliff's foot. By the former theIndians have entered; but by the latter it is evident they intend goingout, as their eyes are from time to time turned towards it, and theirgestures directed that way. Still they make no movement for resumingtheir march, but stand in gathered groups, one central and larger thanthe rest. In its midst is a man by nearly the head taller than thosearound him: their chief to a certainty. His authority seemsacknowledged by all who address him, if not with deference, in tone andspeech telling they but wait for his commands, and are willing to obeythem. He, himself, appears waiting for something, or somebody else, before he can issue them, his glance continually turning towards thepoint where the path leads out upwards. 

Impatiently, too, as ever and anon he pulls out a watch and consults itas, to the time. Odd to see a savage so engaged; above all possessed ofa repeater! Still the Indians of to-day are different from those ofdays past, and have learnt many of the white man's ways--even to wearingwatches. The man in question seems to know all about it; and has hisreasons for being particular as to the hour. He is evidently actingupon a preconcerted plan, with the time fixed and fore-arranged. Andevident also that ten is the hour awaited; for, while in the act ofexamining his dial, the old mission clock, restored to striking, tollsjust so many times; and, before the boom of its cracked bell has ceasedrolling in broken reverberation through the trees, he thrusts the watchhurriedly into his fob. Then stands in expectant attitude, with eyesupon the embouchure of the upper path, scanning it more eagerly thanever. There is a strange coincidence between the strokes of the clockand the flashes of Fernanda powder--both numbering the same. Though notstrange to the leader of the savage troop. He knows what it is--comprehends the significance of the signal--for signal it has been. Adread one, too, foreboding danger to innocent people. One who couldbehold this savage band, scrutinise the faces of those composing it, witness the fierce wicked flashes from their eyes, just as the clock isstriking, would send up a prayer for the safety of Colonel Armstrong andhis colonists. 

If further informed as to who the savages are, the prayer would sure besucceeded by the reflection--"Heaven help his daughters! If God guardnot, 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 theshadow of the two trees that furnished the contrasting symbols, --unconscious of danger near. Helen's speech, suggesting such painfulsequence, has touched her sister to the quick, soon as spoken, afflicting also herself; and for a time they remain with entwined armsand cheeks touching--their tears flowing together. But Jessie's sobsare the louder, her grief greater than that she has been endeavouring toassuage. 

Helen perceiving it, rises to the occasion; and, as oft before, in turnbecomes the comforter; their happiness and misery like scales vibratingon 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 itforgotten, 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 knowswhat time may do--that and Texas? Now, my little Niobe, dry up yourtears. Mine are all gone, and I feel in first rate spirits. I doindeed. "

She is not sincere in what she says, and but counterfeits cheerfulnessto restore that of her sister. 

She has well-nigh succeeded, when a third personage appears upon thescene, causing a sudden change in their thoughts, turning these into anew and very different channel. 

He whose appearance produces such effect--for it is a man--seems whollyunconscious of the influence he has exerted; indeed, is so. 

When first observed, he is coming down the central walk; which, thoughwide, is partially shadowed by trees. And in their shadow he keeps, clinging to it, as if desirous to shun observation. His step declaresit; not bold this, nor regardless, but skulking, with tread catlike;while every now and then he casts a backward glance, as if in fear ofsome one being behind. Just that which hinders him from seeing thosewho are in front. 

The girls are still standing together, with hands joined--luckily on oneof the side-walks, and like himself in shadow--though very near tohaving separated, and one, at least, rushing out into the light at firstsound of his footstep. For to Jessie it gave joy, supposing it that ofher Luis. Naturally expecting him to join her, she was almost sure ofits being he. 

Only for an instant. The tread was too light for a man marching withhonest intent, and the step too shuffling to be that of the youngplanter. 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 manthey both instinctively dislike. For Fernand is not a favourite witheither. 

Then the idea occurs, he may be coming to seek them, sent with somemessage from the house, and if so, they can excuse him. Concluding hiserrand to be this, they await it, in silence. 

They are quite mistaken, and soon perceive it. An honest messengerwould not be moving as he. While passing the open ground by the ruinedwaterworks, the moon falls full upon his face, which wears an expressionanything but innocent, as they can both see. Besides, his gestures alsobetray guilt; for he is skulking, and casting glances back. 

"What can it mean?" whispers Jessie into Helen's ear; who replies byplacing a finger on her lips, and drawing her sister into deeper shadow. 

Silent both stand, not stirring, scarce breathing. One seeing, mighteasily mistake them for statues--a Juno and a Venus. FortunatelyFernand does not see, else he might scrutinise them more closely. He istoo much absorbed about his own affair, whatever it be, to think of anyone loitering there at that time of the night. 

Where the main garden-walk meets the one going along the bottom, isanother open space, smaller than that around the fountain, stillsufficient to let in the light of the moon. Here also have been seatsand statues; the latter lying shattered, as if hashed to the earth bythe hand of some ruthless iconoclast. Just opposite, is a breach in thewall; the mud bricks, crumbled into clods forming a _talus_ on each faceof it. 

Arriving at this, the _mestizo_ makes stop. Only for an instant, longenough to give a last glance up the garden. 

Apparently satisfied, that he is not followed nor observed, he scramblesup the slope and down on the opposite side, where he is lost to the viewof the sisters; who both stand wondering--the younger sensiblytrembling. 

"What on earth is the fellow after?" asks Helen, whose speech comesfirst. 

"What, indeed?" echoes Jessie. 

"A question, sister, you should be better able to answer than I. He isthe trusted servant of M. Dupre; and he, I take it, has told you allabout him. "

"Not a word has he. He knows that I don't like the man, and never didfrom the first. I've intimated as much to him more than once. "

"That ought to have got Master Fernand his discharge. Your Luis willsurely 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'tdone 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, dearHelen, my future lord and master is of a very trusting nature; far toomuch, I fear, for some of the people now around him. He has beenbrought up like all Creoles, without thought for the morrow. Asprinkling of Yankee cuteness wouldn't do him any harm. As for thisfellow, he has insinuated himself into Luis's confidence in some waythat appears quite mysterious. It even puzzles our father; though he'ssaid nothing much about it. So far he appears satisfied, because theman has proved capable, and, I believe, very useful to them in theiraffairs. For my part I've been mystified by him all along, and not lessnow. 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 theintention of secreting it outside? Some of your Luis's gold forinstance, or the pretty jewels he has given you?"

"My jewels! No; they are safe in their case; locked up in my room, ofwhich 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--isin 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 thefrontier, gold is not thought so much of as silver. "

"It can't be silver Fernand is stealing--if theft it be. He would lookmore 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 movementsmore resembled the Devil in serpent shape--except one. "

The thought of this one, who is Richard Darke, causes Helen Armstrong tosuspend speech; at the same time evoking a sigh to the memory of anotherone--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 willremain unconvinced of any intended treachery in his trusted servant, until something unpleasant occur; it may be something disastrous. Afterall, you and I, Jess, have only our suspicions, and may be wronging thefellow. Suppose we stay a little longer, and see what comes of it. Nodoubt, he'll soon return from his mysterious promenade, and byremaining, 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 thesame sort of feeling I had at meeting that big fellow in the streets ofNatchitoches. At times he glares at me just in the same way. And yetthe two are so different. "

"Well, since no harm came of your Nachitoches bogie, it's to be hopedthere won't any from this one. If you have any fear to stay, let us goin. Only my curiosity is greatly excited by what we've seen, and I'dlike to know the end of it. If we don't discover anything, it can do noharm. And if we do--say; shall we go, or try?"

"I'm not afraid now. You make me brave, sister. Besides, we may findout something Luis ought to know. "

"Then let us stay. "

Having resolved to await the coming back of the half-blood, and watchhis further movements, the sisters bethink them of seeking a safer placefor observation; one where there will be less danger of being themselvesseen. 

It is to Helen the idea occurs. 

"On his return, " she says, "he might stray along this way, and not go upthe centre walk. Therefore we had better conceal ourselves moreeffectually. I wonder he didn't see us while passing out. No doubt hewould have done so, but for looking so anxiously behind, and going atsuch a rapid rate. Coming back he may not be so hurried; and should hesight 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, longunpruned, grows luxuriantly everywhere, screening the _facade_ of thewall along its whole length. 

Near by is an arbour of evergreens, thickly overgrown with a trellis oftrailing plants. 

They know of this shady retreat; have been in it before that night. Now, although the moon is shining brightly, its interior, arcaded overby 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 ruinevidently caused by rude intruders, doubtless the same savages who madethe mission desolate. The talus extending to the path, with its fringeof further scattered clods, requires them to step carefully so as toavoid stumbling. 

They go hand in hand, mutually supporting one another. 

Their white gossamer dresses, floating lightly around them as they glidesilently along, give them a resemblance to sylphs, or wood-nymphs, allthe more as they emerge into the moonlight. 

To complete the sylvan picture, it seems necessary there should besatyrs, or wood-demons, as well. 

And such in reality there are, not a great way off. These, or somethingclosely resembling them. No satyrs could show in more grotesque guisethan the forms at that moment moving up to the wall, on its oppositeside. 

Gliding on, the sisters have arrived before the gap. Some instinct, perhaps curiosity, tempts them to take a look through it, into theshadowy forest beyond; and for some time, as under a spell offascination, they stand gazing into its dark, mysterious depths. 

They see nought save the sparkle of fire-flies; and hear nothing but theusual noises of the Southern night, to which they have been from infancyaccustomed. 

But as they are about moving on again, a sound salutes their ear--distinguishable as a footstep. Irregular and scrambling, as of onestepping among the broken bricks. Simultaneously a man is seen makinghis way over the wall. 

"Fernand!"

No use for them now to attempt concealment; no good can come of it. Hehas seen them. 

Nor does he any longer seem desirous of shunning observation. On thecontrary, leaping down from the rampart, he comes straight towards them;in an instant presenting himself face to face, not with the nimble airof a servant, but the demeanour of one who feels himself master, andintend to play tyrant. With the moon shining full upon his tawny face, they can distinguish the play of its features. No look of humility, norsign of subservience there. Instead, a bold, bullying expression, eyesemitting a lurid light, lips set in a satanic smile, between them teethgleaming like a tiger's! He does not speak a word. Indeed, he has nottime; for Helen Armstrong anticipates him. The proud girl, indignant atwhat she sees, too fearless to be frightened, at once commences chidinghim. 

In words bold and brave, so much that, if alone, the scoundrel mightquail under their castigation. But he is not alone, nor does he allowher 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, ifso, his last words are unheard; drowned by a confused noise of rushingand rumbling, while the gap in the garden wall is suddenly closed, as ifby enchantment. It is at first filled by a dark mass, seeminglycompact, but soon separating into distinct forms. 

The sisters, startled, terrified, have but time to give out one wildcry--a shriek. Before either can utter a second, brawny arms embracethem; blinds are thrown over their faces; and, half stifled, they feelthemselves 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 hisdaughters, Colonel Armstrong is engaged, with his fellow-colonists, indiscussing a question of great interest to all. The topic is sugar--thepoint, whether it will be profitable to cultivate it in their newcolony. That the cane can be grown there all know. Both soil andclimate are suitable. The only question is, will the produce pay, sugarbeing a bulky article in proportion to its price, and costly intransport 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 aboutsugar, 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 enteredwithout invitation, confident the nature of his news will hold him clearof being deemed an intruder. 

And it does. At the word "Indians, " all around the table spring up fromtheir seats, and stand breathlessly expectant of what the hunter hasfurther to communicate. For, by his serious air, they are certain theremust be something more. 

Colonel Armstrong alone asks, the old soldier showing the presence ofmind that befits an occasion of surprise. 

"Indians about? Why do you say that, Hawkins? What reason have you tothink so?"

"The best o' reasons, colonel. I've seed them myself, and so's CrisTucker along with me. "

"Where?"

"Well, there's a longish story to tell. If you'll have patience, I'llmake 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, howhe and his comrade followed them across the river bottom, then over theford, 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 assembledplanters; which it does, to a man making them keenly apprehensive ofdanger. 

All the more from its being their first alarm of the kind. For, whiletravelling through Eastern Texas, where the settlements are thick, andof old standing, the savages had not evens been thought of. There wasno chance of seeing any there. Only, on drawing nigh to the Colorado, were Indians likely to be encountered; though it did not necessarilyfollow that the encounter should be hostile. On the contrary, it oughtto be friendly; since a treaty of peace had for some time been existingbetween the Comanches and Texans. 

For all this, Colonel Armstrong, well acquainted with the character ofthe red men, in war as in peace, had not relied altogether on theirpacific promises. He knew that such contracts only bind the savage solong as convenient to him, to be broken whenever they become irksome. Moreover, a rumour had reached the emigrants that, although the greatComanche nation was itself keeping the treaty, there were severalsmaller independent tribes accustomed to make "maraud" upon the frontiersettlements, chiefly to steal horses, or whatever chanced in their way. 

For this reason, after entering the territory where such pillagers mightbe expected, the old soldier had conducted his expedition as if passingthrough 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 theirdestination. Then, as the people got settled down in their respectivedomiciles, and nothing was heard of any Indians in that district, thediscipline had been relaxed--in fact, abandoned. The colonists, numbering over fifty white men--to say nothing of several hundred negroslaves--deemed themselves strong enough to repel any ordinary assaultfrom savages. They now considered themselves at home; and, with theconfidence thus inspired, had ceased to speculate, on being molested byIndian 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 passingimpression on those around the dining-table; many of them treating it asan eccentricity. 

Now, after hearing Hawkins, they think differently. It presents aserious aspect, is, in truth, alarmingly suggestive of treason. 

The half-blood inside the house may be in correspondence withfull-blooded Indians outside, for some scheme of thieving or burglary. 

The thought of either is sufficient to excite Colonel Armstrong'sguests, and all are on foot ready to take action. 

"Dupre, call in your half-breed!" says the Colonel, directing it. "Letus hear what the fellow has to say for himself. "

"Tell Fernand to come hither, " commands the Creole, addressing himselfto one of the negro lads waiting at table. "Tell him to comeinstantly!"

The boy hastens off to execute the order; and is several minutes beforemaking re-appearance. 

During the interval, they continue to discuss the circumstances thathave so suddenly turned up; questioning Hawkins, and receiving from himminuter details of what he and his comrade have seen. 

The additional matter made known but excites them the more, furtherintensifying their apprehensions. 

They're at their keenest, as the darkey re-enters the room with theannouncement that Fernand is not to be found!

"What do you mean, boy?" thunders Dupre, in a voice that well-nigh takesaway the young negro's wits. "Is he not in the house?"

"Dat's jess what he aint, Mass Looey. De Spanish Indyin's no wharinside dis buildin'. We hab sarch all oba de place; call out his namein de store-rooms, an' de coatyard, an' de cattle closure--ebbery wha wetink 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 lessdegree, according to the light in which each views the matter. 

For now on the minds of all is an impression, a presentiment, that thereis 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 thehumbler families of the colonist fraternity. Or engaged outside with amulatto "wench, " of whom there are several, belonging to Dupre'sextensive slave-gang, far from ill-favoured. 

Fernand is rather a handsome fellow, and given to gaiety; which, underordinary circumstances, would account for his absenting himself from thehouse, and neglecting his duties as its head-servant. But after whatthe young surgeon has seen--above all the report just brought in byHawkins--his conduct will not convey this trivial interpretation. Allin the room regard it in a more serious light--think the _mestizo_ is atraitor. 

Having come to this general conclusion, they turn towards the table, totake a last drink, before initiating action. 

Just as they get their glasses in hand, the refectory door is once moreopened; this time with a hurried violence that causes them to start, asthough a bombshell had rolled into the room. 

Facing towards it, they see it is only the negro boy, who had gone outagain, re-entering. But now with fear depicted on his face, and wildterror gleaming from his eyes; the latter awry in their sockets, withlittle beside the whites seen!

Their own alarm is not much less than his, on hearing what he has tosay. His words are, --

"Oh, Mass Kurnel! Mass Looey! Gemmen all! De place am full ob Indyinsabbages! 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, flungdown in fear, or fury. Then all, as one man, make for the door, stillstanding open as in his scare the negro lad left it. 

Before they can reach it, his words are too fully confirmed. Outsidethey see painted faces, heads covered with black hanging hair, andplumes bristling above. Only a glimpse they get of these, indistinctthrough the obscurity. But if transitory, not the less terrible--notless 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 themoutside. 

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 tellsof a key turning in the wards, shooting a bolt into its keeper. 

"Locked in, by God!" exclaims Hawkins, the rest involuntarily echoinghis 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 suddenlystruck dumb. 

For several moments they remain paralysed, gazing in one another's facesin mute despairing astonishment. No one thinks of asking explanation, or giving it. As by instinct, all realise the situation--a surprise, anIndian attack. No longer the future danger they have been deemingprobable, but its dread present reality!

Short while do they stand irresolute. Hawkins, a man of herculeanstrength, dashes himself against the door, in hopes of heaving it fromits hinges. Others add their efforts. 

All idle. The door is of stout timber--oaken--massive as that of ajail; and, opening inward, can only be forced along with its posts andlintels. --These are set in the thick wall, embedded, firm as the masonryitself. 

They rush to the windows, in hope of getting egress there. 

Equally to be disappointed, baffled. The strong, iron bar resist everyeffort to break or dislodge them. Though weakened with decaying rust, they are yet strong enough to sustain the shock of shoulders, and thetug 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 seethemselves shut in--helplessly, hopelessly imprisoned. 

Impossible to describe their thoughts, or depict their looks, in thatanguished hour. No pen, or pencil, could do justice to either. Outsideare their dear ones; near, but far away from any hope of help, as iftwenty miles lay between. And what is being done to them? No oneasks--none likes to tempt the answer; all guessing what it would be, dreading to hear it spoken. Never did men suffer emotions morepainfully intense, passions more heartfelt and harrowing; not even theprisoners of Cawnpore, or the Black Hole of Calcutta. 

They are in darkness now--have been from the moment of the door beingclosed. For, expecting to be fired at from the outside, they hadsuddenly extinguished the lights. They wonder there has been noshooting, aware that the Comanches carry fire-arms. But as yet therehas been no report, either of pistol, or gun!

They hear only voices--which they can distinguish as those of thehouse-Servants--male and female--all negroes or mulattoes. There areshrieks, intermingled with speeches, the last in accent of piteousappealing; there is moaning and groaning. But where are the shouts ofthe assailants? Where the Indian yell--the dread slogan of the savage?Not a stave of it is heard--nought that resembles a warwhoop ofComanches!

And soon is nothing heard. For the shrieks of the domestics haveceased, their cries coming suddenly, abruptly to an end, as if stifledby 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 historyof Texan colonisation. 

_No_ need to tell who the Indians are that have shown their faces at thedining-room door, shutting and locking it. They are those seen byHawkins and Tucker--the same Dupre's traitorous servant has conductedthrough the gap in the garden wall; whence, after making seizure of thegirls, they continued on to the house, the half-blood at their head. 

Under his guidance they passed through the cattle corral, and into theinner court. Till entering this they were not observed. Then the negrolad, sent in search of Fernand, seeing them, rushed back for therefectory. 

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 dooralmost soon as he, while others proceeding to the front entrance, closedthe great gate, to prevent any one escaping that way. 

In the courtyard ensues a scene, horrible to behold. The domesticsfrightened, screaming, rushing to and fro, are struck down withtomahawks, impaled upon spears, or hacked and stabbed with long-bladedknives. At least a half-score of these unhappy creatures fall in thefearful slaughter. Indiscriminate as to age or sex: for men, women, andchildren are among its victims. 

Their shrieks, and piteous appeals, are alike disregarded. One afteranother they are struck, or hewn down, like saplings by the _machete_. A scene of red carnage, resembling a _saturnalia_ of demons, doingmurder!

Short as terrible; in less than ten minutes after its commencement it isall over. The victims have succumbed, their bleeding bodies lie alongthe pavement. Only those domestics have escaped, who preserved enoughpresence of mind to get inside rooms, and barricade the doors behindthem. 

They are not followed; for despite the red murder already done, theaction ensuing, tells of only robbery intended. 

This evident from the way the savages now go to work. Instead ofattempting to reach those they have imprisoned within the dining-room, they place two of their number to stand guard by its door; another pairgoing on to the gate entrance. These steps taken, the rest, withFernand still conducting, hurry along the corridor, towards a room whichopens at one of its angles. It is the chamber Dupre has chosen for hissleeping apartment, and where he has deposited his treasure. Inside ithis cash, at least fifty thousand dollars, most of it in silver, packedin stout boxes. 

Fernand carries the key, which he inserts into its lock. The door fliesopen, and the half-blood enters, closely followed by those who appearall Indians. They go in with the eagerness of tigers springing uponprey, or more like the stealthiness of cats. 

Soon they come out again, each bearing a box, of diminutive size, butweight sufficient to test his strength. 

Laying these down, they re-enter the room, and return from it similarlyloaded. 

And so they go and come, carrying out the little boxes, until nearly ascore are deposited upon the pavement of the courtyard. 

The abstraction of the specie completed, the sentries set by thedining-room door, as also those sent to guard the entrance-gate, arecalled off; and the band becomes reunited by the treasure, as vulturesaround a carcass. 

Some words are exchanged in undertone. Then each, laying hold of abox--there is one each for nearly all of them--and poising it upon hisshoulders, strides off out of the courtyard. 

Silently, and in single file, they pass across the cattle corral, oninto the garden, down the central walk, and out through the gap by whichthey 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; thehalf-blood going along with them. 

He, too, has a horse, the best in the troop--taken from the stable ofthe master he has so basely betrayed, so pitilessly plundered. 

And that master at the moment nearly mad! Raging frantically around theroom 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 andstupified, they reel like drunken men; as they come in contacttremblingly 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 aperiod of dread suspense--an agony indescribable. Much longer continuedit would drive him mad. Perhaps he is saved from insanity by anger--bythoughts of vengeance, and the hope of living to accomplish it. 

While mutually interrogating, one starts the suggestion that the wholeaffair may be a _travestie_--a freak of the younger, and morefrolicksome members of the colonist fraternity. Notwithstanding itsimprobability, the idea takes, and is entertained, as drowning men catchat straws. 

Only for an instant. The thing is too serious, affecting personages oftoo much importance, to be so trifled with. There are none in thesettlement who would dare attempt such practical joking with its chief--the stern old soldier, Armstrong. Besides, the sounds heard outsidewere not those of mirth, mocking its opposite. The shouts and shriekshad the true ring of terror, and the accents of despair. 

No. It could not be anything of a merrymaking, but what they at firstsupposed it--a tragedy. 

Their rage returns, and they think only of revenge. As before, but tofeel their impotence. The door, again tried, with all their unitedstrength, refuses to stir from its hinges. As easily might they movethe walls. The window railings alike resist their efforts; and they atlength leave off, despairingly scattering through the room. 

One alone remains, clinging to the window bars. It is Hawkins. Hestays not with any hope of being able to wrench them off. He hasalready tested the strength of his arms, and found it insufficient. Itis 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 timberintervening. Besides, at that late hour the settlers will be asleep. 

But in the grove between, and nearer, he knows there is a tent; andinside it a man who will be awake, if not dead--his comrade, CrisTucker. 

In the hope Cris may still be in the land of the living, Hawkins leansagainst the window bars and, projecting his face outward, as far as thejawbones will allow, he gives utterance to a series of shouts, interlarded with exclamations, that in the ears of a sober Puritan wouldhave 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 abovethe blaze. A fat young "gobbler, " it runs grease at every pore, causingthe 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 leadingtowards the mission, at the same time setting his ears to listen. Whatcan be keeping his comrade, who promised so soon to be back?

"Promises are like pie-crust, " says Cris in soliloquy; "Old Hawk aintkeeping his, and I guess aint goin' to. I heard they war to have a bigdine up there the night. So I suppose the colonel's axed him in for aglass o' his whiskey punch. Hawk's jest the one to take it--a dozen, ifthey 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 itinside the tent. Then dishing, he sets it upon the table; the dish alarge platter of split wood rudely whittled into oblong oval shape, thetable a stump with top horizontally hewn, over which the tent has beenerected. 

Placing a "pone" of corn-bread, and some salt alongside, he sits down;though not yet to commence eating. As certainly his comrade should nowsoon be back, he will give him ten minutes' grace. 

The position is agreeable, at the same time having its drawbacks. Theodour pervading the tent is delicious; still there is the sense of tasteto be satisfied, and that of smell but provokes it. The savoury aromaof the roast turkey is keenly appetising, and Cris can't hold out muchlonger. 

Time passes, and no sign of Hawkins returning. Tucker's positionbecomes intolerable; the bird is getting cold, its juices drying up, therepast will be spoilt. 

Besides, his comrade has not kept faith with him. In all probability hehas eaten supper at the house, and at that moment is enjoying a jorum ofwhisky punch, quite forgetful of him. Tucker. Cris can stand it nolonger; and, drawing out his knife, he takes the turkey by the leg, andcuts a large slice from its breast. 

This eaten, another slice of breast is severed and swallowed. Then awing is carved off, and lastly a leg, which he polishes to thesmoothness of a drumstick. --

The young hunter, now no longer ravenous, proceeds more leisurely, andcompletes his repast by tranquilly chewing up the gizzard, and after itthe 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 withoutwondering 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 thetent. He will go up to the house, and find out what is detainingHawkins. 

Donning his skin cap, and stepping out into the open air, he starts offtowards the mission-building. 

Less than ten minutes' walking brings him to its walls, by their mainfront entrance. 

There he pauses, surprised at the stillness surrounding the place. Itis 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 notsleeping within!

In any case, Cris deems it his duty to look him up; and with this intentdetermines 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 thefront windows, but, as Cris knows, those of the dining-room openbackward. 

Hesitating no longer, he steps under the arched portal, passes onthrough the _saguan_, and once more emerges into moonlight within the_patio_. 

There, suddenly stopping, he stands aghast. For he beholds a sight thatalmost causes his hair to crisp up, and raise the cap from his head. 

Down into the hollow quadrangle--enclosed on every side, except thattowards heaven--the moonbeams are falling in full effulgence. By theirlight he sees forms lying along the pavement in every possible position. They are human bodies--men and boys, among them some whose draperydeclares them to be women. They are black, brown, or yellow; but allspotted and spattered with red--with blood! Fresh, but fast freezing inthe chill night air, it is already darkened, almost to the hue of ink. 

The hunter turns faint, sick, as he contemplates this hecatomb ofcorpses. A spectacle far more fearful than any ever witnessed uponbattle-field. There men lie in death from wounds given, as receivedunder the grand, if delusive, idea of glory. Those Cris Tucker seesmust 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 awayaltogether from the place. 

But a thought--a loyal thought or instinct, stays him. Where isHawkins? His body may be among the rest--Cris is almost sure it will befound 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 ofbeing called back. 

With this hope, however faint, he commences searching among the corpses. 

The spectacle, that has sickened, makes his step feeble. He staggers ashe passes among the prostrate forms, at times compelled to stride overthem. 

He examines one after another, bending low down to each--lower wherethey lie in shadow, and it is more difficult to distinguish theirfeatures. 

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 victimsare of every age, and both sexes. But all, male as female, are negroesor mulattoes--the slaves of the establishment. Many of them herecognises; knows them to be the house-servants. 

Where are their masters? Where everybody? What terrible tragedy hasoccurred to leave such traces behind? The traces of murder--ofwholesale slaughter!

Who have been the murderers, and where are they now? Where is Hawkins?

To the young hunter these self-asked interrogatories occur in quicksuccession; along with the last a sound reaching his ears which causeshim to start, and stand listening acutely for its repetition. It seemeda 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 thevoice of Hawkins. 

He does not stay to conjecture why his comrade should be calling inaccents of appeal. That they are so is enough for him to hasten to hisaid. Clearly the cry comes from outside; and, soon as assured of this, Tucker turns that way, leaps lightly over the dead bodies, glides onalong the saguan, and through the open wicket. 

Outside he stops, and again listens, waiting for the voice to directhim, which it does. 

As before he hears it, shouting for help, now sure it is Hawkins whocalls. And sure, also, that the cries come from the eastern side of thebuilding. 

Towards this Tucker rushes, around the angle of the wall, breakingthrough the bushes like a chased bear. 

Nor does he again stop till he is under a window, from which the shoutsappear to proceed. 

Looking up he sees a face, with cheeks pressing distractedly against thebars; 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; thoughthere'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 theIndians?"

"I've seen no Indians; but their work I take it. There's a ugly sightround t'other side. "

"What sight, Oris? Never mind--don't stay to talk. Go back, and getsomething to break open the door of this room. Quick, comrade, quick!"

Without stayin' for further exchange of speech, the young hunter hurriesback into the _patio_ as rapidly as he had quitted it; and laying holdof a heavy beam, brings it like a battering-ram, against the dining-roomdoor. 

Massive as this is, and strongly hung upon its hinges, it yields to hisstrength. 

When at length laid open, and those inside released, they look upon aspectacle that sends a thrill of horror through their hearts. 

In the courtyard lie ten corpses, all told. True they are but the deadbodies of slaves--to some beholding them scarce accounted as humanbeings. Though pitied, they are passed over without delay; thethoughts, as the glances, of their masters going beyond, in keenapprehension for the fate of those nearer and dearer. 

Escaped from their imprisonment, they rush to and fro, like maniacs letout 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, nowquestioning 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 stillalive, or despairingly thinking them dead; fearing they may find themwith gashed throats and bleeding breasts, like those lying along theflagstones at their feet. 

The spectacle before their eyes, appalling though it be, is nought tothat conjured up in their apprehensions. What they see may be but aforecast, a faint symbol, of what ere long they may be compelled to lookupon. 

And amid the many voices shouting for wife, sister, or sweetheart, noneso 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 upthat of Dupre calling the names "Helen! Jessie!"

Neither gets response. They on whom they call cannot hear. They aretoo far off; though nearer, it would be all the same; for both are atthe moment hooded like hawks. The serapes thrown over their heads arestill on them, corded around their necks, so closely as to hinderhearing, almost stifle their breathing. 

Since their seizure nearly an hour has elapsed, and they are scarce yetrecovered from the first shock of surprise, so terrible as to havestupified them. No wonder! What they saw before being blinded, withthe rough treatment received, were enough to deprive them of theirsenses. 

From the chaos of thought, as from a dread dream, both are now graduallyrecovering. But, alas! only to reflect on new fears--on the dark futurebefore them. Captive to such captors--red ruthless savages, whose nakedarms, already around, have held them in brawny embrace--carried awayfrom home, from all they hold dear, into a captivity seeming hopeless ashorrid--to the western woman especially repulsive, by songs sung overher cradle, and tales told throughout her years of childhood--tales ofIndian atrocity. 

The memory of these now recurring, with the reality itself, not strangethat for a time their thoughts, as their senses, are almost paralysed. 

Slowly they awake to a consciousness of their situation. They rememberwhat occurred at the moment of their being made captive; how in theclear moonlight they stood face to face with Fernand, listened to hisimpertinent speeches, saw the savages surrounding them; then, suddenlyblinded and seeing no more, felt themselves seized, lifted from theirfeet, carried off, hoisted a little higher, set upon the backs ofhorses, and there tied, each to a man already mounted. All theseincidents they remember, as one recalls the fleeting phantasmagoria of adream. But that they were real, and not fanciful, they now too surelyknow; for the hoods are over their heads, the horses underneath; and thesavages to whom they were strapped still there, their bodies inrepulsive contact with their own!

That there are only two men, and as many horses, can be told by thehoof-strokes rebounding from the turf; the same sounds proclaiming it aforest path through thick timber, at intervals emerging into openground, and again entering among trees. 

For over an hour this continues; during all the while not a word beingexchanged between the two horsemen, or if so, not heard by theircaptives. 

Possibly they may communicate with one another by signs or whispers; asfor most part the horses have been abreast, going in single file onlywhere the path is narrow. 

At length a halt; of such continuance, as to make the captives supposethey have arrived at some place where they are to pass the remainder ofthe night. Or it may be but an obstruction; this probable from theirhearing a sound, easily understood--the ripple of running water. Theyhave arrived upon the bank of a river. 

The San Saba, of course; it cannot be any other. Whether or not, 'tisthe 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, theirguards, now halted upon its bank, have drawn their horses' headstogether, 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 awhisper--the words indistinguishable amid the rush of the river'scurrent. If heard, it is not likely they would understand. The two menare Indians, and will talk in the Indian tongue. For this same reasonthey need have no fear of freely conversing with one another, since thesavages will be equally unable to comprehend what they say. 

To Helen this thought first presents itself; soon as it does, leadingher 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 yourheart. 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 fortopographical description. 

At this point the stream, several hundred yards wide, courses in smooth, tranquil current, between banks wooded to the water's edge. The treesare chiefly cottonwoods, with oak, elm, tulip, wild China, and pecaninterspersed; also the _magnolia grandiflora_; in short, such a forestas may be seen in many parts of the Southern States. On both sides ofthe river, and for some distance up and down, this timbered tract isclose and continuous, extending nearly a mile back from the banks; whereits selvedge of thinner growth becomes broken into glades, some of themresembling flower gardens, others dense thickets of the _arundogigantea_, 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 thebase of the bluffs. On each side of the crossing the river isapproached by a path, or rather an avenue-like opening in the timber, which shows signs of having been felled; doubtless, done by the formerproprietors of the mission, or more like, the soldiers who served itsgarrison; a road made for military purposes, running between the_presidio_ itself and the town of San Antonio de Bejar. Though againpartially overgrown, it is sufficiently clear to permit the passage ofwheeled vehicles, having been kept open by roving wild horses, withoccasionally 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 beingjust at its edge. One is the main road coming from the Colorado; theother only an Indian trace, leading direct to the bluffs and the highland above them. It was by the former that Colonel Armstrong's traincame up the valley, while the latter was the route taken by Hawkins andTucker in their bootless excursion after buffalo. 

On the same evening, when the hunters, returning from their unsuccessfulsearch, repassed the ford, only at a later hour, a party of horsemen isseen approaching it--not by the transverse trace, but the main up-riverroad. In all there are five of them; four upon horseback, the fifthriding 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-jaileradded. They are travelling in haste--have been ever since entering theterritory of Texas. Evidence of this in their steeds showing jaded, themselves fatigued. Further proof of it in the fact of their being nowclose to the San Saba ford, within less than a week after Armstrong'sparty passing over, while more than two behind it at starting from theSabine. 

There has been nothing to delay them along the route--no difficulty infinding 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 darkesthour of the darkest night that ever shadowed a Texan prairie. It isnight now, about two hours after sundown, as coming up the river roadthey enter the timber, and approach the crossing place. When withinabout fifty yards of the ford at a spot where the path widens, they pullup, Woodley and Clancy riding a little apart from the others, as if tohold consultation whether they shall proceed across the stream, or staywhere they are for the night. 

Clancy wishes to go forward, but Woodley objects, urging fatigue, andsaying:--

"It can't make much diff'rence now, whether we git up thar the night, ortake it leezyurly in the cool o' the mornin'. Since you say ye don'tintend showin' yourself 'bout the mission buildin', it'll be all thebetter 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 'llenter the settlement, an' see how things stand. "

"Perhaps you're right, " responds Clancy, "If you think it better for usto 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 mymind--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 headthat there's some danger hanging over--"

He interrupts himself, holding back the name--Helen Armstrong. For itis over her he fancies danger may be impending. No new fancy either;but one that has been afflicting him all along, and urging him soimpatiently onward. Not that he has learnt anything new since leavingthe Sabine. On its banks the ex-jailer discharged his conscience infull, by confessing all he could. At most not much; since his lateassociates, seeing the foolish fellow he was, had never made him sharerin their greatest secret. Still he had heard and reported enough togive Clancy good reason for uneasiness. 

"I kin guess who you're alludin' to, " rejoins Woodley, without waitingfor the other to finish, "an' ef so, yur forebodin', as ye call it, aironly a foolish notion, an' nothin' more. Take Sime Woodley's word forit, 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 'swell's I do, tho' I admit ye may hev a better knowledge o' one thatbears the name. As for the ole kurnel hisself, this chile's kampaynedwi' him in the Cherokee wars, an' kin say for sartin he aint a-goin' tosleep 'ithout keepin' one o' his peepers skinned. Beside, his party airtoo strong, an' the men composin' it too exparienced, to be tuk bysurprise, or attacked by any enemy out on these purayras, whether redInjuns or white pirates. Ef thar air danger it'll come arter they'vesettled 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 noonthe 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 timechecking his impatience. Still is he reluctant to stay, and shows it byhis 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, tiredcritters. "

The hunter points to the horses, that for the last hour have beendragging their limbs along like bees honey-laden. 

"To say nothin' o' ourselves, " he adds, "though for my part I'm riddy tokeep on to the Rio Grand, if you insist on goin' thar. "

Notwithstanding his professed willingness, there is something in thetone of Sime's speech which contradicts it--just a _soupcon_ ofvexation. 

Perceiving it, Clancy makes rejoinder with the delicacy becoming agentleman. Though against his will and better judgment, his habitualbelief in, and reliance on Woodley's wisdom, puts an end to hisopposition; and in fine yielding, he says:--

"Very well; we shall stay. After all, it can't make much difference. Atruce to my presentiments. I've often had such before, that came tonothing. Hoping it may be the same now, we'll spend our night this sidethe river. "

"All right, " responds the backwoodsman. "An' since it's decided we'reto stay, I see no reezun why we shedn't make ourselves as comfortable asmay be unner the circumstances. As it so chances, I know this hyar SanSaba bottom 'most as well as that o' our ole Massissip. An' ef mymem'ry don't mistake, thar's a spot not far from hyar that'll jest suitfor us to camp in. Foller me; I'll find it. "

Saying this, he kicks his heels against the ribs of his horse, andcompels the tired steed once more into reluctant motion, the rest ridingafter in silence. 

CHAPTER FIFTY SIX. 

SPECTRAL EQUESTRIANS. 

But a short distance from where the travellers made stop, a side traceleads to the left, parallel to the direction of the river. Into thisWoodley 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 thepath widens, debouching upon an open space--a sort of terrace thatoverhangs the channel of the stream, separated from it by a fringe oflow trees and bushes. 

Pointing to it, Sime says:--

"This chile hev slep on that spread o' grass, some'at like six yeernago, wi' nothin' to disturb his rest 'ceptin the skeeters. Them sameseems nasty bad now. Let's hope we'll git through the night 'ithoutbein' clar eat up by 'em. An', talkin' o' eatin', I reckin we'll all bethe better o' a bit supper. Arter thet we kin squat down an' surrenderto 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 astretchalong the ground, their horses "hitched" to trees, themselves seeminglyburied 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 thecontrary, he turns restlessly on his grassy couch, fairly writhing withthe presentiment he has spoken of, still upon him, and not to be castoff. 

There are those who believe in dreams, in the reality of visions thatappear 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, hewould know it to be so--would witness a series of incidents at thatmoment occurring up the river--scarce ten miles from the spot where heis 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 gallopon towards the San Saba mission, as if the house were in names, and heonly had the power to extinguish them. 

Not gifted with second-sight, he does not perceive the tragedy therebeing 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 himselfphrases it, "allers to do the possum bizness, wi' one eye open. "

He has heard Clancy's repeated shiftings and turnings, coupled withinvoluntary exclamations, as of a man murmuring in his dreams. One ofthese, louder than the rest, at length startling, causes Woodley toenquire 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 ahummin' 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 aleetle dampish, 'count o' the river fog; tho', as a general thing, theSan 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 bestMonongaheely, an' for a seedimentary o' the narves thar ain't it'seequal 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 nervousnessthat 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' tharsweethearts. Once't in the arms o' Morpheous, ye'll forgit all aboutyour 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 tosleep. 

As before, he is unsuccessful. Although for a while tranquil andcourting slumber, it will not come. He again tosses about; and atlength rises to his feet, his hound starting up at the same time. 

Woodley, once more awakened, perceives that the potion has failed ofeffect, and counsels his trying it again. 

"No, " objects Clancy; "'tis no use. The strongest soporific in theworld wouldn't give me sleep this night. I tell you, Sime, I have afear 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 hiscomrade out of what he deems an idle fancy. "The height o' nonsense. Wheesh!"

The final exclamation, uttered in an altered tone, is accompanied by astart--the hunter suddenly raising his head from the saddle on which itrests. Nor has the act any relation to his previous speeches. It comesfrom his hearing a sound, or fancying he hears one. At the sameinstant, the hound pricks up its ears, giving utterance to a low growl. 

"What is't, I wonder?" interrogates Woodley, in a whisper, placinghimself 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 speechand gesture admonishing it to remain silent. 

The well-trained animal sees what is wanted; and, crouching down by itsmaster's feet, ceases making demonstration. 

Meanwhile Woodley has laid himself flat along the earth, with ear closeto the turf. 

There is a sound, sure enough; though not what he supposed he had heardjust before. That was like a human voice--some one laughing a long wayoff. It might be the "too-who-ha" of the owl, or the bark of a prairiewolf. The noise now reaching his ears is less ambiguous, and he has nodifficulty in determining its character. It is that of water violentlyagitated--churned, as by the hooves of horses. 

Clancy, standing erect, hears it, too. 

The backwoodsman does not remain much longer prostrate; only a second toassure himself whence the sound proceeds. It is from the ford. The doglooked that way, on first starting up; and still keeps sniffing in thesame 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 ofthe bushes that border the river's bank, and they see what is disturbingthe water. 

Two horses are crossing the stream. They have just got clear of thetimber's shadow on the opposite side, and are making towards mid-water. 

Clancy and Woodley, viewing them from higher ground, can perceive theirforms, in _silhouette_, against the shining surface. 

Nor have they any difficulty in making out that they are mounted. Whatpuzzles them is the manner. Their riders do not appear to be anythinghuman!

The horses have the true equine outline; but they upon their backs seemmonsters, not men; their bodies of unnatural breadth, each with twoheads rising above it!

There is a haze overhanging the river, as gauze thrown over a piece ofsilver plate. It is that white filmy mist which enlarges objects beyondtheir natural size, producing the mystery of _mirage_. By itsmagnifying effect the horses, as their riders, appear of giganticdimensions; the former seeming Mastodons, the latter Titans bestridingthem!

Both appear beings not of Earth, but creatures of some weirdwonder-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 oddapparition; with something more than surprise, a supernatural feeling, not unmingled with fear. Such strange unearthly sight were enough tobeget 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 thetrees on the opposite side. But soon as arriving at mid-stream themystery is at an end; like most others, simple when understood. Theirforms, outlined against the moonlit surface of the water, show a verynatural phenomenon--two horses carrying double. 

Woodley is the first to announce it, though Clancy has made thediscovery 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'skewrous too. Out on these Texas parayras the Injun weemen hez generallya hoss to theirselves, an' kin ride 'most as well as the men. What seemqueerier still is thar bein' only two kupple; but maybe there's morecomin' 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 wereothers behind. What ought we to do with them?"

"What every white man oughter do meetin' Injuns out hyar--gie 'em a wideberth: 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 aword with them. Likely they've been up to the settlement and will beable to tell us something of things there. As you know, Sime, I'manxious to hear about--"

"I know all that. Wal, ef you're so inclined, let it be as ye say. Wekin eezy stop 'em, an' hear what they've got to say for theirselves. Bygood luck, we've the devantage o' 'em. They're bound to kum 'long thebig 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 spotwhar 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 countfor much in a skrimmage. Ef they show thar teeth I reckin we two airgood for uglier odds than that. Howsomever, it'll be no harm to hevNed. 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 downtill his lips touch Heywood's ear. The young hunter hearing him, starts, then sits up, and finally gets upon his feet, rubbing his eyeswhile erecting himself. He sees at once why he has been awakened. Aglance cast upon the river shows him the strangely ridden horses; stillvisible though just entering the tree-shadow on its nether bank. 

In a few hurried words Woodley makes known their intention; and for someseconds the three stand in consultation, all having hold of theirrifles. 

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, atfirst indifferent about their capture, has now entered into the spiritof it. It is just possible some information may be thus obtained, ofservice to their future designs. At all events, there can be no harm inknowing 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 whenthar's a big crowd thegitter. When thar aint, as it chances hyar, itmay be wisest to hev a leetle palaver wi' them. They're putty sure to abeen arter some diviltry anyhow. 'S like 's not this lot's been apilferin' somethin' from the new settlement, and air in the act o'toatin' off thar plunder. Ef arter gruppin' 'em, we find it aint so, wekin 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. Ifthe 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 anyresistance. Besides, arter all, they may be some sort that's friendlyto the whites. Ef so, 'twould be a pity to kill the critters. We kincapter '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 theinnocent--not that of Indians. When it comes to killing I shall seebefore me--. No matter; you know whom I mean. "

"I guess we do, " answers Woodley. "We both o' us understand yourfeelins, Charley Clancy; ay, an' respect 'em. But let's look sharp. Whilst we stan' palaverin the Injuns may slip past. They've arreadyreech'd the bank, an'--Quick, kum along!"

The three are about starting off, when a fourth figure appears standingerect. It is Jupiter. A life of long suffering has made the mulatto alight sleeper, and he has been awake all the time they were talking. Though they spoke only in whispers, he has heard enough to suspectsomething about to be done, in which there may be danger to Clancy. Theslave, now free, would lay down his life for the man who has manumittedhim. 

Coming up, he requests to be taken along, and permitted to share theirexploit, however perilous. 

As there can be no great objection, his request is granted, and he isjoined to the party. 

But this necessitates a pause, for something to be considered. What isto be done with the ex-jailer? Though not strictly treated as aprisoner, still all along they have been keeping him under surveillance. Certainly, there was something strange in his making back for theStates, in view of what he might there expect to meet for hismisdemeanour; and, considering this, they have never been sure whetherhe 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 steppingstraight to where Harkness lies, grasping the collar of his coat, andrudely arousing him out of his slumber, by a jerk that brings him erectupon his feet. Then, without waiting word of remonstrance from theastonished man, Sime hisses into his ear:--

"Kum along, Joe Harkness! Keep close arter us, an' don't ask anyquestyuns. Thar, Jupe; you take charge o' him!"

At this, he gives Harkness a shove which sends him staggering into thearms of the mulatto. 

The latter, drawing a long stiletto-like knife, brandishes it before theex-jailer's eyes, as he does so, saying:

"Mass Harkness; keep on afore me; I foller. If you try leave the tracklook-out. This blade sure go 'tween your back ribs. "

The shining steel, with the sheen of Jupiter's teeth set in sterndetermination, 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 tracemaking this necessary; Woodley in the lead; Clancy second, holding hishound in leash; Heywood third; Harkness fourth; Jupiter with baredknife-blade bringing up the rear. 

Never marched troop having behind it a more inexorable file-closer, orone more determined on doing his duty. 

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT. 

ACROSS THE FORD. 

No need to tell who are the strange equestrians seen coming across theriver; nor to say, that those on the croup are not Indian women, butwhite ones--captives. The reader already knows they are Helen andJessie Armstrong. 

Had Charles Clancy or Sime Woodley but suspected this at the time, theywould not have waited for Heywood, or stood dallying about the duplicityof Harkness. Instead, they would have rushed right on to the river, caring little what chances might be against them. Having no suspicionof its being ought save two travelling redskins, accompanied by theirsquaws, they acted otherwise. 

The captives themselves know they are not in charge of Indians. Afterhearing that horrid laughter they are no longer in doubt. It came fromthe throats of white men: for only such could have understood thespeeches that called it forth. 

This discovery affords them no gratification, but the opposite. Insteadof feeling safer in the custody of civilised men, the thought of it butintensifies their fears. From the red savage, _pur sang_, they mightlook for some compassion; from the white one they need not expect aspark of it. 

And neither does; both have alike lost heart and sunk into deepestdejection. Never crossed Acheron two spirits more despairing--lesshopeful of happiness beyond. 

They are silent now. To exchange speech would only be to tempt a freshpeal 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 necessitateshouting. The horses are now wading knee-deep, and the water, incontinuous agitation, makes a tumultuous noise; its cold drops dashedback, clouting against the blankets in which the forms of the captivesare enfolded. 

Though silent, these are busy with conjectures. Each has her own aboutthe man who is beside her. Jessie thinks she is sharing the saddle withthe traitor, Fernand. She trembles at recalling his glances from timeto time cast upon her--ill-understood then, too well now. And now inhis power, soon to be in his arms! Oh, heavens--it is horror. --Something like this she exclaims, the wild words wrung from her in heranguish. 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 herown. She suspects him to be one worse than traitor; is almost sure heis an assassin!

If so, what will be her fate? Reflecting on it, no wonder she cries outin 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 fromthe bank. 

For a length or two the horses strain upward; and again on level groundare halted, side by side and close together. The man who has charge ofHelen, speaking to the other, says:--

"You'd better go ahead, Bill. I aint sure about the bye-path to the bigtree. 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. Itis 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 withloathing. 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 theoak. I know the Cap' sayed we were to wait for them under it. Why cantwe just as well stay heer? 'Taint like they'll be long now. They wontdally a minute, I know, after they've clutched the shiners, an' I guessthey 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 morelike to be pursooed. It's a ugly bit o' track 'tween here an' the bigtree, both sides thorny bramble that'll tear the duds off our backs, tosay nothin' o' the skin from our faces. In my opinion we oughter staywhere we air till the rest jeins us. "

"No, " responds the lieutenant, in tone more authoritative, "We mustn'tremain here. Besides, we cant tell what may have happened to them. Suppose they have to fight for it, and get forced to take the uppercrossing. In that case--"

The speaker makes pause, as if perceiving a dilemma. 

"In that case, " interpolates the unwilling Bill, "we'd best not stopheer at all, but put straight for head-quarters on the creek. How d'yeincline to that way of it?"

"Something in what you say, " answers the lieutenant. Then adding, aftera pause, "It isn't likely they'll meet any obstruction. The half-breedIndian said he had arranged everything clear as clock-work. They'resafe 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 Iknow the trail across the upper plain. We might get strayed there, andif so, we'd better be in hell?"

After the profane utterance succeeds a short interval of silence, bothmen apparently cogitating. The lieutenant is the first to resume. 

"Bosley, " he says, speaking in a sage tone, and for the first timeaddressing the subordinate by his family name. "On the prairies, aselsewhere, one should always be true to a trust, and keep it when onecan. If there were time, I could tell you a curious story of one whotried but couldn't. It's generally the wisest way, and I think it'sthat for us now. We might make a mess of it by changing from theprogramme understood--which was for us to wait under the oak. BesidesI've got a reason of my own for being there a bit--something you can'tunderstand, and don't need telling about. And time's precious too; sospin 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 likethe first way best. I kin tell ye I'm precious tired toatin this burdenat my back, beauty though she be; an' by remainin' heer I'll get thesooner relieved. When Cap' comes he'll be wantin' to take her off myhands; to the which I'll make him welcome as the flowers o' May. "

With his poetical wind-up, the reluctant robber sets his horse inmotion, and leads on. Not far along the main road. When a few yardsfrom the ford, he faces towards a trail on his left, which under theshadow is with difficulty discernible. For all this, he strikes into itwith the confidence of one well acquainted with the way. 

Along it they advance between thick standing trees, the path arcadedover by leafy branches appearing as dark as a tunnel. As the horsesmove on, the boughs, bent forward by their breasts, swish back inrebound, striking against the legs of their riders; while higher up thehanging _llianas_, many of them beset with spines, threaten to tear theskin from their faces. 

Fortunately for the captives, theirs are protected by the close-wovenserapes. Though little care they now: thorns lacerating their cheekswere but trivial pain, compared to the torture in their souls. Theyutter no complaint, neither speaking a word. Despair has stricken themdumb; for, moving along that darksome path, they feel as martyrs beingconducted to stake or scaffold. 

CHAPTER FIFTY NINE. 

A FOILED AMBUSCADE. 

Almost at the same instant the double-mounted steeds are turning off themain road, Woodley and those with him enter upon it; only at a pointfurther away from the ford. 

Delayed, first in considering what should be done with Harkness, andafterwards by the necessity of going slowly, as well as noiselesslyalong the narrow trace, they have arrived upon the road's edge just intime 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, andhears no sound, save that of the water, which comes in hoarse hissbetween the trees, almost deafening the ear. For at this point thestream, shallowing, runs in rapid current over a pebbly bed, here andthere breaking into crests. 

Woodley's fear has been, that before he and his companions reach theroad, the Indians might get past. If so, the chances of taking themwill be diminished perhaps gone altogether. For, on horseback, theywould have an advantage over those following afoot; and their capturecould only be effected by the most skilful stalking, as such travellershave the habit of looking behind. 

The question is--Have they passed the place, where it was intended towaylay them?

"I don't think they hev, " says Woodley, answering it. "They have hardlyhed time. Besides 'tain't nat'ral they'd ride strait on, jest arterkimmin' acrosst the river. It's a longish wade, wi' a good deal o' workfor 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 goodby hyar, they can't yet be very far off. Ridin' as they air they won'tthink o' proceedin' at a fast pace. Therefore, let's take a scout 'longthe road outwards. Ef they're on it, we'll soon sight 'em, or we maykonklude they're behind on the bank o' the river. They're bound to passthis way, ef they hain't arready. So we'll eyther overtake, or meet 'emwhen returnin', or what mout be better'n both, ketch 'em a campin' bythe water's edge. In any case our surest way air first to follow up theroad. Ef that prove a failure, we kin 'bout face, an' back to theriver. "

"Why need we all go?" asks Heywood. "Supposing the rest of you stayhere, 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. Lookat 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' ourcomin' 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 themto pass out from the river?"

"This chile don't know o' any, ceptin' this trace we've ourselves kumoff o'. "

"Then, clearly, our best plan is first to try along the road--alltogether. "

"Let's on, then!" urges Woodley. "Thar's no time to waste. While westan' 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 placewhere the trees, standing apart, leave an open space between. There asaddle-like hollow intersects the road, traversing it from side to side. It is the channel of a rivulet when raining; but now nearly dry, itsbed a mortar of soft mud. They had crossed it coming in towards theriver, but without taking any notice of it, further than the necessityof guiding their tired steeds to guard against their stumbling. It wasthen in darkness, the twilight just past, and the moon not risen. Nowthat she is up in mid heaven, it is flooded by her light, so that theslightest mark in the mud can be clearly distinguished. 

Running their eyes over its surface, they observe tracks they have notbeen looking for, and more than they have reason to expect. Signs tocause them surprise, if not actual alarm. Conspicuous are two deepparallel ruts, which they know have been made by the wheels of theemigrant wagons. A shower of rain, since fallen, has not obliteratedthem; only washed off their sharp angles, having done the same with thetracks of the mule teams between, and those of the half hundred horsesridden alongside, as also the hoof-marks of the horned cattle drivenafter. 

It is not any of these that gives them concern. But other tracks morerecent, made since the ram--in fact, since the sun lose that samemorning--made by horses going towards the river, and with riders ontheir backs. Over twenty in all, without counting their own; some ofthem shod, but most without iron on the hoof. To the eyes of SimeWoodley--to Clancy's as well--these facts declare themselves at a singleglance; and they only dwell upon further deductions. But not yet. Forwhile scanning the slough they see two sets of horse tracks going in theopposite direction--outward from the river. Shod horses, too; theirhoof-prints stamped deep in the mud, as if both had been heavilymounted. 

This is a matter more immediate. The redskins, riding double, have gonepast. If they are to be overtaken, nor a moment must be spent thinkingof aught else. 

Clancy has risen erect, ready to rush on after them. So Heywood and therest. But not Woodley, who, still stooping over the slough, seemsunsatisfied. And soon he makes a remark, which not only restrains theothers, 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 bethem 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. Thehorses which made these outgoing tracks cannot be the same seen comingacross. 

And now, the others being more carefully scrutinised, these same two arediscovered among them, with the convexity of the hoof turned towards theriver!

In all this there is strangeness, though it is not the time to inquireinto it. That must be left till later. Their only thought now is, where are the Indians; for they have certainly not come on along theroad. 

"Boys!" says Woodley, "we've been makin' a big roundabout 'ithoutgainin' a great deal by it. Sartin them redskins hev stopped at theriver, an' thar mean squatting for the remainder o' this night. That'llsuit our purpiss to a teetotum. We kin capter 'em in thar camp eezierthan 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 keepingclose after. 

In ten minutes more they are on the river's bank, where it declined tothe crossing. They see no Indians there--no human creatures of anykind--nor yet any horses!

CHAPTER SIXTY. 

"THE LIVE-OAK. "

At a pace necessarily slow, from the narrowness of the path and itsnumerous obstructions, the painted robbers, with their captives, havecontinued on; reaching their destination about the time Clancy and hiscomrades turned back along the ford road. 

From this they are now not more than three hundred yards distant, haltedin the place spoken of as a rendezvous. 

A singular spot it is--one of those wild forest scenes by which natureoft surprises and delights her straying worshipper. 

It is a glade of circular shape, with a colossal tree standing in itscentre, --a live-oak with trunk full forty feet in girth, and branchesspreading like a banyan. Though an evergreen, but little of its ownfoliage can be seen, only here and there a parcel of leaves at theextremity of a protruding twig; all the rest, great limbs and lesserbranches, shrouded under Spanish moss, this in the moonlight showingwhite 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 acataract suddenly frozen in its fall, its spray converted into hoarfrost, the jets to gigantic icicles. 

In their midst towers the supporting stem, thick and black, its barkgnarled and corrugated as the skin of an alligator. 

This grim Titan of the forest, o'ertopping the other trees like a giantamong men, stands alone, as though it had commanded them to keep theirdistance. And they seem to obey. Nearer than thirty yards to it nonegrow, nor so much as an underwood. It were easy to fancy it theirmonarch, and them not daring to intrude upon the domain it has set apartfor itself. 

With the moon now in the zenith, its shadow extends equally on all sidesof its huge trunk, darkening half the surface of the glade--the otherhalf in light, forming an illuminated ring around it. There could be nomistaking it for other than the "big tree, " referred to in the dialoguebetween the two robbers; and that they recognise it as such is evidentby their action. Soon as sighting it, they head straight towards itsstem, and halting, slip down out of their saddles, having undone thecords 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 wordwith 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; atthe same time authoritatively, to secure Bill's obedience. He has nointention of refusing it. On the contrary, he responds withalacrity:--"All right. I understand. " This spoken as if implyingconsent to some sinister purpose on the part of his superior. Withoutfurther words, the lieutenant lays hold of his horse's rein, and leadsthe animal round to the other side of the live-oak, his captive still inthe saddle. Thus separated, the two men are not only out of eachother's sight, but beyond the chance of exchanging speech. Between themis the buttressed trunk many yards in breadth, dark and frowning as thebattlements of a fortress. Besides, the air is filled with noises, theskirling of tree-crickets, and other sounds of animated nature thatdisturb the tranquillity of the southern night. They could onlycommunicate with one another by shouting at the highest pitch of theirvoices. Just now they have no need, and each proceeds to act forhimself. 

Bosley, soon as left alone with his captive, bethinks him what he hadbest do with her. He knows he must treat her tenderly, evenrespectfully. He has had commands to this effect from one he dare notdisobey. Before starting, his chief gave him instructions, to becarried out or disregarded at peril of his life. He has no intention todisobey them--indeed, no inclination. A stern old sinner, his weaknessis not woman--perhaps for this very reason selected for the delicateduty 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 bestdischarge it to the satisfaction of his superior. No need to keep herany 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 alongthe earth. 

Having so disposed of her, he pulls out his pipe, lights it, andcommences smoking, apparently without, further thought of the form athis feet. That spoil is not for him. 

But there is another, upon which he has set his mind. One altogetherdifferent from woman. It is Dupre's treasure, of which he is to havehis share; and he speculates how much it will come to on partition. Helongs to feast his eyes with a sight of the shining silver of whichthere has been so much talk among the robbers; and grand expectationsexcited; 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 anonutters a grunt of discontent at the special duty imposed upon him, whichmay 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 tostand idly over. Instead, he leaves her, and walks away from the spot, having attached his horse to the trunk of the tree, by hooking thebridle-rein over a piece of projecting bark. He has no fear that shewill make her escape, or attempt it. Before parting he has takenprecautions against that, by lashing her limbs together. 

All this without saying a word--not even giving utterance to anexclamation!

In like silence he leaves her, turning his face toward the river, andstriking along a trace that conducts to it. 

Though several hundred yards from the ford, the bank is close by; forthe path by which they approached the glade has been parallel to thetrend of the stream. The live-oak overlooks it, with only a borderingof bushes between. 

Through this runs a narrow trace made by wild animals, the forestdenizens that frequent the adjacent timber, going down to their drinkingplace. 

Parting the branches, that would sweep the plumed tiara from his head, the lieutenant glides along it, not stealthily, but with confidence, andas if familiar with the way. Once through the thicket, he sees theriver broad and bright before him: its clear tranquil current incontrast with the dark and stormy passions agitating his own heart. Heis not thinking of this, nor is there any sentiment in his soul, as hepauses by the side of the stream. He has sought it for a most prosaicpurpose--to wash his face. For this he has brought with him a piece ofsoap and a rag of cotton cloth, taken out of a haversack carried on thepommel of his saddle. 

Stepping down the slope, he stoops to perform his ablutions. In thatwater-mirror many a fierce ugly face has been reflected but never onefiercer or uglier than his, under its garish panoply of paint. Nor isit improved, when this, sponged off shows the skin to be white; on thecontrary, the sinister passions that play upon his features would betterbecome the complexion of the savage. 

Having completed his lavatory task, he throws soap and rag into theriver; then, turning, strides back up the bank. At its summit he stopsto 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 theStates. I'd bet odds she'll be more frightened at my face now, thanwhen she saw it in the old garden. She didn't recognise it then; shewill now. And now for her torture, and my triumph: for the revenge I'vedetermined to take. Won't it be sweet!"

At the close of his exultant speech, he dives into the dark path, andgliding 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 byher recumbent form, and stands gazing upon, gloating over it, like apanther whose prey lies disabled at its feet, to be devoured at leisure. 

Only an instant stays he in this attitude; then stooping till his headalmost 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 hascaused all her life's bitterness. The voice, no longer disguised, isthat of Richard Darke!

CHAPTER SIXTY ONE. 

A RUFFIAN TRIUMPHANT. 

Wild thoughts has Helen Armstrong, thus apostrophised, with not a wordto say in return. She knows it would be idle; but without this, hervery indignation holds her dumb--that and despair. 

For a time he, too, is silent, as if surrendering his soul to delightfulexultation. 

Soon he resumes speech in changed tone, and interrogatively:--"Do youknow who's talking to you? Or must I tell you, Nell? You'll excusefamiliarity in an old friend, won't you?" Receiving no response, hecontinues, 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 agood way from here. To assist your recollection, let me recall anincident occurring at our last interview. Perhaps 'twill be enough toname the place and time? Wall, it was under a magnolia, in the State ofMississippi; time ten o'clock of night, moonlight, if I rightlyremember, 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 yourfeet, 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 isthe swell and fall of her bosom--tumultuously beating. 

He who stands, over well knows it is throbbing in pain. But nocompassion 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 withoutit; remembering the old saw--`Silence consents. ' Perhaps, ere long yourtongue will untie itself; when you've got over grieving for him who'sgone--your great favourite, Charley Clancy. I take it, you've heard ofhis death; and possibly a report, that some one killed him. Bothstories are true; and, telling you so, I may add, no one knows betterthan myself; since 'twas I sent the gentleman to kingdom come--RichardDarke. "

On making the fearful confession, and in boastful emphasis, he bendslower to observe its effect. Not in her face, still covered with theserape, but her form, in which he can perceive a tremor from head tofoot. 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 spasmhaving passed. Even the beating of her heart seems stilled. 

Is she dead? Has his fell speech slain her? In reality it would appearso. 

"Ah, well;" he says, "you won't recognise me? Perhaps you will afterseeing my face. Sight is the sharpest of the senses, and the mostreliable. You shall no longer be deprived of it. Let me take you tothe light. "

Lifting, he carries her out to where the moonbeams meet the tree'sshadow, and there lays her along. Then dropping to his knees, he drawsout something that glistens. Two months before he stooped over theprostrate form of her lover, holding a photograph before his eyes--herown portrait. In her's he is about to brandish a knife!

One seeing him in this attitude would suppose he intended burying itsblade in her breast. Instead, he slits open the serape in front of herface, tossing the severed edges back beyond her cheeks. 

Her features exposed to the light, show wan and woeful; withal, lovelyas ever; piquant in their pale beauty, like those of some rebellious nunhating the hood, discontented with cloister and convent. 

As she sees him stooping beside, with blade uplifted, she feels sure hedesigns killing her. But she neither shrinks, nor shudders now. Sheeven wishes him to end her agony with a blow. Were the knife in her ownhand, she would herself give it. 

It is not his intention to harm her that way. Words are the weapons bywhich he intends torturing her. With these he will lacerate her heartto its core. 

For he is thinking of the time when he threw himself at her feet, andpoured forth his soul in passionate entreaty, only to have his passionspurned, and his pride humiliated. It is her turn to sufferhumiliation, and he has determined she shall. Recalling his own, everyspark of pity, every pulsation of manhood, is extinguished within him. The cup of his scorned love has become a chalice filled with the passionof vengeance. 

Sheathing the knife, he says:

"I've been longing for a good look at you. Now that I've got it, Ishould say you're pretty as ever, only paler. That will come right, andthe roses return to your cheeks, in this recuperative climate of Texas;especially in the place where I intend taking you. But you hav'nt yetlooked at my face. It's just had a washing for your sake. Come give ita glance! I want you to admire it, though it may not be quite sohandsome 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 whenyou'll not be so coy, and when I shan't any longer kneel supplicatingyou. 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 allunkind. It'll be your own fault if you force me to harshness. Andknowing that, why shouldn't there be truce between us? What's the useof fretting about Clancy? He's dead as a door nail, and your lamentingwon't bring him to life again. Better take things as they are, andcheer up. If you've lost one sweetheart, there's another left, wholoves you more than ever did he. I do, Helen Armstrong; by God, I do!"

The ruffian gives emphasis to his profane assertion, by bending beforeher, 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 designbears striking resemblance to the hieroglyphs of Egypt--this closed andcorded round her figure, she might easily be mistaken for a mummy, oneof Pharaoh's daughters taken out of the sarcophagus in which forcenturies she has slept. Alone, the face with its soft white skin, negatives the comparison: though it appears bloodless, too. The eyestell nought; their lids are closed, the long dark lashes alone showingin crescent curves. With difficulty could one tell whether she beasleep, or dead. 

Richard Darke does not suppose she is either; and, incensed at receivingno reply, again apostrophises her in tone more spiteful than ever. Hehas 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 weshall soon be--after a fashion. A good one, too, practised here uponthe prairies of Texas. Just the place for a bridal, such as ours is tobe. The nuptial knot tied, according to canons of our own choice, needing no sanction of church, or palaver of priests, to make itbinding. "

The ruffian pauses in his ribald speech. Not that he has yet sated hisvengeance, for he intends continuing the torture of his victim unable toresist. He has driven the arrow deep into her heart, and leaves it torankle there. 

For a time he is silent, as if enjoying his triumph--the expression onhis 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 speakingexcitedly!

Quick parting from his captive, and gliding up to the trunk, he lookscautiously around it. 

In the shadow he sees several figures clustering around Bosley and hishorse; then hears names pronounced, one which chills the blood withinhis veins--almost freezing it. 

He stands transfixed; cowering as one detected in an act of crime, andby a strong hand held in the attitude in which caught! Only for a shortwhile thus; then, starting up, he rushes to regain his horse, jerks thebridle from the back, and drags the animal in the direction of hiscaptive. 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 andhis companions thought not of abandoning the search for them. On thecontrary, they continued it with renewed eagerness, their interestexcited by the unexplained disappearance of the party. 

And they have succeeded in finding it, for it is they who surroundBosley, 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 strangeequestrians, their first feeling was profound astonishment. OnWoodley'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' thedoubtful. "

"Supposin' they've taken the trace we came by? They might while we wereup the road. "

"By the jumpin' Jeehosofat!" exclaims Woodley, startled by this secondsuggestion, "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 anyunearthly fancies. "I don't think they could have gone that way. Theremay 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 noticedneery one. Still, as you say, sech is usooal, ef only a way for thewild beasts. We kin try for it. "

"Let us first make sure whether they came out here at all. We didn'twatch 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 thefetlocks. 

Turning, they easily trace them up the shelving bank; but not so easilyalong the road, though certain they continue that way. It is black aspitch beneath the shadowing trees. Withal, Woodley is not to be thusbaffled. His skill as a tracker is proverbial among men of his calling;moreover, he is chagrined at their ill success so far; and, but forthere being no time, the ex-jailer, its cause, would catch it. He doesin an occasional curse, which might be accompanied by a cuff, did he notkeep well out of the backwoodsman's way. 

Dropping on all fours, Sime feels for hoof-prints of the horses thathave just crossed, groping in darkness. He can distinguish them fromall 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 inTexas; and no doubt you are, for a biped: still here's one can beatyou. "

"Who?" asks the backwoodsman, rising erect, "show me the man. "

"No man, " interrupts the other with a smile. "For our purpose somethingbetter. 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, whilelengthening the leash, and setting the animal on the slot. "You tell uswhere the redskin riders have gone. "

The intelligent creature well understands what is wanted, and with noseto the ground goes instantly off. But for the check string it wouldsoon outstrip them for its eager action tells it has caught scent of atrail. 

At first lifting it along the ford road, but only for a few yards. Thenabruptly turning left, the dog is about to strike into the timber, whenthe hand of the master restrains it. 

The instinct of the animal is no longer needed. They perceive theembouchure of a path, that looks like the entrance to a cave, dark andforbidding as the back door of a jail. But surely a trace leading inamong the trees, which the plumed horsemen have taken. 

After a second or two spent in arranging the order of march, they alsotake it, Clancy now assuming command. 

They proceed with caution greater than ever; more slowly too, becausealong a path, dark, narrow, unknown, shaggy with thorns. They have togrope every inch of their way; all the while in surprise at the Indianshaving chosen it. There must be a reason, though none of them can thinkwhat it is. 

They are not long left to conjectures. A light before their eyes throwslight upon the enigma that has been baffling their brains. There is abreak in the timber, where the moonbeams fall free to the earth. 

Gliding on, silently, with undiminished caution, they arrive on the edgeof an opening, and there make stop, but inside the underwood that skirtsit. 

Clancy and Woodley stand side by side, crouchingly; and in this attitudeinterrogate the ground before them. 

They see the great tree, with its white shroud above, and deep obscuritybeneath--the moonlit ring around it. But at first nothing more, savethe fire-flies scintillating in its shadow. 

After a time, their eyes becoming accustomed to the cross light, theysee 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 ofeach, but they take it there are two, with two women as well. Whilescanning the group, they observe a light larger and redder than thatemitted by the winged insects. Steadier too; for it moves not from itsplace. They might not know it to be the coal upon a tobacco pipe, butfor 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 onlymake 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 thecookin' o' thar supper. Maybe they've hed it, an' only kim hyar to geta 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 allersneedcessary 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' tharblood. Ye say, you don't want that?"

"On no account. If I thought there was a likelihood of it, I'd gostraight back to our camp, and leave them alone. They may be harmlesscreatures, on some innocent errand. If it prove so, we musn't molestthem. "

"Wal; I'm willin', for thet, " rejoins Woodley, adding a reservation, "Efthey 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 iscogitating 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 tobe innercent. For all thet, we shed make sure, an' take preecaushin incase 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 slickeryas eels. It's good sixty yurds to whar they're squatted yonner. Ef wepush strait torst 'em, they'll see us crossin' that bit o' moonshine, an' be inter the timmer like greased lightnin' through the branches o' agooseberry bush. Tho' out o' thar seddles now, an' some o' 'emstreetched 'long the airth, apparently sleepin', they'd be up an' off inthe 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 itwill take time, and call for the greatest caution. To get around theglade, without their seeing us, we must keep well within the timber. Through that underwood it won't be easy. On second thoughts, Sime, I'minclined to chance it the other way. They can't possibly escape us. Ifthey do take to their horses, they couldn't gallop off beyond reach ofour rifles. We can easily shoot their animals down. Besides, rememberthere's two to get mounted on each. We may as well run right up, anddetermine 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 theusual sounds of the forest, of which it is now full. A spring night, asultry one, the tree-crickets are in shrillest cry, the owls andgoatsuckers joining in the chorus. 

But in the midst of its continuous strain there is surely a sound, notanimal, 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 bethat of boasting or triumph. And the voice is not like an Indian's, while exclamations, at intervals uttered, are certainly such as couldonly proceed from the lips of a white man. 

All this is strange, and causes astonishment to the travellers--toClancy something more. But before he has time to reflect upon, or formconjectures about it, he hears that which compels him to cast asideevery restraint of prudence; and springing forward, he signals theothers to follow him. 

They do, without a word; and in less than twenty seconds' time, theyhave entered the shadowed circle, and surrounded the group at which theyhave 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 thepipe from between his teeth. It is struck out of his hand, the sparksflying 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 seenbefore. 

Under its coating of charcoal and chalk they might not recognise it, butfor the man making himself known by speech, which secures hisidentification. For he, too, sees a familiar face, that of SimeonWoodley; and under the impression he is himself recognised, mechanicallypronounces 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 theman, 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 offmy throat. O Sime! sure you don't intend killin' me?--ye won't, yewon'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 thanonce. 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 manstruck with sudden phrenzy!

On turning the trunk, he sees other forms, a horse with man mounted, awoman before him he endeavours to restrain, who, struggling, thirsts forsuccour. 

It is nigh, though near being too late. But for a fortunatecircumstance, it would be. The horse, headed towards the forest, isurged in that direction. But, frayed by the conflict on his back, herefuses to advance; instead, jibbing and rearing, he returns under thetree. 

Clancy, with rifle raised, is about to shoot the animal down. But atthought of danger to her calling "help!" he lowers his piece; andrushing in, lays hold of the bridle-rein. This instantly let go, toreceive in his arms the woman, released from the ruffian's grasp, whowould otherwise fall heavily to the earth. 

The horse, disembarrassed, now obeying the rein, shoots out from underthe oak, and headed across the moonlit belt makes straight for thetimber beyond. 

In the struggle Clancy has let go his gun, and now vainly gropes for itin the darkness. But two others are behind, with barrels that bear uponthe retreating horseman. In an instant all would be over with him, butfor 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 theyobey; and again Richard Darke escapes chastisement for two great crimeshe 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 herrescuer. Charles Clancy alive! Is she dreaming? Or is it indeed hewhose arms are around, folding her in firm but tender embrace? Underthe moonbeams, that seem to have suddenly become brighter, she beholdsthe manly form and noble features of him she believed dead, his cheeksshowing the hue of health, his eyes late glaring in angry excitement, now glowing with the softer light of love. Yes: it is indeed her loverlong mourned, living, breathing, beautiful as ever!

She asks not if he be still true, that doubt has been long sincedissipated. 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 absorbedwith sweet thoughts to care for words. Speech could not heighten theirhappiness, in the midst of caresses and kisses. 

On his side there is no backwardness now; on hers no coyness, no mockmodesty. They come together not as at their last interview, timidsweethearts, but lovers emboldened by betrothal. For she knows, that heproposed to her; as he, that her acceptance was sent, and miscarried. It has reached him nevertheless; he has it upon his person now--both theletter and portrait. About the last are his first words. Drawing itout, 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 writtenunderneath?"

"Put it back into; our pocket, Charles. And now tell me all. Am Idreaming? Or is it indeed reality?"

No wonder she should so exclaim. Never was transformation quicker, ormore complete. But a few seconds before she was, as it were, in theclutches of the devil; now an angel is by her side, a seraph with softwings to shelter, and strong arms to protect her. She feels as one, who, long lingering at the door of death, has health suddenly andmiraculously restored, with the prospect of a prolonged and happy life. 

Clancy replies, by again flinging his arms around, and rapturouslykissing her: perhaps thinking it the best answer he can give. If thatbe not reality, what is?

Jessie has now joined them, and after exchanged congratulations, theresucceed mutual inquiries and explanations. Clancy has commenced givinga brief account of what has occurred to himself, when he is interruptedby a rough, but kindly voice; that of Sime, saying:--

"Ye kin tell them all that at some other time, Charley; thar aint aminnit to be throwed away now. " Then drawing Clancy aside, speaking soas 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 thebetter. 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 yurcheeks. "

"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' atreetur that's inside--a sort o' sarvint to the Creole, Dupray, who onlylate engaged him. Wal; it seems they grupped the gurls, as they warmakin' 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 comeon wi' the stolen goods. They may be hyar at any minnit; an', wi' JimBorlasse at thar head, I needn't tell ye what that means. Four o' usagin twenty--for we can't count on Harkness--it's ugly odds. We'd hevno show, howsomever. It 'ud end in their again grabbin' these prettycritters, an' 's like 's not end our own lives. "

Clancy needs no further speech to convince him of the danger. Afterwhat has occurred, an encounter with the robbers would, indeed, bedisastrous. Richard Darke, leagued with Jim Borlasse, a noted pirate ofthe prairies; their diabolical plans disclosed, and only defeated by themerest accident of circumstances. 

"You're right, Sime. We mustn't be caught by the scoundrels. As yousay, 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 gopast?"

"No. Our better plan 'll be to go on to the Mission, an' get tharsoon'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 toget clear of the scrape. "

"What way?"

"That road we kim in by, ye see, leads on'ard up the bank this side. Ireckin' it goes to the upper crossin', the which air several miles abovethe 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 thehosses. Ned's tother side the tree in charge o' Bosley. "

"You've arranged it right. Nothing could be better. Take the trail upthis side. I can trust you for seeing them safe into their father'sarms--if he still live. "

Woodley wonders at this speech. He is about to ask explanation, whenClancy adds, pointing to the elder sister--

"I want a word with her before parting. While you are getting ready thehorses--"

"Before partin'!" interrupts Sime with increased surprise, "Surely youmean 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 willneed looking after--and carefully. Jupe I'll take with me. "

Woodley remonstrates, pointing out the danger of the course his comradeintends pursuing. He only yields as Clancy rejoins, in a tone ofdetermination, almost command:--

"You must do as I tell you, Sime; go on to the Mission, and take themwith you. As for me, I've a strong reason for remaining behind bymyself; a silly sentiment some might call it, though I don't think youwould. "

"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 makingmistakes. So many, it's just possible my courage may be called inquestion; 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; atleast one deed during his lifetime. There's one I've got to do--must doit, before I can think of anything else. "

"That is?"

"_Kill Richard Darke_, As you know, I've sworn it, and nothing shallcome 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 herheart's been nigh broke arready. She hasn't the peach colour she usedto hev. It's clean faded out o' her cheeks, an' what your goin' to donow aint the way to bring it back agin. "

"I cannot help it, Sime. I hear my mother calling me. Go, now! I wishit; I insist upon it!"

Saying this, he turns towards Helen Armstrong to speak a word, which heknows 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 brightflash of joy at their release from captivity, with Helen's addedgratification, is once more clouded over, as they think of what may havebefallen their father. Now, knowing who the miscreants are, theirhearts are heavy with apprehension. Jessie may, perhaps, feel it themore, having most cause--for her dread is of a double nature. There isher 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 lightof gladness, which so suddenly shone into her heart, is to be with likesuddenness extinguished; and that he who gave is about to take it away. Gently leading her apart, and leaving Jessie to be comforted by Sime, hesays--

"Dearest! we've arranged everything for your being taken back to theMission. The brave backwoodsmen, Woodley and Heywood, will be yourescort. Under their protection you'll have nothing to fear. Eitherwould lay down his life for you or your sister. Nor need you be uneasyabout your father. From what this fellow, Bosley, says, the ruffiansonly meant robbery, and if they have not been resisted it will end inthat only. Have courage, and be cheered; you'll find your father as youleft 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 goingto do. "

"What?"

"Leave you. "

"Leave me!" she exclaims, her eyes interrogating his in wildbewilderment. 

"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 morewishing 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 hisanswer. 

"Helen Armstrong!" he says, speaking in a tone of solemnity that soundsstrange, almost harsh despite its gentleness; "you are to me the dearestthing 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 theassurance I've already given you. Ah! now more than ever, if that werepossible; now that I know how true you've been, and what you've sufferedfor my sake. But there's another--one far away from here, who claims ashare of my affections--"

She makes a movement interrupting him, her eyes kindling up with anindescribable light, her bosom rising and falling as though stirred bysome terrible emotion. 

Perceiving her agitation, though without suspecting its cause, hecontinues:

"If this night more than ever I love you, this night greater than everis my affection for her. The sight of that man, with the thought I'veagain permitted him to escape, is fresh cause of reproach--a new cryfrom 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 themoment held sway in her thoughts. Ashamed of the suspicion, now knownto 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; mypoor mother was murdered by the man who has just gone off. He won't gofar, before I overtake him. I've sworn over her grave, she shall beavenged; his blood will atone for her's. I've tracked him here, shalltrack him on; never stop, till I stand over him, as he once stood overme, thinking--. But I won't tell you more. Enough, for you to know whyI'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. Soonas made, she regrets, and would recall it. For she sees the painfuleffect it has produced. 

He anticipates her, saying:--

"You wrong me, Helen, in word, as in thought. Such could not be. Thetwo are different. You should know that. As I tell you, I've sworn toavenge my mother's death--sworn it over her grave. Is that not an oathto be kept? I ask--I appeal to you!"

Her hand, that has still been keeping hold of his, closes upon it withfirmer grasp, while her eyes become fixed upon him in look more relyingthan ever. 

The selfishness of her own passion shrinks before the sacredness of thatinspiring him, and quick passes away. With her love is now mingledadmiration. Yielding to it, she exclaims:

"Go--go! Get the retribution you seek. Perhaps 'tis right. Godshielding you, you'll succeed, and come back to me, true as you've beento 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 borneherself with the firmness derived from a strong, self-sustaining nature. But hearing this word--wildest of all--she can hold out no longer. Herstrength gives way, and flinging herself on his breast, she pours fortha torrent of tears. 

"Come, Helen!" he says, kissing them from her cheeks, "be brave, anddon't fear for me. I know my man, and the work cut out for me. Bysheer carelessness I've twice let him have his triumph over me. But hewon't the third time. When we next meet 'twill be the last hour of hislife. Something whispers this--perhaps the spirit of my mother? Keepup your courage, sweet! Go back with Sime, who'll see you safe intoyour father's arms. When there, you can offer up a prayer for mysafety, 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 itsGod. "

With these solemn words the scene ends, only one other exchanged betweenthem--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 minuitmore in this gleed, an' some o' us may niver leave it alive. "

Jupiter and Harkness have brought up the horses, and are holding them inreadiness. Soon they are mounted, Heywood taking Jessie on his croup, Helen having a horse to herself--that late belonging to Bosley--whilethe latter is compelled to share the saddle with Harkness. 

Heywood leads off; the suspected men ordered to keep close after; whileWoodley reserves the rear-guard to himself and his rifle. Beforeparting, he spurs alongside Clancy, and holds out his hand, saying:--

"Gi'e me a squeeze o' yur claws, Charley. May the Almighty stan' yourfrien' and keep you out o' Ole Nick's clutches. Don't hev' anydubiousness 'bout us. Tho' we shed kum across Satan hisself wi' all hishellniferous host, Sime Woodley 'll take care o' them sweet gurls, or goto grass trying. " With this characteristic wind-up, he puts the spur tohis 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; butall dark as clouds coursing across a winter's sky. For they are alldoubts and fears; that most felt finding expression in the despondingsoliloquy. 

"I may never see her again!"

As the departing cavalcade is about to enter among the trees, and thefloating drapery of her dress is soon to pass out of sight, he halfrepents his determination, and is almost inclined to forego it. 

But the white skirt disappears, and the dark thought returning, becomesfixed as before. Then, facing towards Jupiter, he directs:--

"Mount your mule, Jupe. We've only one more journey to make; I hope ashort one. At its end we'll meet your old master, and you'll see himget what he deserves--his _death shot_!"

CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE. 

FOR THE RENDEZVOUS. 

Stillness is again restored around the crossing of the San Saba, so faras it has been disturbed by the sound of human voices. Nature hasresumed her reign, and only the wild creatures of her kingdom can beheard calling, in tones that tell not of strife. 

But for a short while does this tranquillity continue. Soon once moreupon the river's bank resound rough voices, and rude boisterouslaughter, as a band of mounted men coming from the Mission side, spurtheir horses down into its channel, and head to go straight across. While under the shadow of the fringing timber, no one could tell whothese merry riders are; and, even after they have advanced into the openmoonlight, it would be difficult to identify them. Seeing their plumedheads with their parti-coloured complexions, a stranger would set themdown as Indians; while a Texan might particularise their tribe, callingthem Comanches. But one who is no stranger to them--the reader--knowsthey are not Indians of any kind, but savages who would show skins of atripe colour, were the pigment sponged off. For it is the band ofBorlasse. 

They have brought their booty thus far, _en route_ for their rendezvous. 

Gleeful they are, one and all. Before them on their saddle-bows, orbehind on the croups, are the boxes of silver coin; enough, as theyknow, to give them a grand spree in the town of San Antonio, whitherthey intend proceeding in due time. 

But first for their lair, where the spoil is to be partitioned, and achange made in their toilet; there to cast off the costume of thesavage, 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 embouchureof the ford road; and they get clumped into a dense crowd--in its midsttheir chief, Borlasse, conspicuous from his great bulk of body. 

"Boys!" he says, soon as all have gained the summit of the slope, andgathered around him, "it ain't no use for all o' us going to where Itold Quantrell an' Bosley to wait. The approach to the oak air a bitawkward; therefore, me an' Luke Chisholm 'll slip up thar, whiles therest o' ye stay hyar till we come back. You needn't get out of yoursaddles. We won't be many minutes, for we mustn't. They'll be astirrin' 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, Itake it. And from what our friend here says, " Borlasse nods to thehalf-blood, Fernand, who is seen seated on horseback beside him, "thesettlers can't muster over forty fightin' men. Calculatin' there's awhole tribe o' us Comanches, they'll be too scared to start out all of asuddint. Besides, they'll not find that back trail by the bluff soeasy. I don't think they can before mornin'. Still 'twont do to hangabout 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 yebehave 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 theirmidst, with the man he has selected to accompany him; the rest, asenjoined, remaining. 

Soon he turns into the up-river trace, which none of those who havealready travelled it, knew as well as he. Despite his greater size, neither its thorns, nor narrowness, hinders him from riding rapidlyalong it. He is familiar with its every turn and obstruction, as isalso Chisholm. Both have been to the big oak before, time after time;have bivouacked, slept under it, and beside booty. Approaching it nowfor a different purpose, they are doomed to disappointment. There is nosign of creature beneath its shade--horse, man, or woman!

Where is Quantrell? Where Bosley? What has become of them, and theircaptives?

They are not under the oak, or anywhere around it. They are nowhere!

The surprise of the robber chief instantly changes to anger. For asuspicion flashes across his mind, that his late appointed lieutenanthas played false to him. 

He knows that Richard Darke has only been one of his band by theexigency of sinister circumstances; knows, also, of the other, andstronger lien that has kept Clancy's assassin attached to theirconfederacy--his love for Helen Armstrong. Now that he has her--thesister too--why may he not have taken both off, intending henceforth tocut all connection with the prairie pirates? Bosley would be no bar. The subordinate might remain faithful, and to the death; still Quantrellcould kill him. 

It is all possible, probable; and Borlasse, now better acquainted withthe character of Richard Darke, can believe it so. Convinced of hislieutenant's treachery, he rages around the tree like a tiger deprivedof 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 hersister. 

Fortunately for both, the sky has become clouded, and the moon isinvisible; otherwise he might see that the ground has been trodden by ahalf-dozen horses, and discover the direction these have taken. ThoughSimeon Woodley, with his party, is now a good distance off, it wouldstill be possible to overtake them, the robbers being well mounted andbetter knowing the way. Woe to Helen and Jessie Armstrong were the moonshining, as when they parted from that spot!

Neither Borlasse nor his confederate have a thought that any one hasbeen under the oak, save Quantrell, Bosley, and the captives. How couldthey? And now they think not that these have been there; for, callingtheir names aloud, they get no response. Little do the two freebootersdream of the series of exciting incidents that in quick succession, andso recently, have occurred in that now silent spot. They have nosuspicion of aught, save that Bosley has betrayed his trust, PhilQuantrell instigating him, and that both have forsaken the band, takingthe captives along. 

At thought of their treachery Borlasse's fury goes beyond bounds, and hestamps 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 findthe 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 ofhangin' over him. Nor is he like to show himself in any o' thesettlements of Texas. And what could the two do by themselves out onthe wild prairie?"

"True; I reckon you're about right, Luke. In any case we musn't wastemore time here. It's getting well on to morning and by the earliestglint of day the settlers 'll take trail after us. We must on to theupper plain. "

At this he heads his horse back into the narrow trail; and, hurryingalong 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 pleasantanticipation of what is before, with ugly recollection of what is, andfears of what may be, behind him. 

CHAPTER SIXTY SIX. 

A SCOUTING PARTY. 

Throughout all this time, the scene of wild terror, and frenziedexcitement, continues to rage around the Mission. Its walls, whileechoing voices of lamentation, reverberate also the shouts of revenge. 

It is some time ere the colonists can realise the full extent of thecatastrophe, or be sure it is at an end. The gentlemen, who dined withColonel Armstrong, rushing back to their own homes in fearfulanticipation, there find everything, as they left it; except that theirfamilies and fellow settlers are asleep. For all this, the fear doesnot leave their hearts. If their houses are not aflame, as theyexpected to see them--if their wives and children are not butchered incold blood--they know not how soon this may be. The Indians--forIndians they still believe them--would not have attacked so strong asettlement, unless in force sufficient to destroy it. The ruin, incomplete, may still be impending. True, the interlude of inaction isdifficult to understand; only intelligible, on the supposition that thesavages are awaiting an accession to their strength, before they assaultthe _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 soonout of them, and abroad; the women and children frantically screaming;the men more calm; some of them accustomed to such surprises, issuingforth armed, and ready for action. 

Soon all are similarly prepared, each with gun, pistol, and knife borneupon his person. 

After hearing the tale of horror brought from the Mission-building, theyhold hasty council as to what they should do. 

Fear for their own firesides restrains them from starting off; and sometime elapse before they feel assured that the _rancheria_ will not beattacked, and need defending. 

Meanwhile, they despatch messengers to the Mission; who, approaching itcautiously, find no change there. 

Colonel Armstrong is still roaming distractedly around, searching forhis daughters, Dupre by his side, Hawkins and Tucker assisting in thesearch. 

The girls not found, and the frantic father settling down to theconviction that they are gone--lost to him forever!

Oh! the cruel torture of the truth thus forced upon him! His childrencarried off captive, that were enough. But to such captivity! To bethe associates of savages, their slaves, their worse than slaves--ah! adestiny 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 youngCreole is well-nigh beside himself. Never has he known such bitterthoughts; the bitterest of all--a remembrance of something said to himby his betrothed that very day. A word slight but significant, relatingto the half-blood, Fernand; a hint of some familiarity in the man'sbehaviour towards her, not absolute boldness, but presumption: forJessie did not tell all. Still enough to be now vividly recalled toDupre's memory, with all that exaggeration the circumstances arecalculated to suggest to his fancy and fears. Yes; his trusted servanthas betrayed him, and never did master more repent a trust, or suffergreater pain by its betrayal. 

The serpent he warmed has turned and stung him, with sting so venomousas to leave little of life. 

Within and around the Mission-building are other wailing voices, besidesthose of its owners. Many of the domestics have like cause forlamentation, some even more. Among the massacred, still stretched intheir gore, one stoops over a sister; another sees his child; a wifeweeps by the side of her husband, her hot tears mingling with his yetwarm 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 foraction, quick, immediate. Colonel Armstrong commands it; Dupre urgesit. 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 beenmolested. The savages have carried off Dupre's silver. Despoiled ofhis far more precious treasure, what recks he of that? Only as tellingthat the object of the attacking party was robbery more than murder;though they have done both. Still it is certain, that, having achievedtheir end, they are gone off with no intention to renew the carnage ofwhich all can see such sanguinary traces. Thus reasoning, the nextthought is pursuit. 

As yet the other settlers are at the _rancheria_, clinging to their ownhearths, in fear of a fresh attack, only a few having come up to theMission, to be shocked at what they see there. 

But enough for Dupre's purpose; which receives the sanction of ColonelArmstrong, as also that of the hunters, Hawkins and Tucker. 

It is decided not to wait till all can be ready; but for a select partyto start off at once, in the capacity of scouts; these to take up thetrail of the savages, and send back their report to those coming after. 

To this Colonel Armstrong not only gives consent, but deems it the mostprudent course, and likeliest to secure success. Despite his anxiousimpatience, the strategy of the old soldier tells him, that carelesshaste 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 settlersgetting ready for pursuit. 

CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN. 

A STRAYING TRAVELLER. 

A man on horseback making his way through a wood. Not on road, ortrodden 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 riddenhorse; 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; atintervals glancing back, at longer ones, delaying to listen, with chinupon his shoulder. 

His behaviour shows fear; so, too, his face. Here and there themoonbeams shining through breaks in the foliage, reveal upon hisfeatures bewilderment, as well as terror. By their light he is guidinghis course, though he does not seem sure of it. The only thingappearing certain is, that he fears something behind, and is fleeingfrom it. 

Once he pauses, longer than usual; and, holding his horse in check, sitslistening attentively. While thus halted, he hears a noise, which heknows to be the ripple of a river. It seems oddly to affect him, calling forth an exclamation, which shows he is dissatisfied with thesound. 

"Am I never to get away from it? I've been over an hour straying abouthere, and there's the thing still--not a quarter of a mile off, andtimber thick as ever. I thought that last shoot would have taken me outof 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 tothat from which comes the sound of the water. He has done sorepeatedly, as oft straying back towards the stream. It is evident hehas 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-milefurther shows him clear sky ahead, and in a few minutes more he is atthe forest's outmost edge. Before him stretches an expanse of plainaltogether treeless, but clothed with tall grass, whose culms stirred bythe night breeze, and silvered by the moonbeams, sway to and fro, likethe soft tremulous wavelets of a tropic sea; myriads of fire-fliesprinkling 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 anytime to contemplate Nature. The troubled expression in his eyes, tellshe is in no mood for it. His glance is not given to the grass, nor thebrilliant "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 shorta 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 heevidently 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; andhow 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 thusidentified. Not now in zig-zags, or slowly--as when working his waythrough the timber--but in a straight tail-on-end gallop, fast as theanimal can go. 

And now under the bright moonbeams it may be time to take a closersurvey of the hastening horseman. In garb he is Indian, from themocassins on his feet to the fillet of stained feathers surmounting hishead. But the colour of his skin contradicts the idea of his being anaboriginal. His face shows white, but with some smut upon it, like thatof a chimney-sweep negligently cleansed. And his features areCaucasian, not ill-favoured, except in their sinister expression; forthey are the features of Richard Darke. 

Knowing it is he, it will be equally understood that the San Saba is thestream whose sough is so dissonant in his ears, as also, why he is soanxious to put a wide space between himself and its waters. On its bankhe has heard a name, and caught sight of him bearing it--the man of allothers he has most fear. The backwoodsman who tracked him in theforests of Mississippi, now trailing him upon the prairies of Texas, Simeon Woodley ever pursuing him! If in terror he has been retreatingthrough the trees, not less does he glide over the open ground. Thoughgoing in a gallop, every now and then, as before, he keeps slewing roundin the saddle and gazing back with apprehensiveness, in fear he may seeforms issuing from the timber's edge, and coming on after. 

None appear, however; and, at length, arriving by the bluffs base, hedraws up under its shadow, darker now, for clouds are beginning todapple the sky, making the moon's light intermittent. Again, he appearsuncertain about the direction he should take; and seated in his saddle, looks inquiringly along the facade of the cliff, scrutinising itsoutline. 

Not long before his scrutiny is rewarded. A dark disc of triangularshape, the apex inverted, proclaims a break in the escarpment. It isthe 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 heenters between its grim jaws, and spurs his horse up the slope under theshadow of rocks overhanging right and left. He is some twenty minutesin reaching its summit, on the edge of the upland plain. There heemerges into moonlight; for Luna has again looked out. 

Seated in his saddle he takes a survey of the bottom-land below. Afaroff, he can distinguish the dark belt of timber, fringing the river onboth sides, with here and there a reach of water between, glistening inthe 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 firsttime 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 afoot farther. No help for it but stay here till Borlasse and the boyscome up. They can't be much longer, unless they've had a fight todetain them; which I don't think at all likely, after what thehalf-blood told us. In any case some of them will be this way. GreatGod! To think of Sime Woodley being here! And after me, sure, for thekilling of Clancy! Heywood, too, and Harkness along with them! How isthat, I wonder? Can they have met my old jailer on the way, and broughthim back to help in tracing me? What the devil does it all mean? Itlooks as if the very Fates were conspiring for my destruction. 

"And who the fellow that laid hold of my horse? So like Clancy! Icould swear 'twas he, if I wasn't sure of having settled him. If evergun-bullet gave a man his quietus, mine did him. The breath was out ofhis 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 haveanother such chance. She'll get safe back to the settlements, there tomake mock of me! What a simpleton I've been to let her go alive! Ishould 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, andchagrin in his glance; a look, such as Satan may have cast back atParadise on being expelled from it. 

With assumed resignation, he continues:--

"No good my grieving over it now. Regrets won't get her back. Theremay be another opportunity yet. If I live there shall be, though itcost me all my life to bring it about. "

Another pause spent reflecting what he ought to do next. He has stillsome fear of being followed by Sime Woodley. Endeavouring to dismissit, he mutters:--

"'Tisn't at all likely they'd find the way up here. They appeared to beafoot. I saw no horses. They might have them for all that. But theycan't tell which way I took through the timber, and anyhow couldn'ttrack me till after daylight. Before then Borlasse will certainly bealong. Just possible he may come across Woodley and his lot. They'llbe sure to make for the Mission, and take the road up t'other side. Agood chance of our fellows encountering them, unless that begging fool, Bosley, has let all out. Maybe they killed him on the spot? I didn'thear the end of it, and hope they have. "

With this barbarous reflection he discontinues his soliloquy, bethinkinghimself, how he may best pass the time till his comrades come on. Atfirst he designs alighting, and lying down: for he has been many hoursin 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 ofthe pass, the plain is without a stick of timber, not even a bush togive shade or concealment, and of this last he now begins to recognisethe need. For, all at once, he recalls a conversation with Borlasse, inwhich mention was made of Sime Woodley; the robber telling of his havingbeen in Texas before, and out upon the San Saba--the very place wherenow seen! Therefore, the backwoodsman will be acquainted with thelocality, and may strike for the trail he has himself taken. Heremembers Sime's reputation as a tracker; he no longer feels safe. Inthe confusion of his senses, his fancy exaggerates his fears, and healmost dreads to look back across the bottom-land. 

Thus apprehensive, he turns his eyes towards the plain, in search of abetter 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 thatsame 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 commandsa view of the pass, and, if the moon keep clear, I'll be able to tellwho 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 makesstop, 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 liftsoff. It is a large one, --capable of holding a half-gallon. It is threeparts full, not of water, but of whisky. The fourth part he has drunkduring the day, and earlier hours of the night, to give him courage forthe part he had to play. He now drinks to drown his chagrin at havingplayed it so badly. Cursing his crooked luck, as he calls it, he takesa swig of the whisky, and then steps back to the place where he enteredamong the black-jacks. There taking stand, he awaits the coming of hisconfederates. 

He keeps his eyes upon the summit of the pass. They cannot come upwithout 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 hasbrought the canteen along, and, raising it repeatedly to his lips, hissight is becoming obscured, the equilibrium of his body endangered. 

As the vessel grows lighter, so does his head; while his limbs refuse tosupport the weight of his body, which oscillates from side to side. 

At length, with an indistinct perception of inability to sustain himselferect, and a belief he would feel better in a recumbent attitude, hegropes 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, inslumber so profound, that a cannon shot--even the voice of SimeonWoodley--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 arenot retreating as he; on the contrary pursuing, himself the object oftheir pursuit. For they two men are Charles Clancy, and Jupiter. 

They are mounted, Clancy on his horse--a splendid animal--the mulattoastride the mule. 

The hound is with them, not now trotting idly after, but in front, withnose to the earth. They are on Darke's trail. The animal has juststruck, and is following it, though not fast. For a strap around itsneck, with a cord attached, and held in Clancy's hand, keeps it incheck, while another buckled about its jaws hinders it from givingtongue. Both precautions show Clancy's determination to take pains withthe 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 thirdtime. 

They are trailing in darkness, else he would not need assistance fromthe dog. For it is only a short while since his separation from theparty that went on to the Mission. Soon as getting into their saddles, Clancy and his faithful follower struck into the timber, at the pointwhere 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 houndtells they are there. 

"Yes; Brasfort's on it now, " says Clancy, calling the animal by a namelong ago bestowed upon it. 

"He's on it strong, Jupe. I can tell by the way he tugs upon thestring. "

"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 niggerwhipper, the better it be for us, an' the worser for him. Pity you lethim 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 sideyou; either the slave-catcher or the slave. "

"Thanks, my brave fellow! I know you mean it. But now to our work; andlet us be silent. He may not have gone far, and's still skulking inthis tract of timber. If so, he stands a chance to hear us. Speak onlyin a whisper. "

Thus instructed, Jupe makes a gesture to signify compliance; Clancyturning his attention to the hound. 

By this, Brasfort is all eagerness, as can be told by the quickvibration of his tail, and spasmodic action of the body. A sound alsoproceeds from his lips, an attempt at baying; which, but for theconfining muzzle would make the forest echoes ring around. Stopped bythis his note can be heard only a short distance off, not far enough forthem to have any fear. If they but get so near the man they are inchase of, they will surely overtake him. 

In confidence the trackers keep on; but obstructed by the close standingtrunks, with thick underwood between, they make but slow progress. Theyare more than an hour in getting across the timbered tract; a distancethat should not have taken quarter the time. 

At length, arriving on its edge, they make stop; Clancy drawing back thedog. Looking across the plain he sees that, which tells him theinstinct of the animal will be no longer needed--at least for a time. 

The moon, shining upon the meadow grass, shows a list differentlyshaded; where the tall culms have been bent down and crushed by the hoofof some heavy quadruped, that has made its way amidst them. Andrecently 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 theassassin'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 animalto speed; gone in a gallop, as the stretch between the tracks show. Hemay go that way, or any other, 'twill make no difference in the end. Hefancies himself clever, but for all his cleverness he'll not escape menow. "

"I hope not, Masser Charle; an' don't think he will; don't see how hecan. "

"He can't. "

For some time Clancy is silent, apparently absorbed in seriousreflection. At length, he says to his follower:--

"Jupe, my boy, in your time you have suffered much yourself, and shouldknow something of what it is to feel vengeful. But not a vengeance likemine. 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 toanyone 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 sentto an untimely grave! Her spirit seems now speaking to me--urging me tokeep my oath. Let us on!"

They spur out into the moonlight, and off over the open plain, the houndno longer in the lead. His nose is not needed now. The slot of Darke'sgalloping horse is so conspicuous they can clearly see it, though goingfast as did he. 

Half an hour at this rapid pace, and they are again under shadow. It isthat of the bluff, so dark they can no longer make out the hoof-marks ofthe retreating horseman. 

For a time they are stayed, while once more leashing the hound, andsetting it upon the scent. 

Brasfort lifts it with renewed spirit; and, keeping in advance, conductsthem to an opening in the wall of rock. It is the entrance to a gorgegoing upward. They can perceive a trodden path, upon which are thehoof-prints of many horses, apparently an hundred of them. 

Clancy dismounts to examine them. He takes note, that they are ofhorses unshod; though there are some with the iron on. Most of them arefresh, among others of older date. Those recently made have theconvexity of the hoof turned towards the river. Whoever rode thesehorses came down the gorge, and kept on for the crossing. He has nodoubt, but that they are the same, whose tracks were observed in theslough, 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 itin 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 keepit at all cost. He fancies Darke cannot be far ahead, and trusts toovertaking, and settling the affair, before his confederates come up. 

Reflecting thus, he enters the ravine, and commences ascending itsslope, Jupiter and Brasfort following. 

On reaching the upland plain, they have a different light around, fromthat below on the bottom-land. The moon is clouded over, but hersilvery sheen is replaced by a gloaming of grey. There are streaks ofbluish 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, hesees it is sterile and treeless. A thin skirting of timber runs alongthe bluff edge; but elsewhere all is open, except a solitary grove at nogreat distance off. 

The rendezvous of the robbers would not be there, but more likely on theother side of the arid expanse. Noting a trail which leads outwards, hesuspects the pursued man to have taken it. But to follow in fulldaylight may not only defeat all chance of overtaking him, but exposethem to the danger of capture by the freebooters coming in behind. 

Clancy casts his eye across the plain, then back towards thebottom-land. He begins to repent his imprudence in having ventured upthe pass. But now to descend might be more dangerous than to stay. There is danger either way, and in every direction. So thinking, hesays:

"I fear, Jupe, we've been going too fast, and it may be too far. If weencounter 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 Texasprairies. If 'twar in a Massissip swamp, I might be better able toadvise. Hyar I'se all in a quandairy. "

"If we go back we may meet them in the teeth. Besides, I shan't--can'tnow. 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 himafter night? The ole dog sure take up the scent for good twenty-fourhours to come. There's a bunch of trees out yonner, that'll give us ahidin' 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 offinding 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 afraidto follow me. "

"Masser Charle, I ain't afraid. I'se told you I follow you anywhere--todeath if you need me die. I'se tell you that over again. "

"And again thanks, my faithful friend! We won't talk of death, tillwe'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 oncemore. "

Saying this, he lets the hound ahead, still keeping hold of the cord. 

Before long, Brasfort shows signs that he has again caught scent. Hisears crisp up, while his whole body quivers along the spinal column fromneck to tail. There is a streak of the bloodhound in the animal; andnever did dog of this kind make after a man, who more deserved huntingby a hound. 

CHAPTER SIXTY NINE. 

SHADOWS BEHIND. 

When once more upon the trail of the man he intends killing, Clancykeeps on after his hound, with eager eyes watching every movement of theanimal. That Brasfort is dead upon the scent can be told by his excitedaction, and earnest whimpering. 

All at once he is checked up, his master drawing him back with suddenabruptness. 

The dog appears surprised at first, so does Jupiter. The latter, looking round, discovers the cause: something which moves upon theplain, already observed by Clancy. Not clearly seen, for it is stilldark. 

"What goes yonder?" he asks, eagerly scanning it, with hands over hiseyes. 

"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; somethingmade it. Ah! horses! Are there men on their backs? No. Bah! it's buta drove of mustangs. I came near taking them for Comanches; not that weneed care. Just now the red gentry chance to be tied by a treaty, andare not likely to harm us. We've more to fear from fellows with whiteskins. Yes, the wild horses are heading our way; scouring along as ifall 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 theprairies, ill understanding their "sign. " However well acquainted withthe craft of the forest, up in everything pertaining to timber, upon thetreeless plains of Texas, an old prairie man would sneeringly pronouncehim a "greenhorn. "

Clancy, knowing this, scarce expects reply; or, if so, with little hopeof explanation. 

He does not wait for it, having himself discovered why the wild horsesare 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 loomingalong the horizon proclaims the approach of a "norther. " The scaredhorses 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 fromits 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 ofsight. Then sets Brasfort back upon the scent, from which he sounceremoniously jerked him. 

Though without dent of hoof on the dry parched grass, the hound easilyretakes it, straining on as before. 

But he is soon at fault, losing it. They have come upon the tracks ofthe mustangs, these having spoiled the scent--killed it. 

Clancy, halting, sits dissatisfied in the saddle; Jupiter sharing hisdissatisfaction. 

What are they to do now? The mulatto suggests crossing the groundtrodden 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, lettingBrasfort alone, look to him. The hound strikes ahead, quartering. 

Not long till the vibration of his tail tells he is once more on thescent. 

Now stiffer than ever, and leading in a straight line. He goes directfor 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 thecopse--the grove of black-jack oaks--scanning it with glances ofinquiry. If Clancy but knew what is within, how in a glade near itscentre, is the man they are seeking, he would no longer tarry forBrasfort's trailing, but letting go the leash altogether, and leapingfrom his horse, rush in among the trees, and bring to a speedy reckoninghim, to whom he owes so much misery. 

Richard Darke dreams not of the danger so near him. He is in a deepsleep--the dreamless, helpless slumber of intoxication. 

But a like near danger threatens Clancy himself, of which he isunconscious. With face towards the copse, and eyes eagerly scrutinisingit, he thinks not of looking behind. 

By the way his hound still behaves, there must be something within thegrove. What can it be? He does not ask the question. He suspects--is, indeed, almost certain--his enemy is that something. Muttering to themulatto, who has come close alongside, he says:--

"I shouldn't wonder, Jupe, if we've reached our journey's end. Look atBrasfort! See how he strains! There's man or beast among thoseblack-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'shad the advantage of me too often before. I can't afford giving itagain. 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 theirthoughts from Richard Darke, driving him altogether out of their minds. 

Their faces are turned towards the east, where the Aurora reddens thesky, and against its bright background several horsemen are seen _ensilhouette_, their number each instant increasing. Some are alreadyvisible from crown to hoof; others show only to the shoulders; while theheads of others can just be distinguished surmounting the crest of thecliff. In the spectacle there is no mystery, nor anything that needsexplanation. Too well does Charles Clancy comprehend. A troop ofmounted men approaching up the pass, to all appearance Indians, returning spoil-laden from a raid on some frontier settlement. But inreality white men, outlawed desperadoes, the band of Jim Borlasse, longnotorious throughout South-Western Texas. 

One by one, they ascend _en echelon_, as fiends through a stage-trap insome theatric scene, showing faces quite as satanic. Each, on arrivingat the summit, rides into line alongside their leader, already up andhalted. And on they come, till nineteen can be counted upon the plain. 

Clancy does not care to count them. There could be nothing gained bythat. He sees there are enough to make resistance idle. To attempt itwere madness. 

And must he submit? There seems no alternative. 

There is for all that; one he is aware of--flight. His horse is strongand swift. For both these qualities originally chosen, and laterdesigned to be used for a special purpose--pursuit. Is the noble animalnow to be tried in a way never intended--retreat?

Although that dark frowning phalanx, at the summit of the pass, wouldseem to answer "yes, " Clancy determines "no. " Of himself he could stillescape--and easily. In a stretch over that smooth plain, not a horse intheir troop would stand the slightest chance to come up with him, and hecould soon leave all out of sight. But then, he must needs also leavebehind the faithful retainer, from whose lips has just issued adeclaration 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 themulatto, and gives a glance at the mule. On his horse he could yet rideaway from the robbers, but the slow-footed hybrid bars all hope forJupiter. The absconding slave were certain to be caught, now; and slaveor free, the colour of his skin would ensure him cruel treatment fromthe lawless crew. 

But what better himself taken? How can he protect poor Jupe, his ownfreedom--his life--equally imperilled? For he has no doubt but thatBorlasse will remember, and recognise, him. It is barely twelve monthssince he stood beside that whipping-post in the town of Nacogdoches, andsaw the ruffian receive chastisement for the stealing of his horse--thesame he is now sitting upon. No fear of the horse-thief havingforgotten that episode of his life. 

He can have no doubt but that Borlasse will retaliate; that this will behis first thought, soon as seeing him. It needs not for the robberchief to know what has occurred by the big oak; that Bosley is aprisoner, Quantrell a fugitive, their prisoners released, and on theirway back to the Mission. It is not likely he does know, as yet. Buttoo 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 Borlassefor the affair of the scourging, will be added new rage, while that ofDarke himself will be desperate. 

In truth, the prospect is appalling; and Charles Clancy, almost as muchas ever in his life, feels that life in peril. 

Could he look into the courtyard of the San Saba Mission, and see whatis there, he might think it even more so. Without that, there issufficient to shake his resolution about standing his ground; enough tomake him spur away from the spot, and leave Jupiter to his fate. 

"No--never!" he mentally exclaims, closing all reflection. "As a cowardI 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 arriveat the upper end of the gorge. 

Perceiving some figures upon the plain, he supposes them to be Quantrelland Bosley with the captives. For his face is toward the west, wherethe sky is still night-shadowed, and he can but indistinctly trace theoutlines of horses and men. As their number corresponds to that of hismissing comrades, he has no thought of its being other than they. Howcould he, as none other are likely to be encountered there?

Congratulating himself on his suspicions of the lieutenant's defectionproving 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 civilisedcostume, 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 adog!

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 oftheir 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 leastI've not heard of any since we came this side the Colorado. Cannot bethat. I wonder who--"

"No use wonderin', cap. We can soon settle the point by questioningthem. As there's but the two, they'll have to tell who they are, ortake the consequences. "

By this, the other robbers have come up out of the ravine. Halted in arow, abreast, they also scan the two figures in front, interrogating oneanother as to who and what they are. All are alike surprised at menthere, mounted or afoot; more especially white men, as by their garbthey must be. But they have no apprehension at the encounter, seeingthere 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 Clancyand Jupiter. 

Borlasse can scarce believe his eyes; and rubs them to make sure theyare not deceiving him. If not they, something else has been--anewspaper report, and a tale told by one confessing himself a murderer, boastfully proclaiming it. And now, before him is the murdered man, onhorseback, firmly seated in the saddle, apparently in perfect health!

The desperado is speechless with astonishment--only muttering tohimself:--"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 causingit. All they know is that two men are in their midst, one white, theother a mulatto, but who either is they have not the slightest idea. They see that the white man is a handsome young fellow--evidently agentleman--bestriding a steed which some of them already regard withcovetous glances; while he on the mule has the bearing of abody-servant. 

None of them has ever met or seen Clancy before, nor yet the fugitiveslave. Their leader alone knows the first, too much of him, thoughnothing of the last. But no matter about the man of yellow skin. Hewith the white one is his chief concern. 

Recovering from his first surprise, he turns his thoughts towardssolving the enigma. He is not long before reaching its solution. Heremembers that the newspaper report said: "the body of the murdered manhas 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; mountedupon a steed which Jim Borlasse remembers well--as well as he does hismaster. To forget the animal would be a lapse of memory altogetherunnatural. There are weals on the robber's back, --a souvenir ofchastisement received for stealing that horse, --scars cicatrised, butnever to be effaced. 

Deeper still than the brand on his body has sunk the record into hissoul. He was more than disappointed--enraged--on hearing that RichardDarke had robbed him of a premeditated vengeance. For he knew Clancywas again returning to Texas, and intended taking it on his return. Now, discovering he has not been forestalled, seeing his prosecutorthere, unexpectedly in his power, the glance he gives to him is lesslike that of man than demon. 

His followers take note that there is a strangeness in his manner, butrefrain 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. Inhis belt he carries a "Colt, " which more than once has silenced a toofree-speaking subordinate. 

Having surrounded the two strangers, in obedience to his gesture, theyawait further instructions how to deal with them. 

His first impulse is to make himself known to Clancy; then indulge in anebullition of triumph over his prisoner. Put a thought restraining him, he resolves to preserve his incognito a little longer. Under his Indiantravestie he fancies Clancy cannot, and has not, recognised him. Nor isit likely he would have done so, but for the foreknowledge obtainedthrough Bosley. Even now only by his greater bulk is the robber chiefdistinguishable among his subordinates, all their faces being alikefantastically 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 thestrangers. 

"Why should we?" asks Clancy. 

"We want no cross-questionin', Mister. 'Tain't the place for sech, northe time, as you'll soon larn. Give up yer guns! Right quick, oryou'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 heknows he is this. He regrets not having galloped off while there wasyet time. It is too late now. There is not a break in the enfiladingcircle through which he might make a dash. Even if there were, whatchance ultimately to escape? None whatever. A score of guns andpistols are around him, ready to be discharged should he attempt to stirfrom the spot. Some of them are levelled, their barrels bearing uponhim. It would be instant death, and madness in him to seek it so. Hebut says:--

"What have we done, that you should disarm us? You appear to beIndians, yet talk the white man's tongue. In any case, and whoever youare, we have no quarrel with you. Why should you wish to make usprisoners?"

"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 Jupiterthe same. Both see that resistance were worse than folly--sheerinsanity--and that there is no alternative but submit. 

Their arms are wrested from them, though they are allowed to retainpossession of their animals. That is, they are left in their saddles--compelled to stay in them by ropes rove around their ankles, attachingthem to the stirrup-leathers. 

Whatever punishment awaits them, that is not the place where they are tosuffer it. For, soon as getting their prisoners secured, the band isagain 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 towhat they call their "rendyvoo, " is one of a kind common inSouth-western Texas. An arid steppe, or table-land, by the Mexicanstermed _mesa_; for the most part treeless, or only with sucharborescence as characterises the American desert. "Mezquite, " a namebestowed on several trees of the acacia kind, "black-jack, " a dwarfedspecies of oak, with _Prosopis_, _Fouquiera_, and other spinous shrubs, are here and there found in thickets called "chapparals, " interspersedwith 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 carriesthorns. Even certain grasses are armed with prickly spurs, and stingthe hand that touches them; while the reptiles crawling among them areof the most venomous species; scorpions and centipedes, with snakeshaving ossified tails, and a frog furnished with horns! The last, however, though vulgarly believed to be a batrachian, is in reality alizard--the _Agama cornuta_. 

This plain, extending over thirty miles from east to west, and twice thedistance in a longitudinal direction, has on one side the valley of theSan Saba, on the other certain creeks tributary to the Colorado. On oneof these the prairie pirates have a home, or haunt, to which they retireonly on particular occasions, and for special purposes. Undercircumstances of this kind they are now _en route_ for it. 

Its locality has been selected with an eye to safety, which it serves toperfection. A marauding party pursued from the lower settlements of theColorado, by turning up the valley of the San Saba, and then takingacross the intermediate plain, would be sure to throw the pursuers offtheir tracks, since on the table-land none are left throughout longstretches where even the iron heel of a horse makes no dent in the dryturf, nor leaves the slightest imprint. At one place in particular, just after striking this plain from the San Saba side, there is a broadbelt, altogether without vegetation or soil upon its surface, the groundbeing covered with what the trappers call "cut-rock, " presenting theappearance of a freshly macadamised road. Extending for more than amile in width, and ten times as much lengthways, it is a tract notraveller would care to enter on who has any solicitude about the hoovesof his horse. But just for this reason is it in every respect suitableto the prairie pirates. They may cross it empty-handed, and recrossladen with spoil, without the pursuers being able to discover whencethey came, or whither they have gone. 

Several times has this happened; settlers having come up the Colorado inpursuit of a marauding party--supposed to be Comanche Indians--trackedthem into the San Saba bottom-land, and on over the bluff--there to losetheir trail, and retire disheartened from the pursuit. 

Across this stony stretch proceed the freebooters, leaving no more tracebehind, than one would walking on a shingled sea-beach. 

On its opposite edge they make stop to take bearings. For although theyhave more than once passed that way before, it is a route which alwaysrequires to be traversed with caution. To get strayed on theinhospitable steppe would be attended with danger, and might result indeath. 

In clear weather, to those acquainted with the trail, there is littlechance of losing it. For midway between the water courses runs a ridge, bisecting the steppe in a longitudinal direction; and on the crest ofthis is a tree, which can be seen from afar off on either side. Theridge is of no great elevation, and would scarce be observable but forthe general level from which it rises, a mere comb upon the plain, suchas is known northward by the term _coteau de prairie_--a title bestowedby trappers of French descent. 

The tree stands solitary, beside a tiny spring, which bubbles outbetween its roots. This, trickling off, soon sinks into the desertsand, disappearing within a few yards of the spot where it has burstforth. 

In such situation both tree and fountain are strange; though the onewill account for the other, the former being due to the latter. Butstill another agency is needed to explain the existence of the tree. For it is a "cottonwood"--a species not found elsewhere upon the sameplain; 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 thesteppe; for by chance it stands right on their route. It is visiblefrom the edge of the pebble-strewn tract, but only when there is acloudless sky and shining sun. Now, the one is clouded, the otherunseen, 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 thewest. 

The Fates favour them; as in this world is too often the case withwicked men, notwithstanding many saws to the contrary. The sun shootsfrom behind a cloud, scattering his golden gleams broad and bright overthe surface of the plain. Only for an instant, but enough to show thecottonwood standing solitary on the crest of the ridge. 

"Thank the Lord for that glimp o' light!" exclaims Borlasse, catchingsight of the tree, "Now, boys; we see our beacon, an' let's straight toit. When we've got thar I'll show ye a bit of sport as 'll make yelaugh till there wont be a whole rib left in your bodies, nor a buttonon your coats--if ye had coats on. "

With this absurd premonition he presses on--his scattered troopreforming, and following. 

CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO. 

THE PRAIRIE STOCKS. 

Silent is Clancy, sullen as a tiger just captured and encaged. As themoments pass, and he listens to the lawless speech of his captors, morethan ever is he vexed with himself for having so tamely submitted to betaken. 

Though as yet no special inhumanity has been shown him, he knows therewill ere long. Coarse jests bandied between the robbers, whisperedinnuendoes, forewarn him of some fearful punishment about to be put uponhim. Only its nature remains unknown. 

He does not think they intend killing him outright. He has overheardone of his guards muttering to the other, that such is not the chiefsintention, adding some words which make the assurance littleconsolatory. "Worse than death" is the fragment of a sentence borneominously to his ears. 

Worse than death! Is it to be torture?

During all this time Borlasse has not declared himself, or given tokenof 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 toface. Since, the robber has studiously kept away from him, riding atthe head of the line, the prisoners having place in its centre. 

On arrival at the underwood, all dismount; but only to slake theirthirst, as that of their horses. The spring is unapproachable by theanimals; and leathern buckets are called into requisition. With these, and other marching apparatus, the freebooters are provided. While oneby one the horses are being watered, Borlasse draws off to somedistance, beckoning Chisholm to follow him; and for a time the two seemengaged in earnest dialogue, as if in discussion. The chief promisedhis followers a spectacle, --a "bit of sport, " as he facetiously termedit. Clancy has been forecasting torture, but in his worst fear of itcould not conceive any so terrible as that in store for him. It is intruth a cruelty inconceivable, worthy a savage, or Satan himself. Madeknown to Chisholm, though hardened this outlaw's heart, he at firstshrinks from assisting in its execution--even venturing to remonstrate. 

But Borlasse is inexorable. He has no feelings of compassion for theman 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 Clancysuffer all that flesh can. By devilish ingenuity he has contrived ascheme to this intent, and will carry it out regardless of consequences. 

So says he, in answer to the somewhat mild remonstrance of hissubordinate. 

"Well, cap, " rejoins the latter, yielding, "if you're determined to haveit that way, why, have it. But let it be a leetle privater than you'vespoke o'. By makin' it a public spectacle, an' lettin' all our fellarsinto your feelins, some o' 'em mightn't be so much amused. An somemight get to blabbin' about it afterwards, in such a way as to breedtrouble. The originality an' curiousness o' the thing would be sure to'tract attention, an' the report o't would run through all Texas, like aprairie on fire. 'Twould never sleep as long's there's a soger left inthe land; and sure as shootin' we'd have the Rangers and Regulators hotafter us. Tharfore, if you insist on the bit o' interment, take myadvice, and let the ceremony be confined to a few friends as can betrusted wi' a secret. "

For some seconds Borlasse is silent, pondering upon what Chisholm hassaid. Then responds:--

"Guess you're about right, Luke. I'll do as you suggest. Best way willbe to send the boys on ahead. There's three can stay with us we cantrust--Watts, Stocker, and Driscoll. They'll be enough to do thegrave-digging. The rest can go on to the rendezvous. Comrades!" headds, moving back towards his men, who have just finished watering theirhorses, "I spoke o' some sport I intended givin' you here. On secondthinkin' it'll be better defarred till we get to head-quarters. So intoyour 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 littlelonger. We'll soon be after, like enough overtake ye 'fore you canreach the creek. If not, keep on to camp without us. An', boys; oncemore I warn ye about openin' them boxes. I know what's in them to adollar. 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 thenigger along. Leave the white gentleman in better company, as befitshim. "

With a yell of laughter at the coarse sally, the freebooters spring upontheir horses. Then, separating Clancy from Jupe, they ride off, takingthe latter. On the ground are left only the chief, Chisholm, and thetrio chosen to assist at some ceremony, mysteriously spoken of as an"interment. "

After all it is not to be there. On reflection, Borlasse deems theplace not befitting. The grave he is about to dig must not bedisturbed, nor the body he intends burying disinterred. 

Though white traveller never passes that solitary tree, red onessometimes seek relaxation under its shade. Just possible a party ofComanches may come along; and though savages, their hearts might stillbe humane enough to frustrate the nefarious scheme of a white man moresavage than they. To guard against such contingency Borlasse hasbethought him of some change in his programme, which he makes known toChisholm, 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 hehears Gabriel's trumpet. To make sure we must plant him in a saferplace. "

"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 aboutthe cruelty of what they intend doing, and only thinks of its being donewithout danger. 

"Boys!" shouts Borlasse to the men in charge of Clancy, "bring on yourprisoner! We're going to make a leetle deflection from the course--abit o' a pleasure trip--only a short un. "

So saying, he starts off in a northerly direction, nearly at rightangles to that they have been hitherto travelling. 

After proceeding about a mile, the brigand chief, still riding withChisholm in the advance, comes to a halt, calling back to the others todo the same--also directing them to dismount their prisoner. 

Clancy is unceremoniously jerked out of his saddle; and, after havinghis arms pinioned, and limbs lashed together, laid prostrate along theearth. This leaves them free for the infernal task, they are nowinstructed to perform. One only, Watts, stays with the prisoner; theother two, at the chiefs command, coming on to where he and Chisholmhave halted. Then all four cluster around a spot he points out, givingdirections what they are to do. 

With the point of his spear Borlasse traces a circle upon the turf, sometwenty inches in diameter; then tells them to dig inside it. 

Stocker and Driscoll draw their tomahawks, and commence hacking at theground; which, though hard, yields to the harder steel of hatchetsmanufactured for the cutting of skulls. As they make mould, it isremoved by Chisholm with the broad blade of his Comanche spear. 

As all prairie men are accustomed to making _caches_, they are expert atthis; and soon sink a shaft that would do credit to the "crowing" of aSouth African Bosjesman. It is a cylinder full five feet in depth, witha diameter of less than two. Up to this time its purpose has not beendeclared to either Stocker, or Driscoll, though both have theirconjectures. They guess it to be the grave of him who is lying alongthe earth--his living tomb!

At length, deeming it deep enough, Borlasse commands them to leave offwork, 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 proceedto execute the diabolical order. 

And they do it without show of hesitation--rather with alacrity. Notone of the five has a spark of compassion in his breast--not one whosesoul 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 ofthe ground. A portion of the loose earth is pushed in, and packedaround him, the ruffians trampling it firm. What remains they kick andscatter aside; the monster, with horrible mockery, telling them to makea "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 alsobound, tied to the stirrup of one of the robber's horses. But thebehaviour of the faithful animal, instead of stirring them tocompassion, 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 Clancystraight in the face. No pen could paint that glance. It can only belikened 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, yewill, after I've told ye a bit o' a story, the which relates to acircumstance as happened jest twelve months ago. The scene o' thataffair was in the public square o' Nacodosh, whar a man was tied to apost an--"

"Whipped at it, as he deserved. "

"Ha!" exclaims Borlasse, surprised, partly at being recognised, but asmuch by the daring avowal. "You do remember that little matter? And metoo?"

"Perfectly; so you may spare yourself the narration. You are JimBorlasse, the biggest brute and most thorough scoundrel in Texas. "

"Curse you!" cries the ruffian enraged, poising his spear till its pointalmost touches Clancy's head, "I feel like driving this through yourskull. "

"Do so!" is the defiant and desperate rejoinder. It is what Clancydesires. 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, andtosses up the spear, saying:--

"No, Mister; ye don't die that eesy way--not if I know it. You andyours 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 fromyour skull--ay, till the worms go crawlin' through your flesh. How'llye 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 acowkumber--aint I? Your dander's up, I can see. Keep it down. No goodyour 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 theoutrage, he adds:--

"Why don't ye take out your handkercher an' wipe it off. It's a pity tosee such a handsome fellow wi' his face in that fashion. Ha! ha! ha!"

His four confederates, standing apart, spectators of the scene, echo hisfiendish laughter. 

"Well, well, my proud gentleman;" he resumes, "to let a man spit in yourface 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; solong, one might fancy his spite would be spent, his vengeance sated. 

But no--not yet. There is still another arrow in his quiver--a lastshaft to be shot--which he knows will carry a sting keener than any yetsent. 

When his men have remounted, and are ready to ride off, he returns toClancy, and, stooping, hisses into his ear:--

"Like enough you'll be a goodish while alone here, an' tharfore left toyour reflections. Afore partin' company, let me say somethin' that maycomfort you. _Dick Darke's got your girl; 'bout this time has her inhis arms_!"

CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE. 

HELPLESS AND HOPELESS. 

"O God!"

Charles Clancy thus calls upon his Maker. Hitherto sustained byindignation, now that the tormentor has left him, the horror of hissituation, striking into his soul in all its dread reality, wrings fromhim the prayerful apostrophe. 

A groan follows, as his glance goes searching over the plain. For thereis nothing to gladden it. His view commands the half of a circle--agreat circle such as surrounds you upon the sea; though not as seen fromthe deck of a ship, but by one lying along the thwarts of a boat, orafloat 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 entombedalive. Perhaps better he were enclosed in a coffin; for then hissufferings would sooner end. 

He has not the slightest hope of being succoured. There is nolikelihood 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 justdescry the lone cottonwood afar off, outlined against the horizon like aship at sea. It is the only tree in sight; elsewhere not even a bush tobreak the drear monotony of the desert. 

He thinks of Simeon Woodley, Ned Heywood, and those who may pursue theplunderers of the settlement. But with hopes too faint to be worthentertaining. For he has been witness to the precautions taken by therobbers to blind their trail, and knows that the most skilled trackercannot discover it. Chance alone could guide the pursuit in thatdirection, if pursuit there is to be. But even this is doubtful. ForColonel Armstrong having recovered his daughters, and only some silverstolen, the settlers may be loath to take after the thieves, or postponefollowing them to some future time. Clancy has no knowledge of thesanguinary drama that has been enacted at the Mission, else he would notreason thus. Ignorant of it, he can only be sure, that Sime Woodley andNed Heywood will come in quest of, but without much likelihood of theirfinding them. No doubt they will search for days, weeks, months, ifneed be; and in time, but too late, discover--what? His head--

"Ha!"

His painful reflections are interrupted by that which but intensifiestheir painfulness: a shadow he sees flitting across the plain. 

His eyes do not follow it, but, directed upward, go in search of thething which is causing it. "A vulture!"

The foul bird is soaring aloft, its black body and broad expanded wingsoutlined against the azure sky. For this is again clear, the clouds andthreatening storm having drifted off without bursting. And now, whilewith woe in his look he watches the swooping bird, well knowing thesinister significance of its flight, he sees another, and another, andyet 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 todepict his feelings, as he regards the movements of the vultures. Theyare as those of one swimming in the sea amidst sharks. For, althoughthe 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 theswish of their wings, like the sough of an approaching storm, with nowand then a raucous utterance from their throats--the signal of someleader directing the preliminaries of the attack, soon to take place. 

At length they are so close, he can see the ruff around their nakednecks, bristled up; the skin reddened as with rage, and their beaks, stained with bloody flesh of some other banquet, getting ready to feastupon his. Soon he will feel them striking against his skull, peckingout his eyes. O, heavens! can horror be felt further?

Not by him. It adds not to his, when he perceives that the birdsthreatening to assail him will be assisted by beasts. For he now seesthis. Mingling with the shadows flitting over the earth, are thingsmore substantial--the bodies of wolves. As with the vultures, at firstonly 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 arepast. For the coyote is a noisy creature, and those now assemblingaround Clancy's head--a sight strange to them--give out their triplebark, with its prolonged whine, in sound so lugubrious, that, instead ofpreparing for attack, one might fancy them wailing a defeat. 

Clancy has often heard that cry, and well comprehends its meaning. Itseems his death-dirge. While listening to it no wonder he again callsupon God--invokes Heaven to help him!

CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR. 

COYOTE CREEK. 

A stream coursing through a canoned channel whose banks rise threehundred feet above its bed. They are twin cliffs that front oneanother, their _facades_ not half so far apart. Rough with projectingpoints of rock, and scarred by water erosion, they look like angrygiants with grim visages frowning mutual defiance. In places theyapproach, almost to touching; then, diverging, sweep round the oppositesides of an ellipse; again closing like the curved handles of callipers. Through the spaces thus opened the water makes its way, now rushing inhoarse torrent, anon gently meandering through meadows, whose vividverdure, 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 inquestion will have to keep upon the cliffs above: for no nearer can heapproach its deeply-indented channel. And here he will see only thesterile treeless plain; or, if trees meet his eye, they will be such asbut strengthen the impression of sterility--some scrambling mezquitebushes, clumps of cactaceae, perhaps the spheroidal form of amelocactus, or yucca, with its tufts of rigid leaves--the latterresembling bunches of bayonets rising above the musket "stacks" on amilitary parade ground. 

He will have no view of the lush vegetation that enlivens the valley ahundred yards below the hoofs of his horse. He will not even get aglimpse of the stream itself; unless by going close to the edge of theprecipice, and craning his neck over. And to do this, he must needsdiverge from his route to avoid the transverse rivulets, each tricklingdown the bed of its own deep-cut channel. 

There are many such streams in South-Western Texas; but the one heredescribed is that called _Arroyo de Coyote_--Anglice, "Coyote Creek"--atributary of the Colorado. 

In part it forms the western boundary of the table-land, already knownto the reader, in part intersecting it. Approaching it from the SanSaba side, there is a stretch of twenty miles, where its channel cannotbe reached, except by a single lateral ravine leading down to it atright angles, the entrance to which is concealed by a thick chapparal ofthorny mezquite trees. Elsewhere, the traveller may arrive on thebluff's brow, but cannot go down to the stream's edge. He may see itfar below, coursing among trees of every shade of green, from clearestemerald to darkest olive, here in straight reaches, there sinuous as agliding snake. Birds of brilliant plumage flit about through thefoliage upon its banks, some disporting themselves in its pellucid wave;some making the valley vocal with their melodious warblings, and othersfilling it with harsh, stridulous cries. Burning with thirst, and faintfrom fatigue, he will fix his gaze on the glistening water, to betortured as Tantalus, and descry the cool shade, without being able torest his weary limbs beneath it. 

But rare the traveller, who ever strays to the bluffs bounding CoyoteCreek: rarer still, those who have occasion to descend to thebottom-land through which it meanders. 

Some have, nevertheless, as evinced by human sign observable upon thestream's bank, just below where the lateral ravine leads down. Therethe cliffs diverging, and again coming near, enclose a valley of ovoidalshape, for the most part overgrown with pecan-trees. On one side of itis a thick umbrageous grove, within which several tents are seenstanding. They are of rude description, partly covered by the skins ofanimals, partly scraps of old canvas, here and there eked out with a bitof blanket, or a cast coat. No one would mistake them for the tents ofordinary travellers, while they are equally unlike the wigwams of thenomadic aboriginal. To whom, then, do they appertain?

Were their owners present, there need be no difficulty in answering thequestion. But they are not. Neither outside, nor within, is soul to beseen. Nor anywhere near. No human form appears about the place; novoice of man, woman, or child, reverberates through the valley. Yet isthere every evidence of recent occupation. In an open central space, are the ashes of a huge fire still hot, with fagots half-burnt, andscarce ceased smoking; while within the tents are implements, utensils, and provisions--bottles and jars of liquor left uncorked, with stores oftobacco unconsumed. What better proof that they are only temporarilydeserted, and not abandoned? Certainly their owners, whether white menor Indians, intend returning to them. 

It need scarce be told who these are. Enough to say, that Coyote Creekis the head-quarters of the prairie pirates, who assaulted the San Sabasettlement. 

Just as the sun is beginning to decline towards the western horizon, those of them sent on ahead arrive at their rendezvous; the chief, withChisholm and the other three, not yet having come up. 

On entering the encampment, they relieve their horses of the preciousloads. Then unsaddling, turn them into a "corral" rudely constructedamong the trees. A set of bars, serving as a gate, secures the animalsagainst straying. 

This simple stable duty done, the men betake themselves to the tents, re-kindle the fire, and commence culinary operations. By this, all arehungry enough, and they have the wherewithal to satisfy their appetites. There are skilful hunters among them, and the proceeds of a chase, thatcame off before starting out on their less innocent errand, are seenhanging from the trees, in the shape of bear's hams and haunches ofvenison. These taken down, are spitted, and soon frizzling in thefire's blaze; while the robbers gather around, knives in hand, eachintending to carve for himself. 

As they are about to commence their Homeric repast, Borlasse and theothers ride up. Dismounting and striding in among the tents, the chiefglances inquiringly around, his glance soon changing to disappointment. What he looks for is not there! "Quantrell and Bosley, " he asks, "ain'tthey 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 ofDarke, or rather is he now certain that the lieutenant is a traitor. 

Uttering a fearful oath, he steps inside his tent, taking Chisholm alongwith him. 

"What can it mean, Luke?" he asks, pouring out a glass of brandy, andgulping 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 tome. I suspected Richard Darke, _alias_ Phil Quantrell, would play mefalse some day, though I didn't expect it so soon. He don't want hisbeauty brought here, lest some of the boys might be takin' a fancy toher. That's one reason, but not all. There's another--to a man likehim 'most as strong. He's rich, leastaways his dad is, an' he can getas much out o' the old 'un as he wants, --will have it all in time. Heguesses I intended squeezin' him; an' thar he was about right, for Idid. 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 waschased by the sheriffs, an' now--"

"Now, he won't need it; though he don't know that; can't, I think. Ifhe but knew he ain't after all a murderer! See here, Luke; he may turnup yet. An' if so, for the life o' ye, ye mustn't tell him who it waswe dibbled into the ground up thar. I took care not to let any of themhear 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 neverthought 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 besecured without resortin' to that. He must be kep' separate from theothers. "

"But some o' them 'll have to look after him, or he may cut away fromus. "

"Fernandez will do that. I can trust him with Clancy's name, --withanything. Slip out, Luke, and see if they've got it among them. Ifthey have, it's all up, so far as that game goes. If not, I'll fixthings safe, so that when we've spent Monsheer Dupre's silver, we maystill 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. Incoorse, Watts, Stocker, an' Driscoll, haint sayed anything 'bout that. They've told the rest we let him go, not carin' to keep him; and thatyou 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, thehalf-blood behind him. 

"Nandy, " says Borlasse; calling the latter by a name mutuallyunderstood. "I want you to take charge of that mulatto, and keep himunder your eye. You musn't let any of the boys come nigh enough to holdspeech 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 hismaster--mind you it's not to be repeated to any one. You understandme?"

"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'llbe 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 havestrong arms that can keep her out o' mine. By heavens! I'll hug heryet. If not, hell may take me!"

Thus blasphemously delivering himself, he clutches at the bottle ofbrandy, pours out a fresh glass, and drinking it at a gulp, sits down toreflect on the next step to be taken. 

CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE. 

A TRANSFORMATION. 

Night has spread its sable pall over the desert plain, darker in thedeep chasm through which runs Coyote Creek. There is light enough inthe encampment of the prairie pirates; for the great fire kindled forcooking their dinners still burns, a constant supply of resinouspine-knots keeping up the blaze, which illuminates a large circlearound. By its side nearly a score of men are seated in groups, someplaying cards, others idly carousing. No one would suppose them thesame seen there but a few hours before; since there is not the semblanceof Indian among them. Instead, they are all white men, and wearing thegarb of civilisation; though scarce two are costumed alike. There arecoats of Kentucky jeans, of home-wove copperas stripe, of blanket-clothin the three colours, red, blue, and green; there are blouses of brownlinen, and buckskin dyed with dogwood ooze; there are Creole jackets ofAttakapas "cottonade, " and Mexican ones of cotton velveteen. Alikevaried is the head, leg, and foot-wear. There are hats of every shapeand pattern; pantaloons of many a cut and material, most of them tuckedinto boots with legs of different lengths, from ankle to mid-thigh. Only in the under garment is there anything like uniformity; nine out often wearing shirts of scarlet flannel--the fashion of the frontier. 

A stranger entering the camp now, would suppose its occupants to be aparty of hunters; one acquainted with the customs of South-WesternTexas, might pronounce them _mustangers_--men who make their living bythe taking and taming of wild horses. And if those around the fire werequestioned about their calling, such would be the answer. --In theirtents are all the paraphernalia used in this pursuit; lassoes forcatching the horses; halters and hobbles for confining them; bits forbreaking, and the like; while close by is a "corral" in which to keepthe animals when caught. 

All counterfeit! There is not a real mustanger among these men, nor onewho 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 whoentered the camp laden with Luis Dupre's money--fresh from the massacreof his slaves. The transformation took place soon as they snatched ahasty meal. Then all hurried down to the creek, provided with pieces ofsoap; and plunging in, washed the paint from their hands, arms, andfaces. 

The Indian costume has not only been cast aside, but secreted, with allits 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; notomahawks 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 thecards are not contented, but are craving more. They will be richer, orpoorer. And soon; playing "poker" at fifty dollars an "ante. "

Gamesters and lookers on alike smoke, drink, and make merry. They haveno fear now, not the slightest apprehension. If pursued, the pursuerscannot find the way to Coyote creek. If they did, what would they seethere? Certainly not the red-skinned savages, who plundered the SanSaba mission, but a party of innocent horse hunters, all Texans. Theonly one resembling an Indian among them is the half-breed--Fernand. But he is also so metamorphosed, that his late master could notrecognise him. The others have changed from red men to white; inreverse, he has become to all appearance a pure-blooded aboriginal. 

Confident in their security, because ignorant of what has taken placeunder the live-oak, they little dream that one of their confederates isin a situation, where he will be forced to tell a tale sure to thwarttheir well-constructed scheme, casting it down as a house of cards. Equally are they unaware of the revelation which their own prisoner, themulatto, could make. They suppose him and his master to be but twotravellers encountered by accident, having no connection with the SanSaba settlers. Borlasse is better informed about this, though notknowing all. He believes Clancy to have been _en route_ for the newsettlement, 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 towhich Jupiter has been consigned, and where he is now under thesurveillance of the half-blood, Fernand. 

Ordering the mestizo to retire, he puts the prisoner through a course ofcross-questioning. 

The mulatto is a man of no ordinary intelligence. He had the misfortuneto 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 tobecome a fugitive. With a subtlety partly instinctive, but strengthenedby many an act of injustice, he divines the object of the robbercaptain's visit. 

Not much does the latter make of him, question as he may. Jupe knowsnothing of any Phil Quantrell, or any Richard Darke. He is the slave ofthe young gentleman who has been separated from him. He makes noattempt to conceal his master's name, knowing that Borlasse is alreadyacquainted with Clancy, and must have recognised him. They were ontheir way to join the colony of Colonel Armstrong, with a party from theStates. They came up from the Colorado the night before, camping in theSan Saba bottom, where he believes them to be still. Early in themorning, his master left the camp for a hunt, and the hound had trackeda bear up the gully. That was why they were on the upper plain; theywere trying for the track of the bear, when taken. 

The mulatto has no great liking for his master, from whom he has hadmany a severe flogging. In proof he tells the robber chief to turn uphis shirt, and see how his back has been scored by the cowhide. Borlasse--does so; and sure enough there are the scars, somewhat similarto those he carries himself. 

If not pity, the sight begets a sort of coarse sympathy, such as theconvict feels for his fellow; an emotion due to the freemasonry ofcrime. Jupiter takes care to strengthen it, by harping on the crueltyof his master--more than hinting that he would like to leave him, if anyother would but buy him. Indeed he'd be willing to run away, if he sawthe chance. 

"Don't trouble yerself 'bout that, " says the bandit, 'as the interviewcomes near its end, "maybe, I'll buy ye myself. At all events, MisterClancy ain't likely to flog you any more. How'd ye like _me_ for yermaster?"

"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 youbehind 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 achink 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 wherewe come cross Masser Clancy. If he see me, he sure have me back, andthen 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 removethem 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 timeforrard. Spread a buffler skin, an' get him a bit o' blanket for hisbed. Same time, for safety's sake, keep an eye on him. "

The caution is spoken _sotto voce_, so that the prisoner may not hearit. After which, Borlasse leaves the two together, congratulatinghimself on the good speculation he will make, not by keeping Jupe togroom his horse, but selling him as a slave to the first man met willingto purchase him. 

In the fine able-bodied mulatto, he sees a thousand dollars cash--soonas he can come across a cotton-planter. 

CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX. 

MESTIZO AND MULATTO. 

While their chief has been interrogating his prisoner, the robbersaround the fire have gone on with their poker-playing, and whiskydrinking. 

Borlasse joining in the debauch, orders brandy to be brought out of histent, and distributed freely around. He drinks deeply himself; in partto celebrate the occasion of such a grand stroke of business done, butas much to drown his disappointment at the captives not yet having comein. --The alcohol has its effect; and ere long rekindles a hope, whichChisholm strengthens, saying, all will yet be well, and the missing onesturn up, if not that night, on the morrow. 

Somewhat relieved by this expectation, Borlasse enters into the spiritof the hour, and becomes jovial and boisterous as any of hissubordinates. The cards are tossed aside, the play abandoned; instead, coarse stories are told, and songs sung, fit only for the ears of such aGod-forsaken crew. 

The saturnalia is brought to a close, when all become so intoxicatedthey can neither tell story nor sing song. Then some stagger to theirtents, 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, burnson, but no longer blazes. There is no one to tend it with the pitchypine-knots. Inside the tents also, the lights are extinguished--allexcept one. This, the rude skin sheiling which shelters the mestizo andmulatto. The two half-bloods, of different strain, are yet awake, andsitting up. They are also drinking, hobnobbing with one another. 

Fernand has supplied the liquor freely and without stint. Pretending tofraternise with the new confederate, he has filled the latter's glass atleast a half-score of times, doing the same with his own. Both haveemptied them with like rapidity, and yet neither seems at all overcome. Each thinks the other the hardest case at a drinking bout he has evercome across; wondering he is not dead drunk, though knowing why he ishimself sober. The Spanish moss plucked from the adjacent trees, andlittering the tent floor, could tell--if it had the power of speech. 

Jupiter has had many a whiskey spree in the woods of Mississippi, butnever has he encountered a _convive_ who could stand so much of it, andstill keep his tongue and seat. What can it mean? Is the mestizo'sstomach made of steel?

While perplexed, and despairing of being able to get Fernandintoxicated, an explanation suggests itself. His fellow tippler may beshamming, 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. Butenough of the retina is uncovered to receive an impression from behind;this showing the mestizo tilting his cup, and spilling its contentsamong the moss!

He now knows he is being watched, as well as guarded. And of hisvigilant sentinel there seems but one way to disembarrass himself. 

As the thought of it flits across his brain, his eyes flash with afeverish light, such as when one intends attacking by stealth, and withthe 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 ownliberty. 

It may be his beloved master yet lives, and there is a chance to succourhim. If dead, he will find his body, and give it burial. He remembersthe promise that morning mutually declared between them--to stand andfall 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 tillhe has taken, or tried to take, a terrible and bloody vengeance. Tothis he has bound himself, by an oath sworn in the secret recesses ofhis heart. 

Its prelude is nigh, and the death of the Indian half-breed is toinitiate it. For the fugitive slave knows the part this vile caitiffhas played, and will not scruple to kill him; the less that it is now aninexorable necessity. He but waits for the opportunity--has beenseeking it for some time. 

It offers at length. Turning suddenly, and detecting the mestizo in hisact of deception, he asks laughingly why he should practice such atrick. Then stooping forward, as if to verify it, his right arm is seento lunge out with something that glitters in his hand. It is the bladeof 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 theheart 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 blowingout the light, the mulatto moves off, leaving but a dead body behindhim. 

Once outside, he looks cautiously around the encampment, scanning thetents 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--allof them, for him fortunately, asleep. 

Stepping, as if on eggs, and keeping as much as possible in shadow, hethreads his way through the tents until he is quite clear of theencampment. But he does not go directly off. Instead, he makes acircuit to the other side, where Brasfort is tied to a tree. A cut ofhis red blade releases the hound, that follows him in silence, as ifknowing 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 somewords in undertone, but loud enough to be heard by the animals inside. As if it were a cabalistic speech, one separates from the rest, andcomes towards him. It is the steed of Clancy. Protruding its softmuzzle over the rail, it is stroked by the mulatto's hand, which soonafter 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 thehorse caparisoned. 

At length he leads the animal not mounting till he is well away from thecamp. Then, climbing cautiously into the saddle, he continues on, Brasfort after; man, horse, and hound, making no more noise, than if allthree were but shadows. 

CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN. 

A STRAYED TRAVELLER. 

Pale, trembling, with teeth chattering, Richard Darke awakes from hisdrunken slumber. 

He sees his horse tied to the tree, as he left him, but making violentefforts to get loose. For coyotes have come skulking around the copse, and their cry agitates the animal. It is this that has awakened thesleeper. 

He starts to his feet in fear, though not of the wolves. Theirproximity has nought to do with the shudder which passes through hisframe. It comes from an apprehension he has overslept himself, andthat, meanwhile, his confederates have passed the place. 

It is broad daylight, with a bright sun in the sky; though this hecannot see through the thick foliage intervening. But his watch willtell him the time. He takes it out and glances at the dial. The handsappear not to move!

He holds it to his ear, but hears no ticking. Now, he remembers havingneglected to wind it up the night before. It has run down!

Hastily returning it to his pocket, he makes for open ground, where hemay get a view of the sun. By its height above the horizon, as far ashe can judge it should be about nine of the morning. This point, as hesupposes, settled, does not remove his apprehension, on the contrary butincreases it. The returning marauders would not likely be delayed solate? In all probability they have passed. 

How is he to be assured? A thought strikes him: he will step out uponthe plain, and see if he can discern their tracks. He does so, keepingon to the summit of the pass. There he finds evidence to confirm hisfears. The loose turf around the head of the gorge is torn and trampledby the hoofs of many horses, all going off over the plain. The robbershave 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 whatsends a fresh thrill of fear through his heart. The sun is before hisface, but not as when he last looked at it. Instead of having risenhigher, 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 lookbewildered. Not long, till assured, the sun is sinking, and night nigh. 

The deduction drawn is full of sinister sequence. More than one startsup in his mind to dismay him. He is little acquainted with the trail toCoyote Creek, and may be unable to find it. Moreover, the robbers arecertain of being pursued, and Sime Woodley will be one of the pursuers;Bosley forced to conduct them, far as he can. The outraged settlers mayat 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 thehorizon, the red round orb appearing across the smooth surface, as overthat of a tranquil sea. 

He regards it, to direct his course. He knows that the camping place onCoyote Creek is due west from where he is. 

And at length, having resolved, he sets his foot in the stirrup, vaultsinto 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 onlysome last lingering rays along its western edge. These grow fainter andfainter, till scarce any difference can be noted around the horizon'sring. 

He now rides in doubt, guessing the direction. Scanning the stars hesearches for the Polar constellation. But a mist has meanwhile sprungup over the plain, and, creeping across the northern sky, concealed it. 

In the midst of his perplexity, the moon appears; and taking bearings bythis, he once more makes westward. 

But there are cumulus clouds in the sky; and these, ever and anondrifting over the moon's disc, compel him to pull up till they pass. 

At length he is favoured with a prolonged interval of light, duringwhich he puts his animal to its best speed, and advances many miles inwhat he supposes to be the right direction. As yet he has encounteredno living creature, nor object of any kind. He is in hopes to get sightof the solitary tree; for beyond it the trail to Coyote Creek is easilytaken. 

While scanning the moonlit expanse he descries a group of figures;apparently quadrupeds, though of what species he cannot tell. Theyappear too large for wolves, and yet are not like wild horses, deer, orbuffaloes. 

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 animalthey have hunted down, and killed--possibly a prong-horn antelope? Itis not with any purpose he approaches them. He only does so becausethey are in the line of his route. But before reaching the spot wherethey are assembled, he sees something to excite his curiosity, at thesame time, baffling all conjecture what it can be. On his comingcloser, the jackals scatter apart, exposing it to view; then, lopingoff, leave it behind them. Whatever it be, it is evidently the lurethat has brought the predatory beasts together. It is not the dead bodyof 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 thenspurring 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 theobject still clearer, causing him to add in exclamation, "By heavens, itis a head!"

Another instant and he sees a face, which sends the blood back to hisheart, almost freezing it in his veins. 

Horror stricken he reins up, dragging his horse upon the haunches; andin this attitude remains, his eyes rolling as though they would startfrom their sockets. Then, shouting the words, "Great God, Clancy!"followed by a wild shriek, he wrenches the horse around, andmechanically spurs into desperate speed. 

In his headlong flight he hears a cry, which comes as from out theearth--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 tothe mid hours of night, has he been enduring agony unspeakable. 

Alone with but the companionship of hostile creatures--wolves thatthreaten to gnaw the skin from his skull, and vultures ready to tear hiseyes out of their sockets. 

Why has he not gone mad?

There are moments when it comes too near this, when his reason iswell-nigh unseated. But manfully he struggles against it; thoughtfully, with reliance on Him, whose name he has repeated and prayerfullyinvoked. And God, in His mercy, sends something to sustain him--aremembrance. In his most despairing hour he recalls one circumstanceseeming favourable, and which in the confusion of thought, consequent onsuch a succession of scenes, had escaped him. He now remembers theother man found along with Darke under the live-oak. Bosley will beable to guide a pursuing party, and with Woodley controlling, will beforced to do it. He can lead them direct to the rendezvous of therobbers; where Clancy can have no fear but that they will settle thingssatisfactorily. There learning what has been done to himself, theywould lose no time in coming after him. 

This train of conjecture, rational enough, restores his hopes, and againhe believes there is a chance of his receiving succour. About time ishe chiefly apprehensive. They may come too late?

He will do all he can to keep up; hold out as long as life itself maylast. 

So resolved, he makes renewed efforts to fight off the wolves, andfrighten the vultures. 

Fortunately for him the former are but coyotes, the latter turkeybuzzards both cowardly creatures, timid as hares, except when the quarryis helpless. They must not know he is this; and to deceive them heshakes his head, rolls his eyes, and shouts at the highest pitch of hisvoice. But only at intervals, when they appear too threateningly near. He knows the necessity of economising his cries and gestures. By toofrequent repetition they might cease to avail him. 

Throughout the day he has the double enemy to deal with. But nightdisembarrasses him of the birds, leaving only the beasts. 

He derives little benefit from the change; for the coyotes, but jackalsin daylight, at night become wolves, emboldened by the darkness. Besides, they have been too long gazing at the strange thing, andlistening to the shouts which have proceeded from it, without receivinghurt 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 moonis low down, her disc directly before his face, and upon the plainbetween a shadow is projected, reaching to his chin. At the same time, he sees what is making it--a man upon horseback! Simultaneously, hehears a sound--the trampling of hoofs upon the hard turf. 

The coyotes catching it, too, are scared, changing from their attitudeof attack, and dropping tails to the ground. As the shadow darkeningover them tells that the horseman is drawing nigh, they scatter off inretreat. 

Clancy utters an ejaculation of joy. He is about to hail theapproaching 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 thesettlers, at least Heywood would be along with him? Besides, there isscarce time for them to have reached the Mission and returned. Itcannot be either. Jupiter? Has he escaped from the custody of theoutlawed crew?"

Clancy is accustomed to seeing the mulatto upon a mule. This man ridesa 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 hasslackened speed, and now makes approach, apparently with caution, as ifreconnoitring. He has descried the jackals, and comes to see what theyare gathered about. These having retreated, Clancy can perceive thatthe eyes of the stranger are fixed upon his own head, and that he isevidently puzzled to make out what it is. 

For a moment the man makes stop, then moves on, coming closer andcloser. With the moon behind his back, his face is in shadow, andcannot be seen by Clancy. But it is not needed for his identification. The dress and figure are sufficient. Cut sharply against the sky is thefigure of a plumed savage; a sham one Clancy knows, with a thrill offresh 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 thoughtbut that Darke, since last seen, has been in communication withBorlasse; and from him learning all, has, returned for the life hefailed to take before. 

Meanwhile the plumed horseman continues to approach, till within lessthan a length of his horse. Then drawing bridle with a jerk, suddenlycomes to a stop. Clancy can see, that he is struck with astonishment--his features, now near enough to be distinguished, wearing a bewilderedlook. Then hears his own name called out, a shriek succeeding; thehorse 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 fullfast gallop--gradually less distinct--at length dying away in thedistance. 

CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE. 

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 

To Clancy there is nothing strange in Darke's sudden and terrifieddeparture. With the quickness of thought itself, he comprehends itscause. In their encounter under the live-oak, in shadow and silence, his old rival has not recognised him. Nor can he since have seenBorlasse, or any of the band. Why he is behind them, Clancy cannotsurmise; though he has a suspicion of the truth. Certainly Darke camenot there by any design, but only chance-conducted. Had it beenotherwise, he would not have gone off in such wild affright. 

All this Clancy intuitively perceives, on the instant of his turning toretreat. And partly to make this more sure, though also stirred byindignation he cannot restrain, he eends forth that shout, causing thescared wretch to flee faster and farther. 

Now that he is gone, Clancy is again left to his reflections, but littleless gloomy than before. From only one does he derive satisfaction. The robber chief must have lied. Helen Armstrong has not been in thearms 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 onewho has only had a respite, believing it will be but short. Darke willsoon recover from his scare. For he will now go to the rendezvous, andthere, getting an explanation of what has caused it, come back to gluthis 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 instinctsbut strengthened by the check. The enemy late dreaded has not molestedthem, but gone off, leaving their prey unprotected. They are again freeto assail, and this time will surely devour it. 

Once more their melancholy whine breaks the stillness of the night, asthey come loping up one after another. Soon all are re-assembled roundthe strange thing, which through their fears has long defied them. Morefamiliar, they fear it less now. 

Renewing their hostile demonstration, they circle about it, gliding fromside to side in _chassez-croissez_, as through the mazes of a cotillon. With forms magnified under the moonlight, they look like werewolvesdancing around a "Death's Head, "--their long-drawn lugubrious wailsmaking appropriate music to the measure!

Horror for him who hears, hearing it without hope. Of this not a rayleft now, its last lingering spark extinguished, and before him but thedarkness of death in all its dread certainty--a death horrible, appalling!

Putting forth all his moral strength, exerting it to the utmost, hetries to resign himself to the inevitable. 

In vain. Life is too sweet to be so surrendered. He cannot calmlyresign it, and again instinctively makes an effort to fright off hishideous assailants. His eyes rolling, scintillating in their sockets--his lips moving--his cries sent from between them--are all to no purposenow. The coyotes come nearer and nearer. They are within three feet ofhis face. He can see their wolfish eyes, the white serrature of theirteeth, the red panting tongues; can feel their fetid breath blownagainst his brow. Their jaws are agape. Each instant he expects themto 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 himat once, than torn while still alive, gnawed, mumbled over, by thosefrightful 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, theprecepts inculcated by a pious mother, stand him in stead now. Andthough sure he must die, and wants death to come quickly, henevertheless 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 bythe All-Merciful, the Omnipotent; for seemingly no other hand could nowsuccour him. While the prayerful thoughts are still passing through hismind, the wolves suddenly cease their attack, and he sees them retiringwith closed jaws and fallen tails! Not hastily, but slow andskulkingly; ceding the ground inch by inch, as though reluctant to leaveit. 

What can it mean?

Casting his eyes outward, he sees nothing to explain the behaviour ofthe brutes, nor account for their changed demeanour. 

He listens, all ears, expecting to hear the hoof-stroke of a horse--thesame he late saw reined up in front of him, with Richard Darke upon hisback. The ruffian is returning sooner than anticipated. 

There is no such sound. Instead, one softer, which, but for the hollowcretaceous rock underlying the plain and acting as a conductor, wouldnot be conveyed to his ears. It is a pattering as of some animal'spaws, going in rapid gait. He cannot imagine what sort of creature itmay be; in truth he has no time to think, before hearing the sound closebehind his head, the animal approaching from that direction. Soon afterhe feels a hot breath strike against his brow, with something stillwarmer touching his cheek. It is the tongue of a dog!

"Brasfort!"

Brasfort it is, cowering before his face, filling his ears with a softwhimpering, sweet as any speech ever heard. For he has seen the jackalsretreat, and knows they will not return. His strong stag-hound is morethan a match for the whole pack of cowardly creatures. As easily as ithas scattered, can it destroy them. 

Clancy's first feeling is one of mingled pleasure and surprise. For hefancies himself succoured, released from his earth-bound prison, so nearto have been his grave. 

The glad emotion is alas! short-lived; departing as he perceives it tobe only a fancy, and his perilous situation, but little changed orimproved. For what can the dog do for him? True he may keep off thecoyotes, 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 himloose, and he has scented back on the trail? That's it. Oh! if Jupiterwere but with him! No fear of their letting him off--no. "

During all this time Brasfort has continued his caresses, fondling hismaster'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 tohave you here--like a friend beside the death-bed. And you'll stay withme 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 feelgrowing fainter. When all's over you can go. I shall never see hermore; but some one may find, and take you there. She'll care for, andreward you for this fidelity. "

The soliloquy is brought to a close, by the hound suddenly changingattitude. All at once it has ceased its fond demonstrations, and standsas if about to make an attack upon its master's head! Very differentthe intent. Yielding to a simple canine instinct, from the strain ofterrier in its blood, it commences scratching up the earth around hisneck!

For Clancy a fresh surprise, as before mingled with pleasure. For thehound's instinctive action shows him a chance of getting relieved, bymeans he had never himself thought of. 

He continues talking to the animal, encouraging it by speeches it cancomprehend. On it scrapes, tearing up the clods, and casting them inshowers behind. 

Despite the firmness with which the earth is packed, the hound soonmakes a hollow around its master's neck, exposing his shoulder--theright one--above the surface. A little more mould removed, and his armwill be free. With that his whole body can be extricated by himself. 

Stirred by the pleasant anticipation, he continues speakingencouragement to the dog. But Brasfort needs it not, working away insilence and with determined earnestness, as if knowing that time was anelement 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 speechalmost 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 ofthe approaching horseman. For to a certainty he approaches, the dulldistant thud of hooves gradually growing more distinct. Nor has he anydoubt of its being the same steed late reined up in front of him, thefresh score of whose calkers are there within a few feet of his face. 

The direction whence comes the sound, is of itself significant; that inwhich 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 nearbeing saved! Ten minutes more, and Brasfort would have disinterred him. 

Turning his eyes downward, he can see the cavity enlarged, and gettinglarger. For the dog continues to drag out the earth, as if not hearing, or disregarding the hoof-stroke. Already its paws are within a fewinches of his elbow. 

Is it possible for him to wrench out his arm! With it free he might dosomething 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 theclasp of a giant. There is _no_ alternative--he must submit to hisfate. And such a fate! Once more he will see the sole enemy of hislife, his mother's murderer, standing triumphant over him; will hear histaunting speeches--almost a repetition of the scene under the cypress!And to think that in all his encounters with this man, he has beenunsuccessful; too late--ever too late! The thought is of itself atorture. 

Strange the slowness with which Darke draws nigh! Can he still be indread of the unearthly? No, or he would not be there. It may be thatsure of his victim, he but delays the last blow, scheming some newhorror before he strike it?

The tramp of the horse tells him to be going at a walk; unsteady too, asif his rider were not certain about the way, but seeking it. Can thisbe so? Has he not yet seen the head and hound? The moon must be on hisback, since it is behind Clancy's own. It may be that Brasfort--a newfigure in the oft changing tableau--stays his advance. Possibly theunexplained presence of the animal has given him a surprise, and hencehe approaches with caution?

All at once, the hoof-stroke ceases to be heard, and stillness reignsaround. _No_ sound save that made by the claws of the dog, thatcontinues its task with unabated assiduity--not yet having taken anynotice of the footsteps it can scarce fail to hear. 

Its master cannot help thinking this strange. Brasfort is not wont tobe thus unwatchful. And of all men Richard Darke should be the last toapproach 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. Andstill Brasfort keeps on scraping! Only when a shadow darkens over, doeshe desist; the horseman being now close behind Clancy's head, with hisimage reflected in front. But instead of rushing at him with savagegrowl, as he certainly would were it Richard Darke Brasfort but raiseshis snout, and wags his tail, giving utterance to a note of friendlysalutation!

Clancy's astonishment is extreme, changing to joy, when the horsemanafter 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 hisfaithful 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 hisastonishment at what he sees; "Yes, Masser Charle; I'se been prayin' foryou 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 youhead! 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, slippingdown from the saddle, and placing himself _vis-a-vis_ with the face sostrangely 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 Ithink 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 thesaddle, 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, Ihad from that Spanish Indyin they call the half-blood. Not much bloodin 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 thespirit down his throat; and then, turning to the horse near by, he liftsfrom off the saddle-horn a larger gourd--the canteen, containing water. 

In a few seconds, not only is Clancy's thirst satisfied, but he feelshis strength restored, and all faintness passed away. 

"Up to de chin I declar'!" says Jupiter, now more particularly takingnote of his situation, "Sure enough, all but buried 'live. An' Brasfortbeen a tryin' to dig ye out! Geehorum! Aint that cunnin' o' the oledog? 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' abit 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 patientor comfortable. First let me finish what Brasfort's begun, and get outthe 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'sbreast and shoulders, cutting it carefully, then clawing it out. 

The hound helps him, dashing in whenever it sees a chance, with its pawsscattering the clods to rear. The animal seems jealous of Jupiter'sinterference, half angry at not having all the credit to itself. 

Between them the work progresses, and the body of their common masterwill soon be disinterred. All the while, Clancy and the mulattocontinue to talk, mutually communicating their experiences sinceparting. Those of the former, though fearful, are neither many norvaried, and require but few words. What Jupiter now sees gives him aclue to nearly all. 

His own narrative covers a greater variety of events, and needs moretime for telling than can now be conveniently spared. Instead ofdetails, therefore, he but recounts the leading incidents in briefepitome--to be more particularly dwelt upon afterwards, as opportunitywill allow. He relates, how, after leaving the lone cottonwood, he wastaken on across the plain to a creek called Coyote, where the robbershave a camping place. This slightly touched upon, he tells of his owntreatment; of his being carried into a tent at first, but little lookedafter, because thought secure, from their having him tightly tied. Through a slit in the skin cover he saw them kindle a fire and commencecooking. Soon after came the chief, riding Clancy's horse, withChisholm and the other three. Seeing the horse, he supposed it all overwith his master. 

Then the feast, _al fresco_, succeeded by the transformation scene--thered robbers becoming white ones--to all of which he was witness. Afterthat the card-playing by the camp fire, during which the chief came tohis tent, and did what he could to draw him. In this part of hisnarration, the mulatto with modest naivete, hints of his own adroitness;how he threw his inquisitor off the scent, and became at lengthdisembarrassed of him. He is even more reticent about an incident, soonafter succeeding, but referred to it at an early part of hisexplanation. 

On the blade of his knife, before beginning to dig, Clancy observingsome 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 abad man. "

Clancy does not press him further, knowing he will be told all in duetime. Still, is he impatient, wondering whether it be the blood of JimBorlasse, 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. Evenyet, in his hour of uncertainty, late helpless, and still with only ahalf hope of being able to keep his oath, he would not for all the worldDick Darke's blood should be shed by other hand than his own!

He is mentally relieved, long before Jupiter reaches the end of hisnarration. The blood upon the blade, now clean scoured off, was notthat of Richard Darke. 

For the mulatto tells him of that tragical scene within the tent, speaking of it without the slightest remorse. The incidents succeedinghe leaves for a future occasion; how he stole out the horse, and withBrasfort's help, was enabled to return upon the trail as far as thecottonwood; thence on, the hound hurriedly leading, at length leavinghim behind. 

But before coming to this, he has completed his task, and laying hold ofhis master's shoulders, he draws him out of the ground, as a gardenerwould a gigantic carrot. 

Once more on the earth's surface stands Clancy, free of body, unfetteredin 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 greatersatisfaction at being saved from it, than Charles Clancy. For upon hislife so near lost, and as if miraculously preserved, depend issues dearto him as that life itself. 

And these, too, may reach a successful termination; some thing whispershim they will. 

But though grateful to God for the timely succour just received, and onHim still reliant, he does not ask God for guidance in what he intendsnow. Rather, shuns he the thought, as though fearing the All-Mercifulmight not be with him. For he is still determined on vengeance, whichalone belongs to the Lord. 

Of himself, he is strong enough to take it; and feels so, after beingrefreshed by another drink of the whiskey. The spirit of the alcohol, acting on his own, reinvigorates, and makes him ready for immediateaction. He but stays to think what may be his safest course, as thesurest 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 thensaid, he dares not swerve from it. To go back leaving it undone, were ahumiliation no lover would like to confess to his sweetheart. 

But he has no thought of going back, and only hesitates, reflecting onthe steps necessary to ensure success. 

He now knows why Darke retreated in such wild affright. Some speechespassing between the robbers, overheard by Jupiter, and by him reported, enable Clancy to grasp the situation. As he had conjectured, Darke wasstraying, 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 heis still straying. If so, he cannot be a great way off; but, far ornear, Brasfort can find him. 

It is but a question of whether he can be overtaken before reaching therendezvous. For the only danger of which Clancy has dread, or allowshimself to dwell upon, is from the other robbers. Even of these hefeels not much fear. But for the mulatto and his mule, he would neverhave allowed them to lay hand on him. And now with his splendid horseonce more by his side, the saddle awaiting him, he knows he will be safefrom any pursuit by mounted men, as a bird upon the wing. 

For the safety of his faithful follower he has already conceivedmeasures. Jupiter is to make his way back to the San Saba, and wait forhim at their old camp, near the crossing. Failing to come, he is toproceed on to the settlement, and there take his chances of a reception. Though the fugitive slave may be recognised, under Sime Woodley'sprotection he will be safe, and with Helen Armstrong's patronage, sureof 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 atlength leaps into the saddle. 

The mulatto has been regarding his movements with uneasiness. There isthat in them which forewarns him of still another separation. 

He is soon made aware of it, by the instructions given him, inaccordance with the plan sketched cat. On Clancy telling him, he is toreturn to the San Saba alone, with the reasons why he should do so, helistens 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 offagain, on that scoundrel's track. This shall be my last trial. If itturn 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'sno fear, one way or the other. So don't you have any uneasiness aboutthe result; but do as I've directed. Make back to the river, and waitthere at the crossing. Brasfort goes with me; and when you see usagain, 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 thelegs of Dick Darke. "

"Dear masser, " rejoins Jupiter, in earnest protest. "Why need ye goworryin' 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 bethis 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 thesettlement. "

"No settlement, till I've settled with him! He can't have got far awayyet. 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. Thoughweeks have elapsed since in the cypress swamp it made savagedemonstrations against Darke, when taking up his trail through the SanSaba bottom it behaved as if actuated by the old malice, remembering thesmell of the man! And now conducted beyond the place trodden byBorlasse and the others, soon as outside the confusion of scents, andcatching his fresher one, it sends forth a cry strangely intoned, altogether unlike its ordinary bay while trailing a stag. It is thedeep sonorous note of the sleuth-hound on slot of human game; such asoft, in the times of Spanish American colonisation, struck terror to theheart of the hunted aboriginal. 

As already said, Brasfort has a strain of the bloodhound in him; enoughto make danger for Richard Darke. Under the live-oak the hound wouldhave pulled him from his saddle, torn him to pieces on the spot, but forJupiter, to whom it was consigned, holding it hard back. 

Clancy neither intends, nor desires, it to do so now. All he wants withit, is to bring him face to face with his hated foeman. That done, therest he will do himself. 

Everything decided and settled, he hastily takes leave of Jupiter, andstarts off along the trail, Brasfort leading. 

Both are soon far away. 

On the wide waste the mulatto stands alone, looking after--halfreproachfully 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 strangestapparition human eyes ever saw. A head without any body, not lying asafter careless decapitation, but as though still upon shoulders, theeyes glancing and rolling, the lips moving, speaking--the whole thingalive! The head, too, of one he supposes himself to have assassinated, and for which he is a felon and fugitive. No wonder he doubts theevidence of his senses, and at first deems it fancy--an illusion fromdream or drink. But a suspicion also sweeps through his soul, which, more painfully impressing, causes him to add still anotherinterrogatory:

"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 himselfdrunk or dreaming--for, so scared is he, there is in reality a danger ofhis senses forsaking him. He tries to account for the queer thing, butcannot. Who could, circumstanced as he? From that day when he stoopedover Clancy, holding Helen Armstrong's photograph before his face, andsaw his eyes film over in sightless gaze, the sure forerunner of death, he has ever believed him dead. No rumour has reached him to thecontrary--no newspaper paragraph, from which he might draw hisdeductions, as Borlasse has done. True, he observed some resemblance toClancy in the man who surprised him under the live-oak; but, recallingthat scene under the cypress, how could he have a thought of its beinghe? He could not, cannot, does not yet. 

But what about the head? How is he to account for that? And the criessent after him--still ringing in his ears--his own name, with the addedaccusation he himself believes true, the brand, "murderer!"

"Am I indeed mad?" he again asks himself, riding on recklessly, withoutgiving guidance to his horse. His trembling hand can scarce retain holdof 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, hekicks mechanically against its ribs, urging it on, on, anywhere awayfrom that dread damnable apparition. 

It is some time before he recovers sufficient coolness to reflect--thenonly with vague comprehensiveness; nothing clear save the fact that hehas completely lost himself, and his way. To go on were mere guesswork. True, the moon tells him the west, the direction of Coyote creek. Butwestward 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 onthe trail-rope, lays himself down. Regardless of the animal's needs, heleaves all its caparison on, even to the bitt between its teeth. Whatcares he for its comforts, or for aught else, thinking of that horriblehead?

He makes no endeavour to snatch a wink of sleep, of which he has hadenough; but lies cogitating on the series of strange incidents andsights which have late occurred to him, but chiefly the last, sopainfully perplexing. He can think of nothing to account for aphenomenon so abnormal, so outside all laws of nature. 

While vainly endeavouring to solve the dread enigma, a sound strikesupon his ear, abruptly bringing his conjectures to a close. It is adull thumping, still faint and far off; but distinguishable as the trampof a horse. 

Starting to his feet, he looks in the direction whence it proceeds. Asexpected, he sees a horse; and something more, a man upon its back, bothcoming towards him. 

Could it, perchance, be Bosley? Impossible! He was their prisonerunder the live-oak. They would never let him go. Far more like it isWoodley--the terrible backwoodsman, as ever after him? Whoever it be, his guilty soul tells him the person approaching can be no friend ofhis, but an enemy, a pursuer. And it may be another phantom!

Earthly fears, with unearthly fancies, alike urging him to flight, hestays not to make sure whether it be ghost or human; but, hastily takingup his trail-rope, springs to the back of his horse, and again goes offin wild terrified retreat. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It scarce needs telling, that the horseman who has disturbed RichardDarke's uncomfortable reflections is Charles Clancy. Less than an hourhas 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 wayit zigzagged, and circled about, Clancy could tell the tracked steed hadbeen going without guidance, as also guess the reason. The rider, fleeing in affright, has given no heed to direction. All this thepursuer knows to be in his favour; showing that the pursued man has notgone 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 thecontrary taking every precaution to ensure success. He knows that onthe hard turf his horse's tread can be heard to a great distance; and tohinder this he has put the animal to a "pace"--a gait peculiar to Texasand the South-Western States. This, combining speed with silence, hascarried him on quickly as in a canter. The hound he has once moremuzzled, though not holding it in leash; and the two have gone glidingalong 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 almosttouches the horizon, when alongside it he perceives something dark uponthe plain, distinguishable as the figure of a horse. It is stationarywith head to the ground, as if grazing, though by the uneven outline ofits back it bears something like a saddle. Continuing to scrutinise, hesees it is this; and, moreover, makes out the form of a man, or whatresembles one, lying along the earth near by. 

These observations take only an instant of time; and, while making themhe has halted, and by a word, spoken low, called his hound off thetrail. The well-trained animal obeying, turns back, and stands by hisside waiting. 

The riderless horse, with the dismounted rider, are still a good wayoff, more than half a mile. At that distance he could not distinguishthem, but for the position of the moon, favouring his view. Around herrim the luminous sky makes more conspicuous the dark forms interposedbetween. 

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 maybest make approach--he perceives the tableau suddenly change. The horsetosses up its head, while the man starts upon his feet. In an instantthey are together, and the rider in his saddle. 

And now Clancy is quite sure: for the figure of the horseman, outlinedagainst the background of moonlit sky, clear-edged as a medallion, showsthe feathered circlet surmounting his head. To all appearance a redsavage, 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. Inlike gait follows the avenger, forsaking the cautious pace, and nolonger caring for silence. 

Still there is no noise, save that of the hammering hooves, now and thena clink, as their iron shoeing strikes a stone. Otherwise silent, pursuer and pursued. But with very different reflections; the formerterrified, half-frenzied, seeking to escape from whom he knows not; thelatter, cool, courageous, trying to overtake one he knows too well. 

Clancy pursues but with one thought, to punish the murderer of hismother. And sure he will succeed now. Already is the space shortenedbetween them, growing less with every leap of his horse. A few stridesmore and Richard Darke will be within range of his rifle. 

Letting drop the reins, he takes firmer grasp on his gun. His horseneeds no guidance, but goes on as before, still gaining. 

He is now within a hundred lengths of the retreating foe, but still toofar off for a sure shot. Besides, the moon is in front, her lightdazzling his eyes, the man he intends to take aim at going direct forher disc, as if with the design to ride into it. 

While he delays, calculating the distance, suddenly the moon becomesobscured, the chased horseman simultaneously disappearing from hissight!

CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE. 

AT LENGTH THE "DEATH SHOT. "

Scarce for an instant is Clancy puzzled by the sudden disappearance ofhim pursued. That is accounted for by the simplest of causes; a largerock rising above the level of the plain, a loose boulder, whose breadthinterposing, covers the disc of the moon. A slight change of directionhas brought it between; Darke having deflected from his course, andstruck towards it. 

Never did hunted fox, close pressed by hounds, make more eagerly forcover, or seek it so despairingly as he. He has long ago been awarethat the pursuer is gaining upon him. At each anxious glance cast overhis shoulder, he sees the distance decreased, while the tramp of thehorse behind sounds clearer and closer. 

He is in doubt what to do. Every moment he may hear the report of agun, and have a bullet into his back. He knows not the instant he maybe 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 bethe 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 heavytread 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 butone clear thought, the instinct common to all chased creatures--to makefor some shelter. 

A copse, a tree, even were it but a bush, anything to conceal him fromthe 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 screenboth him and his horse. The very thing!

Instinctively he perceives his advantage. Behind the rock he can makestand, and without hesitation he heads his horse for it. 

It is a slight change from his former direction, and he loses a littleground; but recovers it by increased speed. For encouraged by the hopeof getting under shelter, he makes a last spurt, urging his animal tothe 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 heis now also near enough to distinguish the huge stone; and, whilescanning its outlines, he sees the chased horseman turn around it, sorapidly, and at such distance, he withholds his shot, fearing it mayfail. 

Between pursued and pursuer the chances have changed; and as the latterreins up to consider what he should do, he sees something glisten abovethe boulder, clearly distinguishable as the barrel of a gun. At thesame 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 themoonlight is full upon the face of him threatened; he can trace everyfeature distinctly. It is the same he late saw on the sun ice of theplain!

It can be no dream, nor freak of fancy. Clancy is still alive; or ifdead 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 toassassinate in a Mississippian forest--Charles Clancy--who means to killyou, fairer fashion, here on this Texan plain. Dick Darke! if you havea prayer to say, say it soon; for sure as you stand behind that rock, Iintend taking your life. "

The threat is spoken in a calm, determined tone, as if surely to bekept. All the more terrible to Richard Darke, who cannot yet realisethe fact of Clancy's being alive. But that stern summons must have comefrom mortal lips, and the form before him is no spirit, but living fleshand blood. 

Terror-stricken, appalled, shaking as with an ague, the gun almost dropsfrom his grasp. But with a last desperate resolve, and effortmechanical, scarce knowing what he does, he raises the piece to hisshoulder, and fires. 

Clancy sees the flash, the jet, the white smoke puffing skyward; thenhears 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. Darkecarries a double-barrelled gun, and has still a bullet left. Besides, he has the advantage of position, the protecting rampart, the moonbehind his back, and in the eyes of his assailant, everything in favourof the assailed. 

Though chafing in angry impatience, with the thirst of vengeanceunappeased, Clancy restrains himself, measuring the ground with hiseyes, and planning how he may dislodge his skulking antagonist. Must helay siege to him, and stay there till--

A low yelp interrupts his cogitations. Looking down he sees Brasfort byhis side. In the long trial of speed between the two horses, the houndhad dropped behind. The halt has enabled it to get up, just in time tobe of service to its master, who has suddenly conceived a plan foremploying it. 

Leaping from his saddle, he lays holds of the muzzle strap, quicklyunbuckling it. As though divining the reason, the dog dashes on for therock; soon as its jaws are released, giving out a fierce angry growl. 

Darke sees it approaching in the clear moonlight, can distinguish itsmarkings, remembers them. Clancy's stag-hound! Surely Nemesis, withall 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. Whileshunning its teeth, he has also to think of Clancy's gun. 

He cannot guard against both, if either. For the dog has caught hold ofhis right leg, and fixed its fangs in the flesh. He tries to beat itoff, striking with the butt of his gun. To no purpose now. For hishorse, excited by the attack, and madly prancing, has parted from therock, exposing him to the aim of the pursuer, who has, meanwhile, rushedup within rifle range. 

Clancy sees his advantage, and raises his gun, quick as for the shootingof a snipe. The crack comes; and, simultaneous with it, Richard Darkeis 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, savea 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 thedog from tearing him, which the enraged animal seems determined to do. Chiding it off, he bends over the prostrate body, which he perceives hasceased to breathe. A sort of curiosity, some impulse irresistible, prompts him to look for the place where his bullet struck. In theheart, as he can see by the red stream still flowing forth!

"Just where he hit me! After all, not strange--no coincidence; I aimedat 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 savagetriumph, no fiendish exultation. Far from his thoughts to insult, oroutrage the dead. Justice has had requital, and vengeance beenappeased. It is neither his rival in love, nor his mortal enemy, whonow 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 balancedelsewhere. 

As he stands regarding Darke's features, in their death pallor showinglivid 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 couldhave been otherwise. It could not--I was compelled to it. And surelyGod will forgive me, for ridding the world of such a wretch?"

Then raising himself to an erect attitude, with eyes upturned toheaven--as when in the cemetery over his mother's grave, he made thatsolemn 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 plainbetween, 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 stillreverberate wailing cries, mingled with notes of preparation for thepursuit. Then follows a forenoon of painful suspense, _no_ word yetfrom the scouters sent out. 

Colonel Armstrong, and the principal men of the settlement, haveascended to the _azotea_ to obtain a better view; and there remaingazing down the valley in feverish impatience. Just as the sun reachesmeridian their wistful glances are rewarded; but by a sight which littlerelieves 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 topspeed--both circumstances having sinister significance. Has thescouting party been cut off, and he only escaped to tell the tale? Isit Dupre, Hawkins, or who? He is yet too far off to be identified. 

As he draws nearer, Colonel Armstrong through a telescope makes him outto be Cris Tucker. 

Why should the young hunter be coming back alone?

After a mutual interchange of questions and conjectures, they leave offtalking, and silently stand, breathlessly, awaiting his arrival. 

Soon as he is within hailing distance, several unable to restrainthemselves, 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 theyawait further information. In a short time the scout presents himselfbefore Colonel Armstrong, around whom the others cluster, all alikeeager to hear the report. For they are still under anxiety about thecharacter of the despoilers, having as yet no reason to think them otherthan Indians. Nor does Tucker's account contradict this idea; thoughone thing he has to tell begets a suspicion to the contrary. 

Rapidly and briefly as possible the young hunter gives details of whathas 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 overthe lower ford, and there saw sign to convince them that the Indians--still supposing them such--had gone on across the bottom, and in allprobability up the bluff beyond--thus identifying them with the bandwhich the hunters had seen and tracked down. Indeed no one doubtedthis, nor could. But, while the scouters were examining the returntracks, they came upon others less intelligible--in short, perplexing. There were the hoof-marks of four horses and a mule--all shod; firstseen upon a side trace leading from the main ford road. Striking intoand following it for a few hundred yards, they came upon a place wheremen had encamped and stayed for some time--perhaps slept. The grassbent down showed where their bodies had been astretch. And these menmust have been white. Fragments of biscuit, with other debris ofeatables, not known to Indians, were evidence of this. 

Returning from the abandoned bivouac, with the intention to ridestraight back to the Mission, the scouters came upon another side traceleading out on the opposite side of the ford road, and up the river. Onthis they again saw the tracks of the shod horses and mule; among themthe foot-prints of a large dog. 

Taking this second trace it conducted them to a glade, with a grandtree, a live-oak, standing in its centre. The sign told of the partyhaving stopped there also. While occupied in examining their traces, and much mystified by them, they picked up an article, which, instead ofmaking matters clearer, tended to mystify them more--a wig! Of allthings 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--sinceit was that worn by Bosley, and torn from his head when Woodley andHeywood were stripping him for examination. 

The scouters, of course, could not know of this; and, while inspectingthe 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 ifbut lately plucked, and alike out of place there. 

Dupre, with some slight botanic knowledge, knew that no orange-tree grewnear, nor yet any cypress. But he remembered having observed both inthe Mission-garden, into which the girls had been last seen going. Without being able to guess why they should have brought sprig or floweralong, he was sure they had themselves been under the live-oak. Wherewere they now?

In answer, Hawkins had cried: "Gone this way! Here's the tracks of theshod 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 inspiresColonel Armstrong with a feeling akin to hope. Something seems towhisper him his lost children will be recovered. 

Long ere the sun has set over the valley of the San Saba his heart isfilled, and thrilled, with joy indescribable. For his daughters are byhis side, their arms around his neck, tenderly, lovingly entwining it, as on that day when told they must forsake their stately Mississippianhome for a hovel in Texas. All have reached the Mission; for thescouting party having overtaken that of Woodley, came in along with it. 

No, not all, two are still missing--Clancy and Jupiter. About thelatter Woodley has made no one the wiser; though he tells Clancy'sstrange experience, which, while astounding his auditory, fills themwith keen apprehension for the young man's fate. 

Keenest is that in the breast of Helen Armstrong. Herself saved, she isnow all the more solicitous about the safety of her lover. Her looksbespeak more than anxiety--anguish. 

But there is that being done to hinder her from despairing. Thepursuers are rapidly getting ready to start out, and with zeal unabated. For, although circumstances have changed by the recovery of thecaptives, there is sufficient motive for pursuit--the lost treasure tobe re-taken--the outlaws chastised--Clancy's life to be saved, or hisdeath avenged. 

Woodley's words have fired them afresh, and they are impatient to setforth. 

Their impatience reaches its climax, when Colonel Armstrong, with headuncovered, his white hair blown up by the evening breeze, addressesthem, saying:--

"Fellow citizens! We have to thank the Almighty that our dear ones haveescaped a great danger. But while grateful to God, let us rememberthere is a man also deserving gratitude. A brave young man, we allbelieved dead--murdered. He is still alive, let us hope so. SimeonWoodley has told us of the danger he is now in--death if he fall intothe hands of these desperate outlaws. Friends, and fellow citizens! Ineed not appeal to you on behalf of this noble youth. I know you areall 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 herhope is mingled pride, at the popularity of him to whom she has givenheart, and promised hand. Something more to make her happy; she nowknows that, in the bestowing of both, she will have the approval of herfather. 

CHAPTER EIGHTY FIVE. 

A CHANGE OF PROGRAMME. 

On the far frontier of Texas, still unsettled by civilised man, nochanticleer gives note of the dawn. Instead, the _meleagris_ salutesthe sunrise with a cry equally high-toned, and quite as home-like. Forthe gobbling of the wild turkey-cock is scarcely distinguishable fromthat of his domesticated brother of the farm-yard. 

A gang of these great birds has roosted in the pecan grove, close towhere the prairie pirates are encamped. At daylight's approach, theyfly up to the tops of the trees; the males, as is their wont in thespring 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--orderingseveral horses to be saddled. He designs despatching a party to theupper 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. Oneafter another peering into the tent, they see what is there. There isno question about how the thing occurred. It is clear to all. Theirprisoner has killed his guard; as they say, assassinated him. Has theassassin escaped?

They scatter in search of him, by twos and threes, rushing from tent totent. 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. Itis that the chief had seized from their white prisoner, andappropriated. The yellow one has replevined it!

The ghastly spectacle in the tent gives them no horror. They are toohardened for that. But it makes them feel, notwithstanding; firstanger, soon succeeded by apprehension. The dullest brute in the bandhas some perception of danger as its consequence. Hitherto theirsecurity has depended on keeping up their incognito by disguises, andthe secrecy of their camping place. Here is a prisoner escaped, whoknows all; can tell about their travesties; guide a pursuing party tothe spot! They must remain no longer there. 

Borlasse recognising the necessity for a change of programme, summonshis following around him. 

"Boys!" he says, "I needn't point out to ye that this ugly business putsus in a bit o' a fix. We've got to clear out o' hyar right quick. Ireckon our best way 'll be to make tracks for San Antone, an' tharscatter. Even then, we won't be too safe, if yellow skin turns up totell his story about us. Lucky a nigger's testymony don't count formuch in a Texan court; an' thar's still a chance to make it count fornothin' 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'seasy enough; but we must mount at once, an' make after him. He won't soreadily 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 thatway. They may meet the outraged settlers. 

"No fear of them yet, " argues the chief, "but there will be if thenigger meets them. We needn't go on to the San Saba. If we don'tovertake 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 whereit will be safe till their return, they mount, and start off for theupper plain. 

Silence again reigns around the deserted camp; no human voice there--nosound, save the calling of the wild turkeys, that cannot awake thatghastly sleeper. 

At the same hour, almost the very moment, when Borlasse and hisfreebooters, ascending from Coyote Creek, set foot on the table plain, aparty of mounted men, coming up from the San Saba bottom, strikes it onthe opposite edge. It is scarce necessary to say that these are thepursuing settlers. Dupre at their head. Hardly have they struck outinto the sterile waste, before getting bewildered, with neither tracenor track to give them a clue to the direction. But they have with thema 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 isnow 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 hishead, saying:--

"Bill Bosley! altho' I don't make estimate o' yur life as more accountthan that o' a cat, it may be, I spose, precious to yurself. An' ye kinonly save it by takin' us strait to whar ye say Jim Borlasse an' hisbeauties 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 yerneck streetched on the nearest tree; an' if no tree turn up, I'll tie yeto the tail o' my horse, an' hang ye that way. So, take yur choice. Ifye 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 thisplain several times, I never took much notice, bein' with the others, Ionly know there's a tree stands by itself. If we can reach that, theroad'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 provestrait, there'll come a crik in yur neck, soon's it's diskivered to becrooked. So waste no more words, but strike for the timmer ye speako'. "

The alacrity with which Bosley obeys tells he is sincere. 

Proof of his sincerity is soon after obtained in the tree itself beingobserved. 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'nthe skunk's tellin' us the truth, 'bout that stick o' timber being afinger-post. Tharfor, no more dilly-dallying but on to't quick as ourcritters can take us. Thar's a man's life in danger; one that's dear tome, as I reckon he'd be to all o' ye, ef ye knowed him, same's I do. Yeheerd what the old kurnel sayed, as we war startin' out: _cost what itmout, Charley Clancy air to be saved_. So put the prod to yourcritters, an' let's on!"

Saying this, the hunter spurs his horse to its best speed; and soon allare 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 nointention there to tarry long. The companionship of the dead is everpainful, whether it be friend or enemy. With the latter, alone, it mayappal. 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 Brasfortaway from it. The dog yet shows hostility; and, if permitted, wouldmutilate the lifeless remains. Its fierce canine instinct has nogenerous impulse, and is only restrained by scolding and threats. 

The sun is beginning to show above the horizon, and Clancy perceivesDarke's horse tearing about over the plain. He is reminded of hispromise made to Jupiter. 

The animal does not go clear off, but keeps circling round, as if itdesired to come back again; the presence of the other horse attracting, and giving it confidence. Clancy calls to it, gesticulating in afriendly manner, and uttering exclamations of encouragement. By littleand little, it draws nearer, till at length its muzzle is in contactwith 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 totake departure from the spot. So little time has been spent in thepursuit, and the short conflict succeeding, it occurs to him he mayovertake Jupiter, before the latter has reached the San Saba. 

Scanning around to get bearings, his eye is attracted to an object, nowfamiliar--the lone cottonwood. It is not much over two miles off. OnDarke's trail he must have ridden at least leagues. Its crooked course, however, explains the tree's proximity. The circles and zig-zags havebrought 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, helooks for it. 

He sees it not, as there is nothing now to be seen, except somescattered mould undistinguishable at a distance. Instead, the risingsun lights up the figure of a man, afoot, and more than a mile off. Notstanding 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 astrange 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 hisskin. 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 withevident caution in his approach. 

Soon he is seen to quicken his step, changing it to a run; at lengtharriving 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 hasbeen prepared for it. 

In answer to Clancy's inquiry, he briefly explains his presence upon thespot. Disobedient to the instructions given him, instead of proceedingtowards the San Saba bottom, he had remained upon the steppe. Notstationary, but following his master as fast as he could, and keepinghim in view so long as the distance allowed. Two things were in hisfavour--the clear moonlight and Darke's trail doubling back upon itself. For all, he had at length lost sight of the tracking horseman, but nottill he had caught a glimpse of him tracked, fleeing before. It was thestraight tail-on-end chase that took both beyond reach of his vision. Noting the direction, he still went hastening after, soon to hear asound which told him the chase had come to a termination, and strifecommenced. This was the report of a gun, its full, round boomproclaiming it a smooth-bore fowling-piece. Remembering that his oldmaster always carried this--his new one never--it must be the former whofired the shot. And, as for a long while no other answered it, he wasin despair, believing the latter killed. Then reached his ear the angrybay of the bloodhound, with mens' voices intermingled; ending all thedear, sharp crack of a rifle; which, from the stillness that succeededcontinuing, 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 thoughthe'd guv you--his _death shot_!"

"Yes, Jupe. He's got it at last; and strange enough in the very placewhere he hit me. You see where my bullet has struck him?"

The mulatto, stooping down over Darke's body, examines the wound, stilldripping blood. 

"You're right, Masser Charle; it's in de adzack spot. Well, that iscurious. 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 andthoughtful, 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 byhim. 

With what strange reflections must that spectacle inspire him! Theoutstretched arms lying helpless along the earth--the claw-like fingersnow stiff and nerveless--he may be thinking how they once clutched acowhide, vigorously laying it on his own back, leaving those terriblescars. 

"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 littlelonger. For something has to be considered. It is necessary for themto make sure about their route. They must take precautions againstgetting strayed, as also another and still greater danger. Jupiter'sescape from the robbers' den, with the deed that facilitated it, will bythis have been discovered. It is more than probable he will be pursued;indeed almost certain. And the pursuers will come that way; at anymoment 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 directionhis fancy summons up one brighter. For there lies the San SabaMission-house, within whose walls he will find Helen Armstrong. He hasnow no doubt that she has reached home in safety; knows, too, that herfather still lives. For the mulatto has learnt as much from theoutlaws. While _en route_ to Coyote Creek, and during his sojournthere, he overheard them speak about the massacre of the slaves, as alsothe immunity extended to their masters, with the reason for it. It isglad tidings to Clancy, His betrothed, restored to her father's arms, will not the less affectionately open her own to receive him. The longnight of their sorrowing has passed; the morn of their joy comes; itsdaylight is already dawning. He will have a welcome, sweet as ever metman. 

"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 ofits rays from something seen afar off, over the plain. Several pointssparkle, appearing and disappearing through a semi-opaque mass, whosedun colour shows it to be dust. 

Experienced in prairie-sign he can interpret this; and does easily, butwith a heaviness at his heart. The things that sparkle are guns, pistols, knives, belt-buckles, bitts, and stirrups; while that throughwhich they intermittingly shine is the stoor tossed up by the hooves ofhorses. It is a body of mounted men in march across the steppe. 

Continuing to scan the dust-cloud, he perceives inside it a darkernucleus, evidently horses and men, though he is unable to trace theindividual forms, or make out their number. No mattes for that; thereis enough to identify them without. They are coming from the side ofthe Colorado--from Coyote Creek. Beyond doubt the desperadoes!

CHAPTER EIGHTY SEVEN. 

HOSTILE COHORTS. 

Perfectly sure that the band is that of Borlasse, which he almostinstantly is, Clancy draws his horse behind the rock, directing Jupiterto 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 theapproaching troop. Is it approaching?

Yes; but not direct for the rock. Its head is towards the tree, and therobbers are evidently making to reach this. As already said, thetopography of the place is peculiar; the lone cottonwood standing on thecrest of a _couteau de prairie_, whose sides slope east and west. Itresembles the roof of a house, but with gentler declination. Similarlysituated on the summit of the ridge, is the boulder, but with nearly aleague's length between it and the tree. 

Soon as assured that the horsemen are heading for the latter, Clancybreathes freer breath. But without being satisfied he is safe. Heknows they will not stay there; and where next? He reflects what mighthave been his fate were he still in the _prairie stocks_. Borlasse willbe sure to pay that place a visit. Not finding the victim of hiscruelty, he will seek elsewhere. Will it occur to him to come on to therock?

Clancy so interrogates, with more coolness, and less fear, than may beimagined. His horse is beside him, and Jupiter has another. Themulatto is no longer encumbered by a mule. Darke's steed is known to bea swift one, and not likely to be outrun by any of the robber troop. Ifchased, some of them might overtake it, but not all, or not at the sametime. There will be less danger from their following in detail, andthus Clancy less fears them. For he knows that his yellow-skinnedcomrade is strong as courageous; a match for any three ordinary men. And both are now well armed--Darke's double-barrel, as his horse, havingreverted to Jupiter. Besides, as good luck has it, there are pistolsfound in the holsters, to say nothing of that long-bladed, and lateblood-stained, knife. In a chase they will have a fair chance toescape; and, if it come to a fight, can make a good one. 

While he is thus speculating upon the probabilities of the outlawscoming on to the rock, and what may be the upshot afterwards, Clancy'sear is again saluted by a cry from his companion. But this time in tonevery different: for it is jubilant, joyous. 

Turning, he sees Jupiter standing with face to the east, and pointing inthat direction. To what? Another cloud of dust, that prinkles withsparkling points; another mounted troop moving across the plain! Andalso making for the tree, which, equi-distant between the two, seems tobe the beacon of both. 

Quick as he reached the conclusion about the first band being that ofBorlasse, does he decide as to that of the second. It is surely thepursuing colonists, and as sure with Sime Woodley at their head. 

Both cohorts are advancing at a like rate of speed, neither ridingrapidly. They have been so, but now, climbing the acclivity, they havequieted their horses to a walk. The pace though slow, continued, willin time bring them together. A collision seems inevitable. His glancegladdens as he measures the strength of the two parties. The former notonly in greater number, but with God on their side; while the latterwill be doing battle under the banner of the Devil. 

About the issue of such encounter he has no anxiety. He is onlyapprehensive it may not come off. Something may arise to warn theoutlaws, 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 shouldmake them suspicious of something. Above each band are buzzards--alarge flock. They flout the air in sportive flight, their instinctadmonishing them that the two parties are hostile, and likely to spilleach other's blood. 

About the two sets of birds what will both sides be saying? For, highin heaven, both must long since have observed them. From their presencewhat conjectures will they draw?

So Clancy questions, answering himself:

"Borlasse will suppose the flock afar to be hovering over my head; whileWoodley may believe the other one above my dead body!"

Strange as it may appear, just thus, and at the same instant, are thetwo leaders interpreting the sign! And well for the result Clancydesires; since it causes neither to command halt or make delay. On thecontrary impels them forward more impetuously. Perceiving this, hemechanically mutters:

Thank the Lord! They must meet now! Curbing his impatience, as he bestcan, he continues to watch the mutually approaching parties. At thehead of the colonists he now sees Sime Woodley, recognises him by hishorse--a brindled "clay-bank, " with stripes like a zebra. Would that hecould communicate with his old comrade, and give him word, or sign ofwarning. 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 andretreat. 

With heart beating audibly, blood, coursing quick through his veins, hewatches and waits, timing the crisis. It must come soon. The twoflocks of vultures have met in mid-air, and mingle their sweepinggyrations. They croak in mutual congratulation, anticipating a splendidrepast. 

Clancy counts the moments. They cannot be many. The heads of thehorsemen already align with the tufts of grass growing topmost on theridge. Their brows are above it; their eyes. They have sighted eachother!

A halt on both sides; horses hurriedly reined in; no shouts; only a wordof caution from the respective leaders of the troops, each calling backto his own. Then an interval of silence, disturbed by the shrillscreams of the horses, challenging from troop to troop, seeminglyhostile as their riders. 

In another instant both have broken halt, and are going in gallop overthe 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 caughtsight of one another. Then, vaulting into his saddle, and callingJupiter 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 hisenergies bent, upon taking part in the pursuit, and still more in thefight he hopes will follow. He presses on in a diagonal line betweenpursued and pursuers. His splendid steed now shows its good qualities, and gladly he sees he is gaining upon both. With like gladness thatthey are nearing one another, the short-striding mustangs being no matchfor the long legged American horses. As yet not a shot has been fired. The distance is still too great for the range of rifles, andbackwoodsmen do not idly waste ammunition. The only sounds heard arethe trampling of the hooves, and the occasional neigh of a horse. Theriders are all silent, in both troops alike--one in the mute eagernessof flight, the other with the stern earnestness of pursuit. 

And now puffs of smoke arise over each, with jets of flame projectedoutward. Shots, at first dropping and single, then in thick rattlingfusillade. Along with them cries of encouragement, mingled with shoutsof defiance. Then a wild "hurrah, " the charging cheers the colonistsclose upon the outlaws. 

Clancy rides straight for the fray. In front he sees the plain shroudedin dense sulphureous mist, at intervals illumined by yellow flashes. Another spurt, and, passing through the thin outer strata of smoke, heis in the thick of the conflict--among men on horseback grappling othermounted men, endeavouring to drag them out of the saddle--some afoot, fighting in pairs, firing pistols, or with naked knives, hewing away atone another!

He sees that the fight is nigh finished, and the robbers routed. Someare dismounted, on their knees crying "quarter, " and piteously appealingfor 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 NedHeywood, who staggers to his side, bleeding, his face blackened withpowder. 

"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 spiedthem passin' through the smoke. For God's sake, after! Sime may standin need o' ye. "

Clancy stays not to hear more, but again urges his horse to speed, withhead in the direction indicated. 

Darting on, he is soon out into the clear atmosphere; there to see twohorsemen going off over the plain, pursued and pursuer. In the formerhe recognises Borlasse, while the latter is Woodley. Both are uponstrong, swift, horses; but better mounted than either, he soon gainsupon them. 

The backwoodsman is nearing the brigand. Clancy sees this withsatisfaction, though not without anxiety. He knows Jim Borlasse is anantagonist not to be despised. Driven to desperation, he will fightlike a grizzly bear. Woodley will need all his strength, courage, andstrategy. 

Eager to assist his old comrade, he presses onward; but, before he cancome up, they have closed, and are at it. 

Not in combat, paces apart, with rifles or pistols. Not a shot is beingexchanged between them. Instead, they are close together, have clutchedone another, and are fighting, hand to hand, with _bowies_!

It commenced on horseback, but at the first grip both came to theground, dragging each other down. Now the fight continues on foot, eachwith his bared blade hacking and hewing at the other. 

A dread spectacle these two gigantic gladiators engaged in mortalstrife! All the more in its silence. Neither utters shout, or speaksword. They are too intent upon killing. The only sound heard is theirhoarse breathing as they pant to recover it--each holding the other'sarm to hinder the fatal stroke. 

Clancy's heart beats apprehensively for the issue; and with riflecocked, 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 ofthe prairie pirates. For, the blade of a bowie-knife has passed betweenhis ribs, laying him lifeless along the earth. 

"You, Charley Clancy!" says Sime, in joyful surprise at seeing hisfriend 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 mehed that been needful. But whar hev ye come from? Dropt out o' theclouds? 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 thebody of Borlasse. 

"Good for you! I know'd it 'ud end that way. I say'd so to that sweetcritter, 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 safeenough. But whar's Jupe?"

"He's here--somewhere behind. "

"All right! That accounts for the hul party. Now let's back, and seewhat's chanced to the rest o' this ruffin crew. So, Jim Borlasse, goodbye!"

With this odd leave taking, he turns away, wipes the blood from hisbowie, 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 ispresented. The smoke has drifted away, disclosing the corpses of theslain--horses as well as men. All the freebooters have fallen, and nowlie astretch as they fell to stab or shot; some on their backs, otherswith face downward, or doubled sideways, but all dead, gashed, andgory--not a wounded man among them! For the colonists, recalling thatparallel spectacle in the Mission courtyard, have given loose rein tothe _lex talionis_, and exacted a terrible retribution. 

Nor have they themselves got off unscathed. The desperadoes beingrefused quarter, fought it out to the bitter end; killing several of thesettlers, and wounding many more; among the latter two known to us--Heywood and Dupre. By good fortune, neither badly, and both to recoverfrom 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 whatcame afterwards. The reader will guess, and correctly, that Duprebecame the husband of Jessie, and Helen the wife of Clancy; bothmarriages being celebrated at the same time, and both with full consentand approval of the only living parent--Colonel Armstrong. 

And on the same day, though at a different hour, a third couple was mademan and wife; Jupe getting spliced to his Jule, from whom he had been solong 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 hassprung up on the site of the ancient Mission, the centre of a districtof plantations--the largest of them belonging to Luis Dupre; while onealmost as extensive, and equally as flourishing, has Charles Clancy forowner. 

On the latter live Jupe and Jule; Jupe overseer, Jule at the head of thedomestic department; while on the former reside two other personagespresented in this tale, it is hoped with interest attached to them. They are Blue Bill, and his Phoebe; not living alone, but in the midstof a numerous progeny of piccaninnies. 

How the coon-hunter comes to be there requires explanation. A word willbe sufficient. Ephraim Darke stricken down by the disgrace brought uponhim, has gone to his grave; and at the breaking up of his slaveestablishment, Blue Bill, with all his belongings, was purchased byDupre, and transported to his present home. This not by any accident, but designedly; as a reward for his truthfulness, with the courage hedisplayed in declaring it. 

Between the two plantations, lying contiguous, Colonel Armstrong comesand goes, scarce knowing which is his proper place of residence. Inboth he has a bedroom, and a table profusely spread, with the warmest ofwelcomes. 

In the town itself is a market, plentifully supplied with provisions, especially big game--bear-meat, and venison. Not strange, consideringthat it is catered for by four of the most skilful hunters in Texas;their names, Woodley, Heywood, Hawkins, and Tucker. When off duty theseworthies may be seen sauntering through the streets, and relating theexperiences of their latest hunting expedition. 

But there is one tale, which Sime, the oldest of the quartette, has toldover and over--yet never tires telling. Need I say, it is the "DeathShot?"

THE END.