Chapter Forty Nine.

Chapter Forty Nine.Waiting the word.To all appearance Fernand’s fireworks are about to bear fruit, this likely to be bitter. As the sky, darker after the lightning’s flash, a cloud is collecting over the new settlement, which threatens to sweep down upon it in a rain storm of ruin. What but they could have caused this cloud; or, at all events, given a cue for the time of its bursting.It appears in the shape of a cohort of dusky horsemen, painted and plumed. No need to say, they are the same that were seen by Hawkins and Tucker.Having crossed the river at its lower ford, where so far the hunters saw their tracks, there losing them, the savages continued on. Not by the main road leading to the mission, but along a path which deflects from it soon after leaving the river’s bank. A narrower trace, indeed the continuation of that they had been following all along—the transverse route across the bottom-land from bluff to bluff, on both sides ascending to the steppe.But though they came down on one side, they went not up on the other. Instead, having reached the nether bluff, they turned sharp along its base, by another and still narrower trace, which they knew would take them up to the mission-building. A route tortuous, the path beset with many obstacles; hence their having spent several hours in passing from the ford to the mission-house, though the distance between is barely ten miles.No doubt they have good reason for submitting to the irksome delay caused by the difficult track, as also for the cautious manner in which they have been coming along it. Otherwise, they would certainly have chosen the direct road running nearer the river’s bank.While Colonel Armstrong, and his friends, are enjoying themselves in the refectory of the ancient mission-house, in the midst of their laughing hilarity, the painted cavaliers have been making approach, and are now halted, within less than half-a-mile from its walls. In such fashion as shows, they do not intend a long stay in their stopping place. Not a saddle is removed, or girth untightened; while the bridles, remaining on their horses’ heads, are but used as halters to attach them to the trees.The men have dismounted, but not to form camp, or make bivouac. They kindle no fires, nor seem caring to cook, or eat. They drink, however; several of them taking flasks from their saddle pouches, and holding them to their heads bottom upward. Nothing strange in this. The Texan Indian, whether Comanche, Kiowa, or Lipan, likes his fire-water as much as a white man, and as constantly carries it along with him. The only peculiarity about these is that, while quaffing, they do not talk in the Indian tongue, but English of the Texan idiom, with all its wild swearing!The place where they have halted is a bit of glade-ground, nearly circular in shape, only half-encompassed by timber, the other half being an embayment of the bluffs, twin to those on the opposite side of the river bottom. It is shaded three-quarters across by the cliff, the moon being behind this. The other quarter, on the side of the trees, is brilliantly lit up by her beams, showing the timber thick and close along its edge, to all appearance impassable as thefaçadeof rugged rock frowning from the opposite concave of the enclosed circle. Communicating with this are but two paths possible for man or horse, and for either only in single file. One enters the glade coming up the river bottom along the base of the bluff; the other debouches at the opposite end, still following the cliff’s foot. By the former the Indians have entered; but by the latter it is evident they intend going out, as their eyes are from time to time turned towards it, and their gestures directed that way. Still they make no movement for resuming their march, but stand in gathered groups, one central and larger than the rest. In its midst is a man by nearly the head taller than those around him: their chief to a certainty. His authority seems acknowledged by all who address him, if not with deference, in tone and speech telling they but wait for his commands, and are willing to obey them. He, himself, appears waiting for something, or somebody else, before he can issue them, his glance continually turning towards the point where the path leads out upwards.Impatiently, too, as ever and anon he pulls out a watch and consults it as, to the time. Odd to see a savage so engaged; above all possessed of a repeater! Still the Indians of to-day are different from those of days past, and have learnt many of the white man’s ways—even to wearing watches. The man in question seems to know all about it; and has his reasons for being particular as to the hour. He is evidently acting upon a preconcerted plan, with the time fixed and fore-arranged. And evident also that ten is the hour awaited; for, while in the act of examining his dial, the old mission clock, restored to striking, tolls just so many times; and, before the boom of its cracked bell has ceased rolling in broken reverberation through the trees, he thrusts the watch hurriedly into his fob. Then stands in expectant attitude, with eyes upon the embouchure of the upper path, scanning it more eagerly than ever. There is a strange coincidence between the strokes of the clock and the flashes of Fernanda powder—both numbering the same. Though not strange to the leader of the savage troop. He knows what it is—comprehends the significance of the signal—for signal it has been. A dread one, too, foreboding danger to innocent people. One who could behold this savage band, scrutinise the faces of those composing it, witness the fierce wicked flashes from their eyes, just as the clock is striking, would send up a prayer for the safety of Colonel Armstrong and his colonists.If further informed as to who the savages are, the prayer would sure be succeeded by the reflection—“Heaven help his daughters! If God guard not, a fearful fate will be theirs—a destiny worse than death!”

To all appearance Fernand’s fireworks are about to bear fruit, this likely to be bitter. As the sky, darker after the lightning’s flash, a cloud is collecting over the new settlement, which threatens to sweep down upon it in a rain storm of ruin. What but they could have caused this cloud; or, at all events, given a cue for the time of its bursting.

It appears in the shape of a cohort of dusky horsemen, painted and plumed. No need to say, they are the same that were seen by Hawkins and Tucker.

Having crossed the river at its lower ford, where so far the hunters saw their tracks, there losing them, the savages continued on. Not by the main road leading to the mission, but along a path which deflects from it soon after leaving the river’s bank. A narrower trace, indeed the continuation of that they had been following all along—the transverse route across the bottom-land from bluff to bluff, on both sides ascending to the steppe.

But though they came down on one side, they went not up on the other. Instead, having reached the nether bluff, they turned sharp along its base, by another and still narrower trace, which they knew would take them up to the mission-building. A route tortuous, the path beset with many obstacles; hence their having spent several hours in passing from the ford to the mission-house, though the distance between is barely ten miles.

No doubt they have good reason for submitting to the irksome delay caused by the difficult track, as also for the cautious manner in which they have been coming along it. Otherwise, they would certainly have chosen the direct road running nearer the river’s bank.

While Colonel Armstrong, and his friends, are enjoying themselves in the refectory of the ancient mission-house, in the midst of their laughing hilarity, the painted cavaliers have been making approach, and are now halted, within less than half-a-mile from its walls. In such fashion as shows, they do not intend a long stay in their stopping place. Not a saddle is removed, or girth untightened; while the bridles, remaining on their horses’ heads, are but used as halters to attach them to the trees.

The men have dismounted, but not to form camp, or make bivouac. They kindle no fires, nor seem caring to cook, or eat. They drink, however; several of them taking flasks from their saddle pouches, and holding them to their heads bottom upward. Nothing strange in this. The Texan Indian, whether Comanche, Kiowa, or Lipan, likes his fire-water as much as a white man, and as constantly carries it along with him. The only peculiarity about these is that, while quaffing, they do not talk in the Indian tongue, but English of the Texan idiom, with all its wild swearing!

The place where they have halted is a bit of glade-ground, nearly circular in shape, only half-encompassed by timber, the other half being an embayment of the bluffs, twin to those on the opposite side of the river bottom. It is shaded three-quarters across by the cliff, the moon being behind this. The other quarter, on the side of the trees, is brilliantly lit up by her beams, showing the timber thick and close along its edge, to all appearance impassable as thefaçadeof rugged rock frowning from the opposite concave of the enclosed circle. Communicating with this are but two paths possible for man or horse, and for either only in single file. One enters the glade coming up the river bottom along the base of the bluff; the other debouches at the opposite end, still following the cliff’s foot. By the former the Indians have entered; but by the latter it is evident they intend going out, as their eyes are from time to time turned towards it, and their gestures directed that way. Still they make no movement for resuming their march, but stand in gathered groups, one central and larger than the rest. In its midst is a man by nearly the head taller than those around him: their chief to a certainty. His authority seems acknowledged by all who address him, if not with deference, in tone and speech telling they but wait for his commands, and are willing to obey them. He, himself, appears waiting for something, or somebody else, before he can issue them, his glance continually turning towards the point where the path leads out upwards.

Impatiently, too, as ever and anon he pulls out a watch and consults it as, to the time. Odd to see a savage so engaged; above all possessed of a repeater! Still the Indians of to-day are different from those of days past, and have learnt many of the white man’s ways—even to wearing watches. The man in question seems to know all about it; and has his reasons for being particular as to the hour. He is evidently acting upon a preconcerted plan, with the time fixed and fore-arranged. And evident also that ten is the hour awaited; for, while in the act of examining his dial, the old mission clock, restored to striking, tolls just so many times; and, before the boom of its cracked bell has ceased rolling in broken reverberation through the trees, he thrusts the watch hurriedly into his fob. Then stands in expectant attitude, with eyes upon the embouchure of the upper path, scanning it more eagerly than ever. There is a strange coincidence between the strokes of the clock and the flashes of Fernanda powder—both numbering the same. Though not strange to the leader of the savage troop. He knows what it is—comprehends the significance of the signal—for signal it has been. A dread one, too, foreboding danger to innocent people. One who could behold this savage band, scrutinise the faces of those composing it, witness the fierce wicked flashes from their eyes, just as the clock is striking, would send up a prayer for the safety of Colonel Armstrong and his colonists.

If further informed as to who the savages are, the prayer would sure be succeeded by the reflection—“Heaven help his daughters! If God guard not, a fearful fate will be theirs—a destiny worse than death!”

Chapter Fifty.An uncanny skulker.Still within the garden are the young girls—still standing under the shadow of the two trees that furnished the contrasting symbols,—unconscious of danger near. Helen’s speech, suggesting such painful sequence, has touched her sister to the quick, soon as spoken, afflicting also herself; and for a time they remain with entwined arms and cheeks touching—their tears flowing together. But Jessie’s sobs are the louder, her grief greater than that she has been endeavouring to assuage.Helen perceiving it, rises to the occasion; and, as oft before, in turn becomes the comforter; their happiness and misery like scales vibrating on the beam.“Don’t cry so, Jess. Be a good girl, now. You’re a little simpleton, and I a big one. ’Twas very wrong of me to say what I did. Be it forgotten, and let’s hope we may yet both be happy.”“Oh, if I could but think that!”“Think it, then. Youarehappy, and I—shall try to be. Who knows what time may do—that and Texas? Now, my little Niobe, dry up your tears. Mine are all gone, and I feel in first rate spirits. I do indeed.”She is not sincere in what she says, and but counterfeits cheerfulness to restore that of her sister.She has well-nigh succeeded, when a third personage appears upon the scene, causing a sudden change in their thoughts, turning these into a new and very different channel.He whose appearance produces such effect—for it is a man—seems wholly unconscious of the influence he has exerted; indeed, is so.When first observed, he is coming down the central walk; which, though wide, is partially shadowed by trees. And in their shadow he keeps, clinging to it, as if desirous to shun observation. His step declares it; not bold this, nor regardless, but skulking, with tread catlike; while every now and then he casts a backward glance, as if in fear of some one being behind. Just that which hinders him from seeing those who are in front.The girls are still standing together, with hands joined—luckily on one of the side-walks, and like himself in shadow—though very near to having separated, and one, at least, rushing out into the light at first sound of his footstep. For to Jessie it gave joy, supposing it that of her Luis. Naturally expecting him to join her, she was almost sure of its being he.Only for an instant. The tread was too light for a man marching with honest intent, and the step too shuffling to be that of the young planter. So whispered Helen.Soon they see it is not he, but his major-domo.Both are annoyed, some little irritated, at being thus intruded upon. At such a time, in the midst of sacred emotions, all the more by a man they both instinctively dislike. For Fernand is not a favourite with either.Then the idea occurs, he may be coming to seek them, sent with some message from the house, and if so, they can excuse him. Concluding his errand to be this, they await it, in silence.They are quite mistaken, and soon perceive it. An honest messenger would not be moving as he. While passing the open ground by the ruined waterworks, the moon falls full upon his face, which wears an expression anything but innocent, as they can both see. Besides, his gestures also betray guilt; for he is skulking, and casting glances back.“What can it mean?” whispers Jessie into Helen’s ear; who replies by placing a finger on her lips, and drawing her sister into deeper shadow.Silent both stand, not stirring, scarce breathing. One seeing, might easily mistake them for statues—a Juno and a Venus. Fortunately Fernand does not see, else he might scrutinise them more closely. He is too much absorbed about his own affair, whatever it be, to think of any one loitering there at that time of the night.Where the main garden-walk meets the one going along the bottom, is another open space, smaller than that around the fountain, still sufficient to let in the light of the moon. Here also have been seats and statues; the latter lying shattered, as if hashed to the earth by the hand of some ruthless iconoclast. Just opposite, is a breach in the wall; the mud bricks, crumbled into clods forming ataluson each face of it.Arriving at this, themestizomakes stop. Only for an instant, long enough to give a last glance up the garden.Apparently satisfied, that he is not followed nor observed, he scrambles up the slope and down on the opposite side, where he is lost to the view of the sisters; who both stand wondering—the younger sensibly trembling.“What on earth is the fellow after?” asks Helen, whose speech comes first.“What, indeed?” echoes Jessie.“A question, sister, you should be better able to answer than I. He is the trusted servant of M. Dupré; and he, I take it, has told you all about him.”“Not a word has he. He knows that I don’t like the man, and never did from the first. I’ve intimated as much to him more than once.”“That ought to have got Master Fernand his discharge. Your Luis will surely not keep him, if he knows it’s disagreeable to you?”“Well, perhaps he wouldn’t if I were to put it in that way. I haven’t done so yet. I only hinted that the man wasn’t altogether to my liking; especially made so much of as Luis makes of him. You must know, dear Helen, my future lord and master is of a very trusting nature; far too much, I fear, for some of the people now around him. He has been brought up like all Creoles, without thought for the morrow. A sprinkling of Yankee cuteness wouldn’t do him any harm. As for this fellow, he has insinuated himself into Luis’s confidence in some way that appears quite mysterious. It even puzzles our father; though he’s said nothing much about it. So far he appears satisfied, because the man has proved capable, and, I believe, very useful to them in their affairs. For my part I’ve been mystified by him all along, and not less now. I wonder what he can be after. Can you not give a guess?”“Not the slightest; unless it be theft. Do you think it’s that?”“I declare I don’t know.”“Is there anything he could be carrying off from the house, with the intention of secreting it outside? Some of your Luis’s gold for instance, or the pretty jewels he has given you?”“My jewels! No; they are safe in their case; locked up in my room, of which I’ve the key with me. As for Luis’s gold, he hasn’t much of that. All the money he possesses—quite fifty thousand dollars, I believe—is in silver. I wondered at his bringing it out here in that heavy shape, for it made a whole waggon-load of itself. He’s told me the reason, however; which is, that among Indians and others out here on the frontier, gold is not thought so much of as silver.”“It can’t be silver Fernand is stealing—if theft it be. He would look more loaded, and couldn’t have gone so lightly over that wall.”“Indeed, as you say, he went skipping over it like a grasshopper.”“Rather say gliding like a snake. I never saw a man whose movements more resembled the Devil in serpent shape—except one.”The thought of this one, who is Richard Darke, causes Helen Armstrong to suspend speech; at the same time evoking a sigh to the memory of another one—Charles Clancy.“Shall we return into the house?” asks Jessie, after a pause.“For what purpose?”“To tell Luis of what we’ve seen; to warn him about Fernand.”“If we did the warning would be unheeded. I fear Monsieur Dupré will remain unconvinced of any intended treachery in his trusted servant, until something unpleasant occur; it may be something disastrous. After all, you and I, Jess, have only our suspicions, and may be wronging the fellow. Suppose we stay a little longer, and see what comes of it. No doubt, he’ll soon return from his mysterious promenade, and by remaining, we may find out what he’s been after. Shall we wait for him? You’re not afraid, are you?”“A little, I confess. Do you know, Helen, this Fernand gives me the same sort of feeling I had at meeting that big fellow in the streets of Natchitoches. At times he glares at me just in the same way. And yet the two are so different.”“Well, since no harm came of your Nachitoches bogie, it’s to be hoped there won’t any from this one. If you have any fear to stay, let us go in. Only my curiosity is greatly excited by what we’ve seen, and I’d like to know the end of it. If we don’t discover anything, it can do no harm. And if we do—say; shall we go, or try?”“I’m not afraid now. You make me brave, sister. Besides, we may find out something Luis ought to know.”“Then let us stay.”Having resolved to await the coming back of the half-blood, and watch his further movements, the sisters bethink them of seeking a safer place for observation; one where there will be less danger of being themselves seen.It is to Helen the idea occurs.“On his return,” she says, “he might stray along this way, and not go up the centre walk. Therefore we had better conceal ourselves more effectually. I wonder he didn’t see us while passing out. No doubt he would have done so, but for looking so anxiously behind, and going at such a rapid rate. Coming back he may not be so hurried; and should he sight us, then an end to our chance of finding out what he’s up to. Where’s the best place to play spy on him?”The two look in different directions, in search of an appropriate spot.There can be no difficulty in finding such. The shrubbery, long unpruned, grows luxuriantly everywhere, screening thefaçadeof the wall along its whole length.Near by is an arbour of evergreens, thickly overgrown with a trellis of trailing plants.They know of this shady retreat; have been in it before that night. Now, although the moon is shining brightly, its interior, arcaded over by dense foliage, is in dark shadow—dark as a cavern. Once inside it, eye cannot see them from without.“The very place,” whispers Helen; and they commence moving towards it.To reach the arbour it is necessary for them to return to the main walk, and pass the place where the bottom wall is broken down; a ruin evidently caused by rude intruders, doubtless the same savages who made the mission desolate. The talus extending to the path, with its fringe of further scattered clods, requires them to step carefully so as to avoid stumbling.They go hand in hand, mutually supporting one another.Their white gossamer dresses, floating lightly around them as they glide silently along, give them a resemblance to sylphs, or wood-nymphs, all the more as they emerge into the moonlight.To complete the sylvan picture, it seems necessary there should be satyrs, or wood-demons, as well.And such in reality there are, not a great way off. These, or something closely resembling them. No satyrs could show in more grotesque guise than the forms at that moment moving up to the wall, on its opposite side.Gliding on, the sisters have arrived before the gap. Some instinct, perhaps curiosity, tempts them to take a look through it, into the shadowy forest beyond; and for some time, as under a spell of fascination, they stand gazing into its dark, mysterious depths.They see nought save the sparkle of fire-flies; and hear nothing but the usual noises of the Southern night, to which they have been from infancy accustomed.But as they are about moving on again, a sound salutes their ear—distinguishable as a footstep. Irregular and scrambling, as of one stepping among the broken bricks. Simultaneously a man is seen making his way over the wall.“Fernand!”No use for them now to attempt concealment; no good can come of it. He has seen them.Nor does he any longer seem desirous of shunning observation. On the contrary, leaping down from the rampart, he comes straight towards them; in an instant presenting himself face to face, not with the nimble air of a servant, but the demeanour of one who feels himself master, and intend to play tyrant. With the moon shining full upon his tawny face, they can distinguish the play of its features. No look of humility, nor sign of subservience there. Instead, a bold, bullying expression, eyes emitting a lurid light, lips set in a satanic smile, between them teeth gleaming like a tiger’s! He does not speak a word. Indeed, he has not time; for Helen Armstrong anticipates him. The proud girl, indignant at what she sees, too fearless to be frightened, at once commences chiding him.In words bold and brave, so much that, if alone, the scoundrel might quail under their castigation. But he is not alone, nor does he allow her to continue.Instead, he cries out, interrupting, his speech not addressed to her, but some one behind:—“Bring hither the serapes! Quick, or—”He himself is not permitted to finish what he intended saying; or, if so, his last words are unheard; drowned by a confused noise of rushing and rumbling, while the gap in the garden wall is suddenly closed, as if by enchantment. It is at first filled by a dark mass, seemingly compact, but soon separating into distinct forms.The sisters, startled, terrified, have but time to give out one wild cry—a shriek. Before either can utter a second, brawny arms embrace them; blinds are thrown over their faces; and, half stifled, they feel themselves lifted from their feet, and borne rudely and rapidly away!

Still within the garden are the young girls—still standing under the shadow of the two trees that furnished the contrasting symbols,—unconscious of danger near. Helen’s speech, suggesting such painful sequence, has touched her sister to the quick, soon as spoken, afflicting also herself; and for a time they remain with entwined arms and cheeks touching—their tears flowing together. But Jessie’s sobs are the louder, her grief greater than that she has been endeavouring to assuage.

Helen perceiving it, rises to the occasion; and, as oft before, in turn becomes the comforter; their happiness and misery like scales vibrating on the beam.

“Don’t cry so, Jess. Be a good girl, now. You’re a little simpleton, and I a big one. ’Twas very wrong of me to say what I did. Be it forgotten, and let’s hope we may yet both be happy.”

“Oh, if I could but think that!”

“Think it, then. Youarehappy, and I—shall try to be. Who knows what time may do—that and Texas? Now, my little Niobe, dry up your tears. Mine are all gone, and I feel in first rate spirits. I do indeed.”

She is not sincere in what she says, and but counterfeits cheerfulness to restore that of her sister.

She has well-nigh succeeded, when a third personage appears upon the scene, causing a sudden change in their thoughts, turning these into a new and very different channel.

He whose appearance produces such effect—for it is a man—seems wholly unconscious of the influence he has exerted; indeed, is so.

When first observed, he is coming down the central walk; which, though wide, is partially shadowed by trees. And in their shadow he keeps, clinging to it, as if desirous to shun observation. His step declares it; not bold this, nor regardless, but skulking, with tread catlike; while every now and then he casts a backward glance, as if in fear of some one being behind. Just that which hinders him from seeing those who are in front.

The girls are still standing together, with hands joined—luckily on one of the side-walks, and like himself in shadow—though very near to having separated, and one, at least, rushing out into the light at first sound of his footstep. For to Jessie it gave joy, supposing it that of her Luis. Naturally expecting him to join her, she was almost sure of its being he.

Only for an instant. The tread was too light for a man marching with honest intent, and the step too shuffling to be that of the young planter. So whispered Helen.

Soon they see it is not he, but his major-domo.

Both are annoyed, some little irritated, at being thus intruded upon. At such a time, in the midst of sacred emotions, all the more by a man they both instinctively dislike. For Fernand is not a favourite with either.

Then the idea occurs, he may be coming to seek them, sent with some message from the house, and if so, they can excuse him. Concluding his errand to be this, they await it, in silence.

They are quite mistaken, and soon perceive it. An honest messenger would not be moving as he. While passing the open ground by the ruined waterworks, the moon falls full upon his face, which wears an expression anything but innocent, as they can both see. Besides, his gestures also betray guilt; for he is skulking, and casting glances back.

“What can it mean?” whispers Jessie into Helen’s ear; who replies by placing a finger on her lips, and drawing her sister into deeper shadow.

Silent both stand, not stirring, scarce breathing. One seeing, might easily mistake them for statues—a Juno and a Venus. Fortunately Fernand does not see, else he might scrutinise them more closely. He is too much absorbed about his own affair, whatever it be, to think of any one loitering there at that time of the night.

Where the main garden-walk meets the one going along the bottom, is another open space, smaller than that around the fountain, still sufficient to let in the light of the moon. Here also have been seats and statues; the latter lying shattered, as if hashed to the earth by the hand of some ruthless iconoclast. Just opposite, is a breach in the wall; the mud bricks, crumbled into clods forming ataluson each face of it.

Arriving at this, themestizomakes stop. Only for an instant, long enough to give a last glance up the garden.

Apparently satisfied, that he is not followed nor observed, he scrambles up the slope and down on the opposite side, where he is lost to the view of the sisters; who both stand wondering—the younger sensibly trembling.

“What on earth is the fellow after?” asks Helen, whose speech comes first.

“What, indeed?” echoes Jessie.

“A question, sister, you should be better able to answer than I. He is the trusted servant of M. Dupré; and he, I take it, has told you all about him.”

“Not a word has he. He knows that I don’t like the man, and never did from the first. I’ve intimated as much to him more than once.”

“That ought to have got Master Fernand his discharge. Your Luis will surely not keep him, if he knows it’s disagreeable to you?”

“Well, perhaps he wouldn’t if I were to put it in that way. I haven’t done so yet. I only hinted that the man wasn’t altogether to my liking; especially made so much of as Luis makes of him. You must know, dear Helen, my future lord and master is of a very trusting nature; far too much, I fear, for some of the people now around him. He has been brought up like all Creoles, without thought for the morrow. A sprinkling of Yankee cuteness wouldn’t do him any harm. As for this fellow, he has insinuated himself into Luis’s confidence in some way that appears quite mysterious. It even puzzles our father; though he’s said nothing much about it. So far he appears satisfied, because the man has proved capable, and, I believe, very useful to them in their affairs. For my part I’ve been mystified by him all along, and not less now. I wonder what he can be after. Can you not give a guess?”

“Not the slightest; unless it be theft. Do you think it’s that?”

“I declare I don’t know.”

“Is there anything he could be carrying off from the house, with the intention of secreting it outside? Some of your Luis’s gold for instance, or the pretty jewels he has given you?”

“My jewels! No; they are safe in their case; locked up in my room, of which I’ve the key with me. As for Luis’s gold, he hasn’t much of that. All the money he possesses—quite fifty thousand dollars, I believe—is in silver. I wondered at his bringing it out here in that heavy shape, for it made a whole waggon-load of itself. He’s told me the reason, however; which is, that among Indians and others out here on the frontier, gold is not thought so much of as silver.”

“It can’t be silver Fernand is stealing—if theft it be. He would look more loaded, and couldn’t have gone so lightly over that wall.”

“Indeed, as you say, he went skipping over it like a grasshopper.”

“Rather say gliding like a snake. I never saw a man whose movements more resembled the Devil in serpent shape—except one.”

The thought of this one, who is Richard Darke, causes Helen Armstrong to suspend speech; at the same time evoking a sigh to the memory of another one—Charles Clancy.

“Shall we return into the house?” asks Jessie, after a pause.

“For what purpose?”

“To tell Luis of what we’ve seen; to warn him about Fernand.”

“If we did the warning would be unheeded. I fear Monsieur Dupré will remain unconvinced of any intended treachery in his trusted servant, until something unpleasant occur; it may be something disastrous. After all, you and I, Jess, have only our suspicions, and may be wronging the fellow. Suppose we stay a little longer, and see what comes of it. No doubt, he’ll soon return from his mysterious promenade, and by remaining, we may find out what he’s been after. Shall we wait for him? You’re not afraid, are you?”

“A little, I confess. Do you know, Helen, this Fernand gives me the same sort of feeling I had at meeting that big fellow in the streets of Natchitoches. At times he glares at me just in the same way. And yet the two are so different.”

“Well, since no harm came of your Nachitoches bogie, it’s to be hoped there won’t any from this one. If you have any fear to stay, let us go in. Only my curiosity is greatly excited by what we’ve seen, and I’d like to know the end of it. If we don’t discover anything, it can do no harm. And if we do—say; shall we go, or try?”

“I’m not afraid now. You make me brave, sister. Besides, we may find out something Luis ought to know.”

“Then let us stay.”

Having resolved to await the coming back of the half-blood, and watch his further movements, the sisters bethink them of seeking a safer place for observation; one where there will be less danger of being themselves seen.

It is to Helen the idea occurs.

“On his return,” she says, “he might stray along this way, and not go up the centre walk. Therefore we had better conceal ourselves more effectually. I wonder he didn’t see us while passing out. No doubt he would have done so, but for looking so anxiously behind, and going at such a rapid rate. Coming back he may not be so hurried; and should he sight us, then an end to our chance of finding out what he’s up to. Where’s the best place to play spy on him?”

The two look in different directions, in search of an appropriate spot.

There can be no difficulty in finding such. The shrubbery, long unpruned, grows luxuriantly everywhere, screening thefaçadeof the wall along its whole length.

Near by is an arbour of evergreens, thickly overgrown with a trellis of trailing plants.

They know of this shady retreat; have been in it before that night. Now, although the moon is shining brightly, its interior, arcaded over by dense foliage, is in dark shadow—dark as a cavern. Once inside it, eye cannot see them from without.

“The very place,” whispers Helen; and they commence moving towards it.

To reach the arbour it is necessary for them to return to the main walk, and pass the place where the bottom wall is broken down; a ruin evidently caused by rude intruders, doubtless the same savages who made the mission desolate. The talus extending to the path, with its fringe of further scattered clods, requires them to step carefully so as to avoid stumbling.

They go hand in hand, mutually supporting one another.

Their white gossamer dresses, floating lightly around them as they glide silently along, give them a resemblance to sylphs, or wood-nymphs, all the more as they emerge into the moonlight.

To complete the sylvan picture, it seems necessary there should be satyrs, or wood-demons, as well.

And such in reality there are, not a great way off. These, or something closely resembling them. No satyrs could show in more grotesque guise than the forms at that moment moving up to the wall, on its opposite side.

Gliding on, the sisters have arrived before the gap. Some instinct, perhaps curiosity, tempts them to take a look through it, into the shadowy forest beyond; and for some time, as under a spell of fascination, they stand gazing into its dark, mysterious depths.

They see nought save the sparkle of fire-flies; and hear nothing but the usual noises of the Southern night, to which they have been from infancy accustomed.

But as they are about moving on again, a sound salutes their ear—distinguishable as a footstep. Irregular and scrambling, as of one stepping among the broken bricks. Simultaneously a man is seen making his way over the wall.

“Fernand!”

No use for them now to attempt concealment; no good can come of it. He has seen them.

Nor does he any longer seem desirous of shunning observation. On the contrary, leaping down from the rampart, he comes straight towards them; in an instant presenting himself face to face, not with the nimble air of a servant, but the demeanour of one who feels himself master, and intend to play tyrant. With the moon shining full upon his tawny face, they can distinguish the play of its features. No look of humility, nor sign of subservience there. Instead, a bold, bullying expression, eyes emitting a lurid light, lips set in a satanic smile, between them teeth gleaming like a tiger’s! He does not speak a word. Indeed, he has not time; for Helen Armstrong anticipates him. The proud girl, indignant at what she sees, too fearless to be frightened, at once commences chiding him.

In words bold and brave, so much that, if alone, the scoundrel might quail under their castigation. But he is not alone, nor does he allow her to continue.

Instead, he cries out, interrupting, his speech not addressed to her, but some one behind:—

“Bring hither the serapes! Quick, or—”

He himself is not permitted to finish what he intended saying; or, if so, his last words are unheard; drowned by a confused noise of rushing and rumbling, while the gap in the garden wall is suddenly closed, as if by enchantment. It is at first filled by a dark mass, seemingly compact, but soon separating into distinct forms.

The sisters, startled, terrified, have but time to give out one wild cry—a shriek. Before either can utter a second, brawny arms embrace them; blinds are thrown over their faces; and, half stifled, they feel themselves lifted from their feet, and borne rudely and rapidly away!

Chapter Fifty One.Locked in.At that same moment, when the red Sabines are carrying off his daughters, Colonel Armstrong is engaged, with his fellow-colonists, in discussing a question of great interest to all. The topic is sugar—the point, whether it will be profitable to cultivate it in their new colony. That the cane can be grown there all know. Both soil and climate are suitable. The only question is, will the produce pay, sugar being a bulky article in proportion to its price, and costly in transport through a territory without railroads, or steam communication.While the discussion is at its height a new guest enters the room; who, soon as inside, makes a speech, which not only terminates the talk about sugar, but drives all thought of it out of their minds.A speech of only four words, but these of startling significance: “There are Indians about!” ’Tis Hawkins who speaks, having entered without invitation, confident the nature of his news will hold him clear of being deemed an intruder.And it does. At the word “Indians,” all around the table spring up from their seats, and stand breathlessly expectant of what the hunter has further to communicate. For, by his serious air, they are certain there must be something more.Colonel Armstrong alone asks, the old soldier showing the presence of mind that befits an occasion of surprise.“Indians about? Why do you say that, Hawkins? What reason have you to think so?”“The best o’ reasons, colonel. I’ve seed them myself, and so’s Cris Tucker along with me.”“Where?”“Well, there’s a longish story to tell. If you’ll have patience, I’ll make it short as possible.”“Go on!—tell it!”The hunter responds to the demand; and without wasting words in detail, gives an epitome of his day’s doings, in company with Cris Tucker. After describing the savage troop, as first seen on the upper plain, how he and his comrade followed them across the river bottom, then over the ford, and there lost their trail, he concludes his account, saying:“Where they went afterward, or air now, ’taint possible for me to tell. All I can say is, what I’ve sayed already:there are Indians about.”Of itself enough to cause anxiety in the minds of the assembled planters; which it does, to a man making them keenly apprehensive of danger.All the more from its being their first alarm of the kind. For, while travelling through Eastern Texas, where the settlements are thick, and of old standing, the savages had not evens been thought of. There was no chance of seeing any there. Only, on drawing nigh to the Colorado, were Indians likely to be encountered; though it did not necessarily follow that the encounter should be hostile. On the contrary, it ought to be friendly; since a treaty of peace had for some time been existing between the Comanches and Texans.For all this, Colonel Armstrong, well acquainted with the character of the red men, in war as in peace, had not relied altogether on their pacific promises. He knew that such contracts only bind the savage so long as convenient to him, to be broken whenever they become irksome. Moreover, a rumour had reached the emigrants that, although the great Comanche nation was itself keeping the treaty, there were several smaller independent tribes accustomed to make “maraud” upon the frontier settlements, chiefly to steal horses, or whatever chanced in their way.For this reason, after entering the territory where such pillagers might be expected, the old soldier had conducted his expedition as if passing through an enemy’s country. The waggons had been regularlycorralled, and night guards kept—both camp sentinels and outlying pickets.These rules had been observed up to the hour of arrival at their destination. Then, as the people got settled down in their respective domiciles, and nothing was heard of any Indians in that district, the discipline had been relaxed—in fact, abandoned. The colonists, numbering over fifty white men—to say nothing of several hundred negro slaves—deemed themselves strong enough to repel any ordinary assault from savages. They now considered themselves at home; and, with the confidence thus inspired, had ceased to speculate, on being molested by Indian enemies, or any others.For this reason the suspicious movements of Dupré’s half-breed servant, as reported by the young surgeon, had failed to make more than a passing impression on those around the dining-table; many of them treating it as an eccentricity.Now, after hearing Hawkins, they think differently. It presents a serious aspect, is, in truth, alarmingly suggestive of treason.The half-blood inside the house may be in correspondence with full-blooded Indians outside, for some scheme of thieving or burglary.The thought of either is sufficient to excite Colonel Armstrong’s guests, and all are on foot ready to take action.“Dupré, call in your half-breed!” says the Colonel, directing it. “Let us hear what the fellow has to say for himself.”“Tell Fernand to come hither,” commands the Creole, addressing himself to one of the negro lads waiting at table. “Tell him to come instantly!”The boy hastens off to execute the order; and is several minutes before making re-appearance.During the interval, they continue to discuss the circumstances that have so suddenly turned up; questioning Hawkins, and receiving from him minuter details of what he and his comrade have seen.The additional matter made known but excites them the more, further intensifying their apprehensions.They’re at their keenest, as the darkey re-enters the room with the announcement that Fernand is not to be found!“What do you mean, boy?” thunders Dupré, in a voice that well-nigh takes away the young negro’s wits. “Is he not in the house?”“Dat’s jess what he aint, Mass Looey. De Spanish Indyin’s no whar inside dis buildin’. We hab sarch all oba de place; call out his name in de store-rooms, an’ de coatyard, an’ de cattle closure—ebbery wha we tink of. We shout loud nuf for him to hyeer, ef he war anywha ’bout. He haint gib no answer. Sartin shoo he no inside o’ dis ’tablishment.”The young planter shows dismay. So also the others, in greater or less degree, according to the light in which each views the matter.For now on the minds of all is an impression, a presentiment, that there is danger at the bottom of Fernand’s doings—how near they know not.At any other time his absence would be a circumstance not worth noting. He might be supposed on a visit to some of the huts appropriated to the humbler families of the colonist fraternity. Or engaged outside with a mulatto “wench,” of whom there are several, belonging to Dupré’s extensive slave-gang, far from ill-favoured.Fernand is rather a handsome fellow, and given to gaiety; which, under ordinary circumstances, would account for his absenting himself from the house, and neglecting his duties as its head-servant. But after what the young surgeon has seen—above all the report just brought in by Hawkins—his conduct will not convey this trivial interpretation. All in the room regard it in a more serious light—think themestizois a traitor.Having come to this general conclusion, they turn towards the table, to take a last drink, before initiating action.Just as they get their glasses in hand, the refectory door is once more opened; this time with a hurried violence that causes them to start, as though a bombshell had rolled into the room.Facing towards it, they see it is only the negro boy, who had gone out again, re-entering. But now with fear depicted on his face, and wild terror gleaming from his eyes; the latter awry in their sockets, with little beside the whites seen!Their own alarm is not much less than his, on hearing what he has to say. His words are,—“Oh, Mass Kurnel! Mass Looey! Gemmen all! De place am full ob Indyin sabbages! Dar outside in de coatyard, more’n a thousan’ ob um; an’ murderin’ ebbery body!”At the dread tidings, glasses drop from the hands holding them, flung down in fear, or fury. Then all, as one man, make for the door, still standing open as in his scare the negro lad left it.Before they can reach it, his words are too fully confirmed. Outside they see painted faces, heads covered with black hanging hair, and plumes bristling above. Only a glimpse they get of these, indistinct through the obscurity. But if transitory, not the less terrible—not less like a tableau in some horrid dream—a glance into hell itself.The sight brings them to a stand; though, but for an instant. Then, they rush on towards the doorway, regardless of what may await them outside.Outside they are not permitted to pass. Before they can reach the door, it is shut to with a loud clash; while another but slighter sound tells of a key turning in the wards, shooting a bolt into its keeper.“Locked in, by God!” exclaims Hawkins, the rest involuntarily echoing his wild words; which are succeeded by a cry of rage as from one throat, though all have voice in it. Then silence, as if they were suddenly struck dumb.For several moments they remain paralysed, gazing in one another’s faces in mute despairing astonishment. No one thinks of asking explanation, or giving it. As by instinct, all realise the situation—a surprise, an Indian attack. No longer the future danger they have been deeming probable, but its dread present reality!Short while do they stand irresolute. Hawkins, a man of herculean strength, dashes himself against the door, in hopes of heaving it from its hinges. Others add their efforts.All idle. The door is of stout timber—oaken—massive as that of a jail; and, opening inward, can only be forced along with its posts and lintels.—These are set in the thick wall, embedded, firm as the masonry itself.They rush to the windows, in hope of getting egress there.Equally to be disappointed, baffled. The strong, iron bar resist every effort to break or dislodge them. Though weakened with decaying rust, they are yet strong enough to sustain the shock of shoulders, and the tug of arms.“Trapped, by the Eternal!” despairingly exclaims the hunter. “Yes, gentlemen, we’re caged to a certainty.”They need not telling. All are now aware of it—too well. They see themselves shut in—helplessly, hopelessly imprisoned.Impossible to describe their thoughts, or depict their looks, in that anguished hour. No pen, or pencil, could do justice to either. Outside are their dear ones; near, but far away from any hope of help, as if twenty miles lay between. And what is being done to them? No one asks—none likes to tempt the answer; all guessing what it would be, dreading to hear it spoken. Never did men suffer emotions more painfully intense, passions more heartfelt and harrowing; not even the prisoners of Cawnpore, or the Black Hole of Calcutta.They are in darkness now—have been from the moment of the door being closed. For, expecting to be fired at from the outside, they had suddenly extinguished the lights. They wonder there has been no shooting, aware that the Comanches carry fire-arms. But as yet there has been no report, either of pistol, or gun!They hear only voices—which they can distinguish as those of the house-Servants—male and female—all negroes or mulattoes. There are shrieks, intermingled with speeches, the last in accent of piteous appealing; there is moaning and groaning. But where are the shouts of the assailants? Where the Indian yell—the dread slogan of the savage? Not a stave of it is heard—nought that resembles a warwhoop of Comanches!And soon is nothing heard. For the shrieks of the domestics have ceased, their cries coming suddenly, abruptly to an end, as if stifled by blows bringing death.Inside the room is a death-like stillness; outside the same.

At that same moment, when the red Sabines are carrying off his daughters, Colonel Armstrong is engaged, with his fellow-colonists, in discussing a question of great interest to all. The topic is sugar—the point, whether it will be profitable to cultivate it in their new colony. That the cane can be grown there all know. Both soil and climate are suitable. The only question is, will the produce pay, sugar being a bulky article in proportion to its price, and costly in transport through a territory without railroads, or steam communication.

While the discussion is at its height a new guest enters the room; who, soon as inside, makes a speech, which not only terminates the talk about sugar, but drives all thought of it out of their minds.

A speech of only four words, but these of startling significance: “There are Indians about!” ’Tis Hawkins who speaks, having entered without invitation, confident the nature of his news will hold him clear of being deemed an intruder.

And it does. At the word “Indians,” all around the table spring up from their seats, and stand breathlessly expectant of what the hunter has further to communicate. For, by his serious air, they are certain there must be something more.

Colonel Armstrong alone asks, the old soldier showing the presence of mind that befits an occasion of surprise.

“Indians about? Why do you say that, Hawkins? What reason have you to think so?”

“The best o’ reasons, colonel. I’ve seed them myself, and so’s Cris Tucker along with me.”

“Where?”

“Well, there’s a longish story to tell. If you’ll have patience, I’ll make it short as possible.”

“Go on!—tell it!”

The hunter responds to the demand; and without wasting words in detail, gives an epitome of his day’s doings, in company with Cris Tucker. After describing the savage troop, as first seen on the upper plain, how he and his comrade followed them across the river bottom, then over the ford, and there lost their trail, he concludes his account, saying:

“Where they went afterward, or air now, ’taint possible for me to tell. All I can say is, what I’ve sayed already:there are Indians about.”

Of itself enough to cause anxiety in the minds of the assembled planters; which it does, to a man making them keenly apprehensive of danger.

All the more from its being their first alarm of the kind. For, while travelling through Eastern Texas, where the settlements are thick, and of old standing, the savages had not evens been thought of. There was no chance of seeing any there. Only, on drawing nigh to the Colorado, were Indians likely to be encountered; though it did not necessarily follow that the encounter should be hostile. On the contrary, it ought to be friendly; since a treaty of peace had for some time been existing between the Comanches and Texans.

For all this, Colonel Armstrong, well acquainted with the character of the red men, in war as in peace, had not relied altogether on their pacific promises. He knew that such contracts only bind the savage so long as convenient to him, to be broken whenever they become irksome. Moreover, a rumour had reached the emigrants that, although the great Comanche nation was itself keeping the treaty, there were several smaller independent tribes accustomed to make “maraud” upon the frontier settlements, chiefly to steal horses, or whatever chanced in their way.

For this reason, after entering the territory where such pillagers might be expected, the old soldier had conducted his expedition as if passing through an enemy’s country. The waggons had been regularlycorralled, and night guards kept—both camp sentinels and outlying pickets.

These rules had been observed up to the hour of arrival at their destination. Then, as the people got settled down in their respective domiciles, and nothing was heard of any Indians in that district, the discipline had been relaxed—in fact, abandoned. The colonists, numbering over fifty white men—to say nothing of several hundred negro slaves—deemed themselves strong enough to repel any ordinary assault from savages. They now considered themselves at home; and, with the confidence thus inspired, had ceased to speculate, on being molested by Indian enemies, or any others.

For this reason the suspicious movements of Dupré’s half-breed servant, as reported by the young surgeon, had failed to make more than a passing impression on those around the dining-table; many of them treating it as an eccentricity.

Now, after hearing Hawkins, they think differently. It presents a serious aspect, is, in truth, alarmingly suggestive of treason.

The half-blood inside the house may be in correspondence with full-blooded Indians outside, for some scheme of thieving or burglary.

The thought of either is sufficient to excite Colonel Armstrong’s guests, and all are on foot ready to take action.

“Dupré, call in your half-breed!” says the Colonel, directing it. “Let us hear what the fellow has to say for himself.”

“Tell Fernand to come hither,” commands the Creole, addressing himself to one of the negro lads waiting at table. “Tell him to come instantly!”

The boy hastens off to execute the order; and is several minutes before making re-appearance.

During the interval, they continue to discuss the circumstances that have so suddenly turned up; questioning Hawkins, and receiving from him minuter details of what he and his comrade have seen.

The additional matter made known but excites them the more, further intensifying their apprehensions.

They’re at their keenest, as the darkey re-enters the room with the announcement that Fernand is not to be found!

“What do you mean, boy?” thunders Dupré, in a voice that well-nigh takes away the young negro’s wits. “Is he not in the house?”

“Dat’s jess what he aint, Mass Looey. De Spanish Indyin’s no whar inside dis buildin’. We hab sarch all oba de place; call out his name in de store-rooms, an’ de coatyard, an’ de cattle closure—ebbery wha we tink of. We shout loud nuf for him to hyeer, ef he war anywha ’bout. He haint gib no answer. Sartin shoo he no inside o’ dis ’tablishment.”

The young planter shows dismay. So also the others, in greater or less degree, according to the light in which each views the matter.

For now on the minds of all is an impression, a presentiment, that there is danger at the bottom of Fernand’s doings—how near they know not.

At any other time his absence would be a circumstance not worth noting. He might be supposed on a visit to some of the huts appropriated to the humbler families of the colonist fraternity. Or engaged outside with a mulatto “wench,” of whom there are several, belonging to Dupré’s extensive slave-gang, far from ill-favoured.

Fernand is rather a handsome fellow, and given to gaiety; which, under ordinary circumstances, would account for his absenting himself from the house, and neglecting his duties as its head-servant. But after what the young surgeon has seen—above all the report just brought in by Hawkins—his conduct will not convey this trivial interpretation. All in the room regard it in a more serious light—think themestizois a traitor.

Having come to this general conclusion, they turn towards the table, to take a last drink, before initiating action.

Just as they get their glasses in hand, the refectory door is once more opened; this time with a hurried violence that causes them to start, as though a bombshell had rolled into the room.

Facing towards it, they see it is only the negro boy, who had gone out again, re-entering. But now with fear depicted on his face, and wild terror gleaming from his eyes; the latter awry in their sockets, with little beside the whites seen!

Their own alarm is not much less than his, on hearing what he has to say. His words are,—

“Oh, Mass Kurnel! Mass Looey! Gemmen all! De place am full ob Indyin sabbages! Dar outside in de coatyard, more’n a thousan’ ob um; an’ murderin’ ebbery body!”

At the dread tidings, glasses drop from the hands holding them, flung down in fear, or fury. Then all, as one man, make for the door, still standing open as in his scare the negro lad left it.

Before they can reach it, his words are too fully confirmed. Outside they see painted faces, heads covered with black hanging hair, and plumes bristling above. Only a glimpse they get of these, indistinct through the obscurity. But if transitory, not the less terrible—not less like a tableau in some horrid dream—a glance into hell itself.

The sight brings them to a stand; though, but for an instant. Then, they rush on towards the doorway, regardless of what may await them outside.

Outside they are not permitted to pass. Before they can reach the door, it is shut to with a loud clash; while another but slighter sound tells of a key turning in the wards, shooting a bolt into its keeper.

“Locked in, by God!” exclaims Hawkins, the rest involuntarily echoing his wild words; which are succeeded by a cry of rage as from one throat, though all have voice in it. Then silence, as if they were suddenly struck dumb.

For several moments they remain paralysed, gazing in one another’s faces in mute despairing astonishment. No one thinks of asking explanation, or giving it. As by instinct, all realise the situation—a surprise, an Indian attack. No longer the future danger they have been deeming probable, but its dread present reality!

Short while do they stand irresolute. Hawkins, a man of herculean strength, dashes himself against the door, in hopes of heaving it from its hinges. Others add their efforts.

All idle. The door is of stout timber—oaken—massive as that of a jail; and, opening inward, can only be forced along with its posts and lintels.—These are set in the thick wall, embedded, firm as the masonry itself.

They rush to the windows, in hope of getting egress there.

Equally to be disappointed, baffled. The strong, iron bar resist every effort to break or dislodge them. Though weakened with decaying rust, they are yet strong enough to sustain the shock of shoulders, and the tug of arms.

“Trapped, by the Eternal!” despairingly exclaims the hunter. “Yes, gentlemen, we’re caged to a certainty.”

They need not telling. All are now aware of it—too well. They see themselves shut in—helplessly, hopelessly imprisoned.

Impossible to describe their thoughts, or depict their looks, in that anguished hour. No pen, or pencil, could do justice to either. Outside are their dear ones; near, but far away from any hope of help, as if twenty miles lay between. And what is being done to them? No one asks—none likes to tempt the answer; all guessing what it would be, dreading to hear it spoken. Never did men suffer emotions more painfully intense, passions more heartfelt and harrowing; not even the prisoners of Cawnpore, or the Black Hole of Calcutta.

They are in darkness now—have been from the moment of the door being closed. For, expecting to be fired at from the outside, they had suddenly extinguished the lights. They wonder there has been no shooting, aware that the Comanches carry fire-arms. But as yet there has been no report, either of pistol, or gun!

They hear only voices—which they can distinguish as those of the house-Servants—male and female—all negroes or mulattoes. There are shrieks, intermingled with speeches, the last in accent of piteous appealing; there is moaning and groaning. But where are the shouts of the assailants? Where the Indian yell—the dread slogan of the savage? Not a stave of it is heard—nought that resembles a warwhoop of Comanches!

And soon is nothing heard. For the shrieks of the domestics have ceased, their cries coming suddenly, abruptly to an end, as if stifled by blows bringing death.

Inside the room is a death-like stillness; outside the same.

Chapter Fifty Two.Massacre without mercy.Pass to the scene outside, than which none more tragical in the history of Texan colonisation.Noneed to tell who the Indians are that have shown their faces at the dining-room door, shutting and locking it. They are those seen by Hawkins and Tucker—the same Dupré’s traitorous servant has conducted through the gap in the garden wall; whence, after making seizure of the girls, they continued on to the house, the half-blood at their head.Under his guidance they passed through the cattle corral, and into the inner court. Till entering this they were not observed. Then the negro lad, sent in search of Fernand, seeing them, rushed back for the refectory.With all his haste, as already known, too late in giving the alarm. Half-a-dozen of the foremost, following, were at the dining-room door almost soon as he, while others proceeding to the front entrance, closed the great gate, to prevent any one escaping that way.In the courtyard ensues a scene, horrible to behold. The domestics frightened, screaming, rushing to and fro, are struck down with tomahawks, impaled upon spears, or hacked and stabbed with long-bladed knives. At least a half-score of these unhappy creatures fall in the fearful slaughter. Indiscriminate as to age or sex: for men, women, and children are among its victims.Their shrieks, and piteous appeals, are alike disregarded. One after another they are struck, or hewn down, like saplings by themacheté. A scene of red carnage, resembling asaturnaliaof demons, doing murder!Short as terrible; in less than ten minutes after its commencement it is all over. The victims have succumbed, their bleeding bodies lie along the pavement. Only those domestics have escaped, who preserved enough presence of mind to get inside rooms, and barricade the doors behind them.They are not followed; for despite the red murder already done, the action ensuing, tells of only robbery intended.This evident from the way the savages now go to work. Instead of attempting to reach those they have imprisoned within the dining-room, they place two of their number to stand guard by its door; another pair going on to the gate entrance. These steps taken, the rest, with Fernand still conducting, hurry along the corridor, towards a room which opens at one of its angles. It is the chamber Dupré has chosen for his sleeping apartment, and where he has deposited his treasure. Inside it his cash, at least fifty thousand dollars, most of it in silver, packed in stout boxes.Fernand carries the key, which he inserts into its lock. The door flies open, and the half-blood enters, closely followed by those who appear all Indians. They go in with the eagerness of tigers springing upon prey, or more like the stealthiness of cats.Soon they come out again, each bearing a box, of diminutive size, but weight sufficient to test his strength.Laying these down, they re-enter the room, and return from it similarly loaded.And so they go and come, carrying out the little boxes, until nearly a score are deposited upon the pavement of the courtyard.The abstraction of the specie completed, the sentries set by the dining-room door, as also those sent to guard the entrance-gate, are called off; and the band becomes reunited by the treasure, as vultures around a carcass.Some words are exchanged in undertone. Then each, laying hold of a box—there is one each for nearly all of them—and poising it upon his shoulders, strides off out of the courtyard.Silently, and in single file, they pass across the cattle corral, on into the garden, down the central walk, and out through the gap by which they came in.Then on to the glade where they have left their horses.These they remount, after balancing the boxes upon their saddle-bows, and there securing them with trail-ropes.Soon as in the saddle they move silently, but quickly away; the half-blood going along with them.He, too, has a horse, the best in the troop—taken from the stable of the master he has so basely betrayed, so pitilessly plundered.And that master at the moment nearly mad! Raging frantically around the room where they are left confined, nearly all the others frantic as he. For scarce any of them who has not like reason.In the darkness groping, confusedly straying over the floor, stunned and stupified, they reel like drunken men; as they come in contact tremblingly interrogating one another as to what can have occurred.By the silence outside it would seem as if everybody were murdered, massacred—coloured servants within the house, colonists without—all!And what of Colonel Armstrong’s own daughters? To their father it is a period of dread suspense—an agony indescribable. Much longer continued it would drive him mad. Perhaps he is saved from insanity by anger—by thoughts of vengeance, and the hope of living to accomplish it.While mutually interrogating, one starts the suggestion that the whole affair may be atravestie—a freak of the younger, and more frolicksome members of the colonist fraternity. Notwithstanding its improbability, the idea takes, and is entertained, as drowning men catch at straws.Only for an instant. The thing is too serious, affecting personages of too much importance, to be so trifled with. There are none in the settlement who would dare attempt such practical joking with its chief—the stern old soldier, Armstrong. Besides, the sounds heard outside were not those of mirth, mocking its opposite. The shouts and shrieks had the true ring of terror, and the accents of despair.No. It could not be anything of a merrymaking, but what they at first supposed it—a tragedy.Their rage returns, and they think only of revenge. As before, but to feel their impotence. The door, again tried, with all their united strength, refuses to stir from its hinges. As easily might they move the walls. The window railings alike resist their efforts; and they at length leave off, despairingly scattering through the room.One alone remains, clinging to the window bars. It is Hawkins. He stays not with any hope of being able to wrench them off. He has already tested the strength of his arms, and found it insufficient. It is that of his lungs he now is determined to exert, and does so, shouting at the highest pitch of his voice.Not that he thinks there is any chance of its being heard at therancheria, nearly a half-mile off, with a grove of thick timber intervening. Besides, at that late hour the settlers will be asleep.But in the grove between, and nearer, he knows there is a tent; and inside it a man who will be awake, if not dead—his comrade, Cris Tucker.In the hope Cris may still be in the land of the living, Hawkins leans against the window bars and, projecting his face outward, as far as the jawbones will allow, he gives utterance to a series of shouts, interlarded with exclamations, that in the ears of a sober Puritan would have sounded terribly profane.

Pass to the scene outside, than which none more tragical in the history of Texan colonisation.

Noneed to tell who the Indians are that have shown their faces at the dining-room door, shutting and locking it. They are those seen by Hawkins and Tucker—the same Dupré’s traitorous servant has conducted through the gap in the garden wall; whence, after making seizure of the girls, they continued on to the house, the half-blood at their head.

Under his guidance they passed through the cattle corral, and into the inner court. Till entering this they were not observed. Then the negro lad, sent in search of Fernand, seeing them, rushed back for the refectory.

With all his haste, as already known, too late in giving the alarm. Half-a-dozen of the foremost, following, were at the dining-room door almost soon as he, while others proceeding to the front entrance, closed the great gate, to prevent any one escaping that way.

In the courtyard ensues a scene, horrible to behold. The domestics frightened, screaming, rushing to and fro, are struck down with tomahawks, impaled upon spears, or hacked and stabbed with long-bladed knives. At least a half-score of these unhappy creatures fall in the fearful slaughter. Indiscriminate as to age or sex: for men, women, and children are among its victims.

Their shrieks, and piteous appeals, are alike disregarded. One after another they are struck, or hewn down, like saplings by themacheté. A scene of red carnage, resembling asaturnaliaof demons, doing murder!

Short as terrible; in less than ten minutes after its commencement it is all over. The victims have succumbed, their bleeding bodies lie along the pavement. Only those domestics have escaped, who preserved enough presence of mind to get inside rooms, and barricade the doors behind them.

They are not followed; for despite the red murder already done, the action ensuing, tells of only robbery intended.

This evident from the way the savages now go to work. Instead of attempting to reach those they have imprisoned within the dining-room, they place two of their number to stand guard by its door; another pair going on to the gate entrance. These steps taken, the rest, with Fernand still conducting, hurry along the corridor, towards a room which opens at one of its angles. It is the chamber Dupré has chosen for his sleeping apartment, and where he has deposited his treasure. Inside it his cash, at least fifty thousand dollars, most of it in silver, packed in stout boxes.

Fernand carries the key, which he inserts into its lock. The door flies open, and the half-blood enters, closely followed by those who appear all Indians. They go in with the eagerness of tigers springing upon prey, or more like the stealthiness of cats.

Soon they come out again, each bearing a box, of diminutive size, but weight sufficient to test his strength.

Laying these down, they re-enter the room, and return from it similarly loaded.

And so they go and come, carrying out the little boxes, until nearly a score are deposited upon the pavement of the courtyard.

The abstraction of the specie completed, the sentries set by the dining-room door, as also those sent to guard the entrance-gate, are called off; and the band becomes reunited by the treasure, as vultures around a carcass.

Some words are exchanged in undertone. Then each, laying hold of a box—there is one each for nearly all of them—and poising it upon his shoulders, strides off out of the courtyard.

Silently, and in single file, they pass across the cattle corral, on into the garden, down the central walk, and out through the gap by which they came in.

Then on to the glade where they have left their horses.

These they remount, after balancing the boxes upon their saddle-bows, and there securing them with trail-ropes.

Soon as in the saddle they move silently, but quickly away; the half-blood going along with them.

He, too, has a horse, the best in the troop—taken from the stable of the master he has so basely betrayed, so pitilessly plundered.

And that master at the moment nearly mad! Raging frantically around the room where they are left confined, nearly all the others frantic as he. For scarce any of them who has not like reason.

In the darkness groping, confusedly straying over the floor, stunned and stupified, they reel like drunken men; as they come in contact tremblingly interrogating one another as to what can have occurred.

By the silence outside it would seem as if everybody were murdered, massacred—coloured servants within the house, colonists without—all!

And what of Colonel Armstrong’s own daughters? To their father it is a period of dread suspense—an agony indescribable. Much longer continued it would drive him mad. Perhaps he is saved from insanity by anger—by thoughts of vengeance, and the hope of living to accomplish it.

While mutually interrogating, one starts the suggestion that the whole affair may be atravestie—a freak of the younger, and more frolicksome members of the colonist fraternity. Notwithstanding its improbability, the idea takes, and is entertained, as drowning men catch at straws.

Only for an instant. The thing is too serious, affecting personages of too much importance, to be so trifled with. There are none in the settlement who would dare attempt such practical joking with its chief—the stern old soldier, Armstrong. Besides, the sounds heard outside were not those of mirth, mocking its opposite. The shouts and shrieks had the true ring of terror, and the accents of despair.

No. It could not be anything of a merrymaking, but what they at first supposed it—a tragedy.

Their rage returns, and they think only of revenge. As before, but to feel their impotence. The door, again tried, with all their united strength, refuses to stir from its hinges. As easily might they move the walls. The window railings alike resist their efforts; and they at length leave off, despairingly scattering through the room.

One alone remains, clinging to the window bars. It is Hawkins. He stays not with any hope of being able to wrench them off. He has already tested the strength of his arms, and found it insufficient. It is that of his lungs he now is determined to exert, and does so, shouting at the highest pitch of his voice.

Not that he thinks there is any chance of its being heard at therancheria, nearly a half-mile off, with a grove of thick timber intervening. Besides, at that late hour the settlers will be asleep.

But in the grove between, and nearer, he knows there is a tent; and inside it a man who will be awake, if not dead—his comrade, Cris Tucker.

In the hope Cris may still be in the land of the living, Hawkins leans against the window bars and, projecting his face outward, as far as the jawbones will allow, he gives utterance to a series of shouts, interlarded with exclamations, that in the ears of a sober Puritan would have sounded terribly profane.

Chapter Fifty Three.A horrid spectacle.On a log outside the tent sits Cris Tucker, with the fire before him, kindled for cooking the turkey. The bird is upon a spit suspended above the blaze. A fat young “gobbler,” it runs grease at every pore, causing the fire to flare up. Literally is it being broiled by its own grease, and is now well-nigh done brown.Perceiving this, Tucker runs his eyes inquiringly along the path leading towards the mission, at the same time setting his ears to listen. What can be keeping his comrade, who promised so soon to be back?“Promises are like pie-crust,” says Cris in soliloquy; “Old Hawk aint keeping his, and I guess aint goin’ to. I heard they war to have a big dine up there the night. So I suppose the colonel’s axed him in for a glass o’ his whiskey punch. Hawk’s jest the one to take it—a dozen, if they insist. Well, there’s no reason I should wait supper any longer. I’m ’most famished as it is. Besides, that bird’s gettin’ burnt.”Rising up from the log, he takes the turkey off the spit, and carries it inside the tent. Then dishing, he sets it upon the table; the dish a large platter of split wood rudely whittled into oblong oval shape, the table a stump with top horizontally hewn, over which the tent has been erected.Placing a “pone” of corn-bread, and some salt alongside, he sits down; though not yet to commence eating. As certainly his comrade should now soon be back, he will give him ten minutes’ grace.The position is agreeable, at the same time having its drawbacks. The odour pervading the tent is delicious; still there is the sense of taste to be satisfied, and that of smell but provokes it. The savoury aroma of the roast turkey is keenly appetising, and Cris can’t hold out much longer.Time passes, and no sign of Hawkins returning. Tucker’s position becomes intolerable; the bird is getting cold, its juices drying up, the repast will be spoilt.Besides, his comrade has not kept faith with him. In all probability he has eaten supper at the house, and at that moment is enjoying a jorum of whisky punch, quite forgetful of him. Tucker. Cris can stand it no longer; and, drawing out his knife, he takes the turkey by the leg, and cuts a large slice from its breast.This eaten, another slice of breast is severed and swallowed. Then a wing is carved off, and lastly a leg, which he polishes to the smoothness of a drumstick.—The young hunter, now no longer ravenous, proceeds more leisurely, and completes his repast by tranquilly chewing up the gizzard, and after it the liver—the last a tit-bit upon the prairies, as in a Strasburgpaté.Washing all down with a gourd of whisky and water, he lights his pipe; and, seated by the mangled remains of the gobbler, commences smoking.For a time the inhaled nicotine holds him tranquil; though not without wondering why his comrade is so long in patting in an appearance.When over two hours have elapsed, his wonder becomes changed to anxiety. Not strange it should, recalling the reason why he has been left alone.This increasing to keen apprehension, he can no longer stay within the tent. He will go up to the house, and find out what is detaining Hawkins.Donning his skin cap, and stepping out into the open air, he starts off towards the mission-building.Less than ten minutes’ walking brings him to its walls, by their main front entrance.There he pauses, surprised at the stillness surrounding the place. It is profound, unnatural.For some moments he remains in front of the massive pile, looking at it, and listening. Still no sound, within or without.True, it is time for the inmates to be a-bed.But if so, where is Hawkins? He may be drinking, but surely not sleeping within!In any case, Cris deems it his duty to look him up; and with this intent determines to enter.He is not on terms of social equality with those who occupy the mission; still, under the circumstances, he cannot be considered intruding.He sees that the great door is closed, but the wicket is ajar; presumptive proof of Hawkins being inside. There are no lights in the front windows, but, as Cris knows, those of the dining-room open backward.Hesitating no longer, he steps under the arched portal, passes on through thesaguan, and once more emerges into moonlight within thepatio.There, suddenly stopping, he stands aghast. For he beholds a sight that almost causes his hair to crisp up, and raise the cap from his head.Down into the hollow quadrangle—enclosed on every side, except that towards heaven—the moonbeams are falling in full effulgence. By their light he sees forms lying along the pavement in every possible position. They are human bodies—men and boys, among them some whose drapery declares them to be women. They are black, brown, or yellow; but all spotted and spattered with red—with blood! Fresh, but fast freezing in the chill night air, it is already darkened, almost to the hue of ink.The hunter turns faint, sick, as he contemplates this hecatomb of corpses. A spectacle far more fearful than any ever witnessed upon battle-field. There men lie in death from wounds given, as received under the grand, if delusive, idea of glory. Those Cris Tucker sees must have been struck down by the hand of the assassin!For a time he stands gazing upon them, scarce knowing what to do.His first impulse is to turn back, rush out of the courtyard, and away altogether from the place.But a thought—a loyal thought or instinct, stays him. Where is Hawkins? His body may be among the rest—Cris is almost sure it will be found there—and affection for his friend prompts him to seek for it. There may still be breath in it—a spark of departing life, capable of being called back.With this hope, however faint, he commences searching among the corpses.The spectacle, that has sickened, makes his step feeble. He staggers as he passes among the prostrate forms, at times compelled to stride over them.He examines one after another, bending low down to each—lower where they lie in shadow, and it is more difficult to distinguish their features.Going the round of the courtyard, he completes the scrutiny of all. Living or dead, Hawkins is not among them.Nor is there the body of any white man, or woman. The stricken victims are of every age, and both sexes. But all, male as female, are negroes or mulattoes—the slaves of the establishment. Many of them he recognises; knows them to be the house-servants.Where are their masters? Where everybody? What terrible tragedy has occurred to leave such traces behind? The traces of murder—of wholesale slaughter!Who have been the murderers, and where are they now? Where is Hawkins?To the young hunter these self-asked interrogatories occur in quick succession; along with the last a sound reaching his ears which causes him to start, and stand listening acutely for its repetition. It seemed a human voice, as of a man in mortal agony shouting for succour. Faint, as if far off, away at the back of the building.Continuing to listen, Tucker hears it again, this time recognising the voice of Hawkins.He does not stay to conjecture why his comrade should be calling in accents of appeal. That they are so is enough for him to hasten to his aid. Clearly the cry comes from outside; and, soon as assured of this, Tucker turns that way, leaps lightly over the dead bodies, glides on along the saguan, and through the open wicket.Outside he stops, and again listens, waiting for the voice to direct him, which it does.As before he hears it, shouting for help, now sure it is Hawkins who calls. And sure, also, that the cries come from the eastern side of the building.Towards this Tucker rushes, around the angle of the wall, breaking through the bushes like a chased bear.Nor does he again stop till he is under a window, from which the shouts appear to proceed.Looking up he sees a face, with cheeks pressing distractedly against the bars; at the same time hearing himself hailed in a familiar voice.“Is’t you, Cris Tucker? Thank the Almighty it is!”“Sartin it’s me,” Hawkins. “What does it all mean?”“Mean? That’s more’n I can tell; or any o’ us inside here; though there’s big ends o’ a dozen. We’re shut up, locked in, as ye see. Who’s done it you ought to know, bein’ outside. Han’t you seen the Indians?”“I’ve seen no Indians; but their work I take it. There’s a ugly sight round t’other side.”“What sight, Oris? Never mind—don’t stay to talk. Go back, and get something to break open the door of this room. Quick, comrade, quick!”Without stayin’ for further exchange of speech, the young hunter hurries back into thepatioas rapidly as he had quitted it; and laying hold of a heavy beam, brings it like a battering-ram, against the dining-room door.Massive as this is, and strongly hung upon its hinges, it yields to his strength.When at length laid open, and those inside released, they look upon a spectacle that sends a thrill of horror through their hearts.In the courtyard lie ten corpses, all told. True they are but the dead bodies of slaves—to some beholding them scarce accounted as human beings. Though pitied, they are passed over without delay; the thoughts, as the glances, of their masters going beyond, in keen apprehension for the fate of those nearer and dearer.Escaped from their imprisonment, they rush to and fro, like maniacs let out of a madhouse. Giving to the dead bodies only a passing glance, then going on in fear of finding others by which they will surely stay; all the time talking, interrogating, wildly gesticulating, now questioning Oris Tucker, now one another; in the confusion of voices, some heard inquiring for their wives, some their sisters or sweethearts, all with like eagerness; hopefully believing their dear ones still alive, or despairingly thinking them dead; fearing they may find them with gashed throats and bleeding breasts, like those lying along the flagstones at their feet.The spectacle before their eyes, appalling though it be, is nought to that conjured up in their apprehensions. What they see may be but a forecast, a faint symbol, of what ere long they may be compelled to look upon.And amid the many voices shouting for wife, sister, or sweetheart, none so loud, or sad, as that of Colonel Armstrong calling for his daughters.

On a log outside the tent sits Cris Tucker, with the fire before him, kindled for cooking the turkey. The bird is upon a spit suspended above the blaze. A fat young “gobbler,” it runs grease at every pore, causing the fire to flare up. Literally is it being broiled by its own grease, and is now well-nigh done brown.

Perceiving this, Tucker runs his eyes inquiringly along the path leading towards the mission, at the same time setting his ears to listen. What can be keeping his comrade, who promised so soon to be back?

“Promises are like pie-crust,” says Cris in soliloquy; “Old Hawk aint keeping his, and I guess aint goin’ to. I heard they war to have a big dine up there the night. So I suppose the colonel’s axed him in for a glass o’ his whiskey punch. Hawk’s jest the one to take it—a dozen, if they insist. Well, there’s no reason I should wait supper any longer. I’m ’most famished as it is. Besides, that bird’s gettin’ burnt.”

Rising up from the log, he takes the turkey off the spit, and carries it inside the tent. Then dishing, he sets it upon the table; the dish a large platter of split wood rudely whittled into oblong oval shape, the table a stump with top horizontally hewn, over which the tent has been erected.

Placing a “pone” of corn-bread, and some salt alongside, he sits down; though not yet to commence eating. As certainly his comrade should now soon be back, he will give him ten minutes’ grace.

The position is agreeable, at the same time having its drawbacks. The odour pervading the tent is delicious; still there is the sense of taste to be satisfied, and that of smell but provokes it. The savoury aroma of the roast turkey is keenly appetising, and Cris can’t hold out much longer.

Time passes, and no sign of Hawkins returning. Tucker’s position becomes intolerable; the bird is getting cold, its juices drying up, the repast will be spoilt.

Besides, his comrade has not kept faith with him. In all probability he has eaten supper at the house, and at that moment is enjoying a jorum of whisky punch, quite forgetful of him. Tucker. Cris can stand it no longer; and, drawing out his knife, he takes the turkey by the leg, and cuts a large slice from its breast.

This eaten, another slice of breast is severed and swallowed. Then a wing is carved off, and lastly a leg, which he polishes to the smoothness of a drumstick.—

The young hunter, now no longer ravenous, proceeds more leisurely, and completes his repast by tranquilly chewing up the gizzard, and after it the liver—the last a tit-bit upon the prairies, as in a Strasburgpaté.

Washing all down with a gourd of whisky and water, he lights his pipe; and, seated by the mangled remains of the gobbler, commences smoking.

For a time the inhaled nicotine holds him tranquil; though not without wondering why his comrade is so long in patting in an appearance.

When over two hours have elapsed, his wonder becomes changed to anxiety. Not strange it should, recalling the reason why he has been left alone.

This increasing to keen apprehension, he can no longer stay within the tent. He will go up to the house, and find out what is detaining Hawkins.

Donning his skin cap, and stepping out into the open air, he starts off towards the mission-building.

Less than ten minutes’ walking brings him to its walls, by their main front entrance.

There he pauses, surprised at the stillness surrounding the place. It is profound, unnatural.

For some moments he remains in front of the massive pile, looking at it, and listening. Still no sound, within or without.

True, it is time for the inmates to be a-bed.

But if so, where is Hawkins? He may be drinking, but surely not sleeping within!

In any case, Cris deems it his duty to look him up; and with this intent determines to enter.

He is not on terms of social equality with those who occupy the mission; still, under the circumstances, he cannot be considered intruding.

He sees that the great door is closed, but the wicket is ajar; presumptive proof of Hawkins being inside. There are no lights in the front windows, but, as Cris knows, those of the dining-room open backward.

Hesitating no longer, he steps under the arched portal, passes on through thesaguan, and once more emerges into moonlight within thepatio.

There, suddenly stopping, he stands aghast. For he beholds a sight that almost causes his hair to crisp up, and raise the cap from his head.

Down into the hollow quadrangle—enclosed on every side, except that towards heaven—the moonbeams are falling in full effulgence. By their light he sees forms lying along the pavement in every possible position. They are human bodies—men and boys, among them some whose drapery declares them to be women. They are black, brown, or yellow; but all spotted and spattered with red—with blood! Fresh, but fast freezing in the chill night air, it is already darkened, almost to the hue of ink.

The hunter turns faint, sick, as he contemplates this hecatomb of corpses. A spectacle far more fearful than any ever witnessed upon battle-field. There men lie in death from wounds given, as received under the grand, if delusive, idea of glory. Those Cris Tucker sees must have been struck down by the hand of the assassin!

For a time he stands gazing upon them, scarce knowing what to do.

His first impulse is to turn back, rush out of the courtyard, and away altogether from the place.

But a thought—a loyal thought or instinct, stays him. Where is Hawkins? His body may be among the rest—Cris is almost sure it will be found there—and affection for his friend prompts him to seek for it. There may still be breath in it—a spark of departing life, capable of being called back.

With this hope, however faint, he commences searching among the corpses.

The spectacle, that has sickened, makes his step feeble. He staggers as he passes among the prostrate forms, at times compelled to stride over them.

He examines one after another, bending low down to each—lower where they lie in shadow, and it is more difficult to distinguish their features.

Going the round of the courtyard, he completes the scrutiny of all. Living or dead, Hawkins is not among them.

Nor is there the body of any white man, or woman. The stricken victims are of every age, and both sexes. But all, male as female, are negroes or mulattoes—the slaves of the establishment. Many of them he recognises; knows them to be the house-servants.

Where are their masters? Where everybody? What terrible tragedy has occurred to leave such traces behind? The traces of murder—of wholesale slaughter!

Who have been the murderers, and where are they now? Where is Hawkins?

To the young hunter these self-asked interrogatories occur in quick succession; along with the last a sound reaching his ears which causes him to start, and stand listening acutely for its repetition. It seemed a human voice, as of a man in mortal agony shouting for succour. Faint, as if far off, away at the back of the building.

Continuing to listen, Tucker hears it again, this time recognising the voice of Hawkins.

He does not stay to conjecture why his comrade should be calling in accents of appeal. That they are so is enough for him to hasten to his aid. Clearly the cry comes from outside; and, soon as assured of this, Tucker turns that way, leaps lightly over the dead bodies, glides on along the saguan, and through the open wicket.

Outside he stops, and again listens, waiting for the voice to direct him, which it does.

As before he hears it, shouting for help, now sure it is Hawkins who calls. And sure, also, that the cries come from the eastern side of the building.

Towards this Tucker rushes, around the angle of the wall, breaking through the bushes like a chased bear.

Nor does he again stop till he is under a window, from which the shouts appear to proceed.

Looking up he sees a face, with cheeks pressing distractedly against the bars; at the same time hearing himself hailed in a familiar voice.

“Is’t you, Cris Tucker? Thank the Almighty it is!”

“Sartin it’s me,” Hawkins. “What does it all mean?”

“Mean? That’s more’n I can tell; or any o’ us inside here; though there’s big ends o’ a dozen. We’re shut up, locked in, as ye see. Who’s done it you ought to know, bein’ outside. Han’t you seen the Indians?”

“I’ve seen no Indians; but their work I take it. There’s a ugly sight round t’other side.”

“What sight, Oris? Never mind—don’t stay to talk. Go back, and get something to break open the door of this room. Quick, comrade, quick!”

Without stayin’ for further exchange of speech, the young hunter hurries back into thepatioas rapidly as he had quitted it; and laying hold of a heavy beam, brings it like a battering-ram, against the dining-room door.

Massive as this is, and strongly hung upon its hinges, it yields to his strength.

When at length laid open, and those inside released, they look upon a spectacle that sends a thrill of horror through their hearts.

In the courtyard lie ten corpses, all told. True they are but the dead bodies of slaves—to some beholding them scarce accounted as human beings. Though pitied, they are passed over without delay; the thoughts, as the glances, of their masters going beyond, in keen apprehension for the fate of those nearer and dearer.

Escaped from their imprisonment, they rush to and fro, like maniacs let out of a madhouse. Giving to the dead bodies only a passing glance, then going on in fear of finding others by which they will surely stay; all the time talking, interrogating, wildly gesticulating, now questioning Oris Tucker, now one another; in the confusion of voices, some heard inquiring for their wives, some their sisters or sweethearts, all with like eagerness; hopefully believing their dear ones still alive, or despairingly thinking them dead; fearing they may find them with gashed throats and bleeding breasts, like those lying along the flagstones at their feet.

The spectacle before their eyes, appalling though it be, is nought to that conjured up in their apprehensions. What they see may be but a forecast, a faint symbol, of what ere long they may be compelled to look upon.

And amid the many voices shouting for wife, sister, or sweetheart, none so loud, or sad, as that of Colonel Armstrong calling for his daughters.

Chapter Fifty Four.Riding double.With Colonel Armstrong’s voice in tone of heartrending anguish, goes up that of Dupré calling the names “Helen! Jessie!”Neither gets response. They on whom they call cannot hear. They are too far off; though nearer, it would be all the same; for both are at the moment hooded like hawks. The serapes thrown over their heads are still on them, corded around their necks, so closely as to hinder hearing, almost stifle their breathing.Since their seizure nearly an hour has elapsed, and they are scarce yet recovered from the first shock of surprise, so terrible as to have stupified them. No wonder! What they saw before being blinded, with the rough treatment received, were enough to deprive them of their senses.From the chaos of thought, as from a dread dream, both are now gradually recovering. But, alas! only to reflect on new fears—on the dark future before them. Captive to such captors—red ruthless savages, whose naked arms, already around, have held them in brawny embrace—carried away from home, from all they hold dear, into a captivity seeming hopeless as horrid—to the western woman especially repulsive, by songs sung over her cradle, and tales told throughout her years of childhood—tales of Indian atrocity.The memory of these now recurring, with the reality itself, not strange that for a time their thoughts, as their senses, are almost paralysed.Slowly they awake to a consciousness of their situation. They remember what occurred at the moment of their being made captive; how in the clear moonlight they stood face to face with Fernand, listened to his impertinent speeches, saw the savages surrounding them; then, suddenly blinded and seeing no more, felt themselves seized, lifted from their feet, carried off, hoisted a little higher, set upon the backs of horses, and there tied, each to a man already mounted. All these incidents they remember, as one recalls the fleeting phantasmagoria of a dream. But that they were real, and not fanciful, they now too surely know; for the hoods are over their heads, the horses underneath; and the savages to whom they were strapped still there, their bodies in repulsive contact with their own!That there are only two men, and as many horses, can be told by the hoof-strokes rebounding from the turf; the same sounds proclaiming it a forest path through thick timber, at intervals emerging into open ground, and again entering among trees.For over an hour this continues; during all the while not a word being exchanged between the two horsemen, or if so, not heard by their captives.Possibly they may communicate with one another by signs or whispers; as for most part the horses have been abreast, going in single file only where the path is narrow.At length a halt; of such continuance, as to make the captives suppose they have arrived at some place where they are to pass the remainder of the night. Or it may be but an obstruction; this probable from their hearing a sound, easily understood—the ripple of running water. They have arrived upon the bank of a river.The San Saba, of course; it cannot be any other. Whether or not, ’tis the same to them. On the banks of the San Saba they are now no safer, than if it were the remotest stream in all the territory of Texas.Whatever be the river whose waters they can hear coursing past, their guards, now halted upon its bank, have drawn their horses’ heads together, and carry on a conversation. It seems in a strange tongue; but of this the captives cannot be sure, for it is in low tone—almost a whisper—the words indistinguishable amid the rush of the river’s current. If heard, it is not likely they would understand. The two men are Indians, and will talk in the Indian tongue. For this same reason they need have no fear of freely conversing with one another, since the savages will be equally unable to comprehend what they say.To Helen this thought first presents itself; soon as it does, leading her to call, though timidly and in subdued tone, “Jess!”She is answered in the same way, Jessie saying, “Helen, I hear you.”“I only wanted to say a word to cheer you. Have courage. Keep up your heart. It looks dark now; but something may may arise up to save us.”

With Colonel Armstrong’s voice in tone of heartrending anguish, goes up that of Dupré calling the names “Helen! Jessie!”

Neither gets response. They on whom they call cannot hear. They are too far off; though nearer, it would be all the same; for both are at the moment hooded like hawks. The serapes thrown over their heads are still on them, corded around their necks, so closely as to hinder hearing, almost stifle their breathing.

Since their seizure nearly an hour has elapsed, and they are scarce yet recovered from the first shock of surprise, so terrible as to have stupified them. No wonder! What they saw before being blinded, with the rough treatment received, were enough to deprive them of their senses.

From the chaos of thought, as from a dread dream, both are now gradually recovering. But, alas! only to reflect on new fears—on the dark future before them. Captive to such captors—red ruthless savages, whose naked arms, already around, have held them in brawny embrace—carried away from home, from all they hold dear, into a captivity seeming hopeless as horrid—to the western woman especially repulsive, by songs sung over her cradle, and tales told throughout her years of childhood—tales of Indian atrocity.

The memory of these now recurring, with the reality itself, not strange that for a time their thoughts, as their senses, are almost paralysed.

Slowly they awake to a consciousness of their situation. They remember what occurred at the moment of their being made captive; how in the clear moonlight they stood face to face with Fernand, listened to his impertinent speeches, saw the savages surrounding them; then, suddenly blinded and seeing no more, felt themselves seized, lifted from their feet, carried off, hoisted a little higher, set upon the backs of horses, and there tied, each to a man already mounted. All these incidents they remember, as one recalls the fleeting phantasmagoria of a dream. But that they were real, and not fanciful, they now too surely know; for the hoods are over their heads, the horses underneath; and the savages to whom they were strapped still there, their bodies in repulsive contact with their own!

That there are only two men, and as many horses, can be told by the hoof-strokes rebounding from the turf; the same sounds proclaiming it a forest path through thick timber, at intervals emerging into open ground, and again entering among trees.

For over an hour this continues; during all the while not a word being exchanged between the two horsemen, or if so, not heard by their captives.

Possibly they may communicate with one another by signs or whispers; as for most part the horses have been abreast, going in single file only where the path is narrow.

At length a halt; of such continuance, as to make the captives suppose they have arrived at some place where they are to pass the remainder of the night. Or it may be but an obstruction; this probable from their hearing a sound, easily understood—the ripple of running water. They have arrived upon the bank of a river.

The San Saba, of course; it cannot be any other. Whether or not, ’tis the same to them. On the banks of the San Saba they are now no safer, than if it were the remotest stream in all the territory of Texas.

Whatever be the river whose waters they can hear coursing past, their guards, now halted upon its bank, have drawn their horses’ heads together, and carry on a conversation. It seems in a strange tongue; but of this the captives cannot be sure, for it is in low tone—almost a whisper—the words indistinguishable amid the rush of the river’s current. If heard, it is not likely they would understand. The two men are Indians, and will talk in the Indian tongue. For this same reason they need have no fear of freely conversing with one another, since the savages will be equally unable to comprehend what they say.

To Helen this thought first presents itself; soon as it does, leading her to call, though timidly and in subdued tone, “Jess!”

She is answered in the same way, Jessie saying, “Helen, I hear you.”

“I only wanted to say a word to cheer you. Have courage. Keep up your heart. It looks dark now; but something may may arise up to save us.”

Back to IndexNext