Chapter Thirty Three.The murderer unmasked.A rattlesnake sounding its harsh “skirr” under the chair on which the stranger is sitting could not cause him to start up more abruptly than he does, when Borlasse says:—“Your name is not Philip Quantrell: ’tis Richard Darke!”He first half rises to his feet, then sits down again; all the while trembling in such fashion, that the wine goes over the edge of his glass, sprinkling the sanded floor.Fortunately for him, all the others have retired to their beds, it being now a very late hour of the night—near midnight. The drinking “saloon” of the Choctaw Chief is quite emptied of its guests. Even Johnny, the bar-keeper, has gone kitchen-wards to look after his supper.Only Borlasse witnesses the effect of his own speech; which, though but whispered, has proved so impressive.The speaker, on his side, shows no surprise. Throughout all the evening he has been taking the measure of his man, and has arrived at a clear comprehension of the case. He now knows he is in the company of Charles Clancy’s assassin. The disguise which Darke has adopted—the mere shaving off moustaches and donning a dress of home-wove “cottonade”—the common wear of the Louisiana Creole—with slouch hat to correspond, is too flimsy to deceive Captain Jim Borlasse, himself accustomed to metamorphoses more ingenious, it is nothing new for him to meet a murderer fleeing from the scene of his crime—stealthily, disguisedly making way towards that boundary line, between the United States and Texas—the limit of executive justice.“Come, Quantrell!” he says, raising his arm in a gesture of reassurance, “don’t waste the wine in that ridikelous fashion. You and me are alone, and I reckin we understand one another. If not, we soon will—the sooner by your puttin’ on no nonsensical airs, but confessin’ the clar and candid truth. First, then, answer me this questyun: Air you, or air you not, Richard Darke? If ye air, don’t be afeerd to say so. No humbuggery! Thar’s no need for’t. An’ it won’t do for Jim Borlasse.”The stranger, trembling, hesitates to make reply.Only for a moment. He sees it will be of no use denying his identity. The man who has questioned him—of giant size and formidable aspect—notwithstanding the copious draughts he has swallowed, appears cool as a tombstone, and stern as an Inquisitor. The bloodshot eyes look upon him with a leer that seems to say: “Tell me a lie, and I’m your enemy.”At the same time those eyes speak of friendship; such as may exist between two scoundrels equally steeped in crime.The murderer of Charles Clancy—now for many days and nights wandering the earth, a fugitive from foiled justice, taking untrodden paths, hiding in holes and corners, at length seeking shelter under the roof of the Choctaw Chief, because of its repute, sees he has reached a haven of safety.The volunteered confessions of Borlasse—the tale of his hostility to Clancy, and its cause—inspire him with confidence about any revelations he may make in return. Beyond all doubt his new acquaintance stands in mud, deep as himself. Without further hesitation, he says—“IamRichard Darke.”“All right!” is the rejoinder. “And now, Mr Darke, let me tell you, I like your manly way of answerin’ the question I’ve put ye. Same time, I may as well remark, ’twould ’a been all one if ye’d sayedno! This child hain’t been hidin’ half o’ his life, ’count o’ some little mistakes made at the beginnin’ of it, not to know when a man’s got into a sim’lar fix. First day you showed your face inside the Choctaw Chief I seed thar war something amiss; tho’, in course, I couldn’t gie the thing a name, much less know ’thar that ugly word which begins with a M. This evenin’, I acknowledge, I war a bit put out—seein’ you round thar by the planter’s, spyin’ after one of them Armstrong girls; which of them I needn’t say.”Darke starts, saying mechanically, “You saw me?”“In coorse I did—bein’ there myself, on a like lay.”“Well?” interrogates the other, feigning coolness.“Well; that, as I’ve said, some leetle bamboozled me. From your looks and ways since you first came hyar, I guessed that the something wrong must be different from a love-scrape. Sartint, a man stayin’ at the Choctaw Chief, and sporting the cheap rig as you’ve got on, wan’t likely to be aspirin’ to sech dainty damsels as them. You’ll give in, yourself, it looked a leetle queer; didn’t it?”“I don’t know that it did,” is the reply, pronounced doggedly, and in an assumed tone of devil-may-care-ishness.“You don’t! Well, I thought so, up to the time o’ gettin’ back to the tavern hyar—not many minutes afore my meetin’ and askin’ you to jine us in drinks. If you’ve any curiosity to know what changed my mind, I’ll tell ye.”“What?” asks Darke, scarcely reflecting on his words.“That ere newspaper you war readin’ when I gave you the invite. I read itaforeyou did, and had ciphered out the whole thing. Puttin’ six and six thegither, I could easy make the dozen. The same bein’, that one of the young ladies stayin’ at the hotel is the Miss Helen Armstrong spoke of in the paper; and the man I observed watchin’ her is Richard Darke, who killed Charles Clancy—yourself!”“I—I am—I won’t—I don’t deny it to you, Mr Borlasse. I am Richard Darke. I did kill Charles Clancy; though I protest against its being said Imurderedhim.”“Never mind that. Between friends, as I suppose we can now call ourselves, there need be no nice distinguishin’ of tarms. Murder or manslaughter, it’s all the same, when a man has a motive sech as yourn. An’ when he’s druv out o’ the pale of what they call society, an’ hunted from the settlements, he’s not like to lose the respect of them who’s been sarved the same way. Your bein’ Richard Darke an’ havin’ killed Charles Clancy, in no ways makes you an enemy o’ Jim Borlasse—except in your havin’ robbed me of a revenge I’d sworn to take myself. Let that go now. I ain’t angry, but only envious o’ you, for havin’ the satisfaction of sendin’ the skunk to kingdom come, without givin’ me the chance. An’ now, Mister Darke, what do you intend doin’?”The question comes upon the assassin with a sobering effect. His copious potations have hitherto kept him from reflecting.Despite the thieve’s confidence with which Borlasse has inspired him, this reference to his future brings up its darkness, with its dangers; and he pauses before making response.Without waiting for it, his questioner continues:“If you’ve got no fixed plan of action, and will listen to the advice of a friend, I’d advise you to becomeone o’ us.”“One of you! What does that mean, Mr Borlasse?”“Well, I can’t tell you here,” answers Borlasse, in a subdued tone. “Desarted as this bar-room appear to be, it’s got ears for all that. I see that curse, Johnny, sneakin’ about, pretendin’ to be lookin’ after his supper. If he knew as much about you as I do, you’d be in limbo afore you ked get into your bed. I needn’t tell you thar’s a reward offered; for you seed that yourself in the newspaper. Two thousand dollars for you, an’ five hundred dollars for the fellow as I’ve seed about along wi’ you, and who I’d already figured up as bein’ jailer Joe Harkness. Johnny, an’ a good many more, would be glad to go halves with me, for tellin’ them only half of what I now know.Iain’t goin’ to betray you. I’ve my reasons for not. After what’s been said I reckon you can trust me?”“I can,” rejoins the assassin, heaving a sigh of relief.“All right, then,” resumes Borlasse; “we understand one another. But it won’t do to stay palaverin hyar any longer. Let’s go up to my bedroom. We’ll be safe there; and I’ve got a bottle of whisky, the best stuff for a nightcap. Over that we can talk things straight, without any one havin’ the chance to set them crooked. Come along!”Darke, without protest, accepts the invitation. He dares not do otherwise. It sounds more like a command. The man extending it has now full control over him; can deliver him to justice—have him dragged to a jail.
A rattlesnake sounding its harsh “skirr” under the chair on which the stranger is sitting could not cause him to start up more abruptly than he does, when Borlasse says:—
“Your name is not Philip Quantrell: ’tis Richard Darke!”
He first half rises to his feet, then sits down again; all the while trembling in such fashion, that the wine goes over the edge of his glass, sprinkling the sanded floor.
Fortunately for him, all the others have retired to their beds, it being now a very late hour of the night—near midnight. The drinking “saloon” of the Choctaw Chief is quite emptied of its guests. Even Johnny, the bar-keeper, has gone kitchen-wards to look after his supper.
Only Borlasse witnesses the effect of his own speech; which, though but whispered, has proved so impressive.
The speaker, on his side, shows no surprise. Throughout all the evening he has been taking the measure of his man, and has arrived at a clear comprehension of the case. He now knows he is in the company of Charles Clancy’s assassin. The disguise which Darke has adopted—the mere shaving off moustaches and donning a dress of home-wove “cottonade”—the common wear of the Louisiana Creole—with slouch hat to correspond, is too flimsy to deceive Captain Jim Borlasse, himself accustomed to metamorphoses more ingenious, it is nothing new for him to meet a murderer fleeing from the scene of his crime—stealthily, disguisedly making way towards that boundary line, between the United States and Texas—the limit of executive justice.
“Come, Quantrell!” he says, raising his arm in a gesture of reassurance, “don’t waste the wine in that ridikelous fashion. You and me are alone, and I reckin we understand one another. If not, we soon will—the sooner by your puttin’ on no nonsensical airs, but confessin’ the clar and candid truth. First, then, answer me this questyun: Air you, or air you not, Richard Darke? If ye air, don’t be afeerd to say so. No humbuggery! Thar’s no need for’t. An’ it won’t do for Jim Borlasse.”
The stranger, trembling, hesitates to make reply.
Only for a moment. He sees it will be of no use denying his identity. The man who has questioned him—of giant size and formidable aspect—notwithstanding the copious draughts he has swallowed, appears cool as a tombstone, and stern as an Inquisitor. The bloodshot eyes look upon him with a leer that seems to say: “Tell me a lie, and I’m your enemy.”
At the same time those eyes speak of friendship; such as may exist between two scoundrels equally steeped in crime.
The murderer of Charles Clancy—now for many days and nights wandering the earth, a fugitive from foiled justice, taking untrodden paths, hiding in holes and corners, at length seeking shelter under the roof of the Choctaw Chief, because of its repute, sees he has reached a haven of safety.
The volunteered confessions of Borlasse—the tale of his hostility to Clancy, and its cause—inspire him with confidence about any revelations he may make in return. Beyond all doubt his new acquaintance stands in mud, deep as himself. Without further hesitation, he says—“IamRichard Darke.”
“All right!” is the rejoinder. “And now, Mr Darke, let me tell you, I like your manly way of answerin’ the question I’ve put ye. Same time, I may as well remark, ’twould ’a been all one if ye’d sayedno! This child hain’t been hidin’ half o’ his life, ’count o’ some little mistakes made at the beginnin’ of it, not to know when a man’s got into a sim’lar fix. First day you showed your face inside the Choctaw Chief I seed thar war something amiss; tho’, in course, I couldn’t gie the thing a name, much less know ’thar that ugly word which begins with a M. This evenin’, I acknowledge, I war a bit put out—seein’ you round thar by the planter’s, spyin’ after one of them Armstrong girls; which of them I needn’t say.”
Darke starts, saying mechanically, “You saw me?”
“In coorse I did—bein’ there myself, on a like lay.”
“Well?” interrogates the other, feigning coolness.
“Well; that, as I’ve said, some leetle bamboozled me. From your looks and ways since you first came hyar, I guessed that the something wrong must be different from a love-scrape. Sartint, a man stayin’ at the Choctaw Chief, and sporting the cheap rig as you’ve got on, wan’t likely to be aspirin’ to sech dainty damsels as them. You’ll give in, yourself, it looked a leetle queer; didn’t it?”
“I don’t know that it did,” is the reply, pronounced doggedly, and in an assumed tone of devil-may-care-ishness.
“You don’t! Well, I thought so, up to the time o’ gettin’ back to the tavern hyar—not many minutes afore my meetin’ and askin’ you to jine us in drinks. If you’ve any curiosity to know what changed my mind, I’ll tell ye.”
“What?” asks Darke, scarcely reflecting on his words.
“That ere newspaper you war readin’ when I gave you the invite. I read itaforeyou did, and had ciphered out the whole thing. Puttin’ six and six thegither, I could easy make the dozen. The same bein’, that one of the young ladies stayin’ at the hotel is the Miss Helen Armstrong spoke of in the paper; and the man I observed watchin’ her is Richard Darke, who killed Charles Clancy—yourself!”
“I—I am—I won’t—I don’t deny it to you, Mr Borlasse. I am Richard Darke. I did kill Charles Clancy; though I protest against its being said Imurderedhim.”
“Never mind that. Between friends, as I suppose we can now call ourselves, there need be no nice distinguishin’ of tarms. Murder or manslaughter, it’s all the same, when a man has a motive sech as yourn. An’ when he’s druv out o’ the pale of what they call society, an’ hunted from the settlements, he’s not like to lose the respect of them who’s been sarved the same way. Your bein’ Richard Darke an’ havin’ killed Charles Clancy, in no ways makes you an enemy o’ Jim Borlasse—except in your havin’ robbed me of a revenge I’d sworn to take myself. Let that go now. I ain’t angry, but only envious o’ you, for havin’ the satisfaction of sendin’ the skunk to kingdom come, without givin’ me the chance. An’ now, Mister Darke, what do you intend doin’?”
The question comes upon the assassin with a sobering effect. His copious potations have hitherto kept him from reflecting.
Despite the thieve’s confidence with which Borlasse has inspired him, this reference to his future brings up its darkness, with its dangers; and he pauses before making response.
Without waiting for it, his questioner continues:
“If you’ve got no fixed plan of action, and will listen to the advice of a friend, I’d advise you to becomeone o’ us.”
“One of you! What does that mean, Mr Borlasse?”
“Well, I can’t tell you here,” answers Borlasse, in a subdued tone. “Desarted as this bar-room appear to be, it’s got ears for all that. I see that curse, Johnny, sneakin’ about, pretendin’ to be lookin’ after his supper. If he knew as much about you as I do, you’d be in limbo afore you ked get into your bed. I needn’t tell you thar’s a reward offered; for you seed that yourself in the newspaper. Two thousand dollars for you, an’ five hundred dollars for the fellow as I’ve seed about along wi’ you, and who I’d already figured up as bein’ jailer Joe Harkness. Johnny, an’ a good many more, would be glad to go halves with me, for tellin’ them only half of what I now know.Iain’t goin’ to betray you. I’ve my reasons for not. After what’s been said I reckon you can trust me?”
“I can,” rejoins the assassin, heaving a sigh of relief.
“All right, then,” resumes Borlasse; “we understand one another. But it won’t do to stay palaverin hyar any longer. Let’s go up to my bedroom. We’ll be safe there; and I’ve got a bottle of whisky, the best stuff for a nightcap. Over that we can talk things straight, without any one havin’ the chance to set them crooked. Come along!”
Darke, without protest, accepts the invitation. He dares not do otherwise. It sounds more like a command. The man extending it has now full control over him; can deliver him to justice—have him dragged to a jail.
Chapter Thirty Four.“Will you be one of us?”Once inside his sleeping apartment, Borlasse shuts the door, points out a chair to his invited guest, and plants himself upon another. With the promised bottle of whisky between them, he resumes speech.“I’ve asked you, Quantrell, to be one o’ us. I’ve done it for your own good, as you ought to know without my tellin’ ye. Well; you asked me in return what that means?”“Yes, I did,” rejoins Darke, speaking without purpose.“It means, then,” continues Borlasse, taking a gulp out of his glass, “that me, an’ the others you’ve been drinking with, air as good a set of fellows as ever lived. That we’re a cheerful party, you’ve seen for yourself. What’s passed this night ain’t nowheres to the merry times we spend upon the prairies out in Texas—for it’s in Texas we live.”“May I ask, Mr Borlasse, what business you follow?”“Well; when we’re engaged in regular business, it’s mostly horse-catchin’. We rope wild horses,mustangs, as they’re called; an’ sometimes them that ain’t jest so wild. We bring ’em into the settlements for sale. For which reason we pass by the name ofmustangers. Between whiles, when business isn’t very brisk, we spend our time in some of the Texas towns—them what’s well in to’rds the Rio Grande, whar there’s a good sprinklin’ of Mexikins in the population. We’ve some rare times among the Mexikin girls, I kin assure you. You’ll take Jim Borlasse’s word for that, won’t you?”“I have no cause to doubt it.”“Well, I needn’t say more, need I? I know, Quantrell, you’re fond of a pretty face yourself, with sloe-black eyes in it. You’ll see them among the Mexikin saynoritas, to your heart’s content. Enough o’ ’em, maybe, to make you forget the pair as war late glancin’ at you out of the hotel gallery.”“Glancing at me?” exclaims Darke, showing surprise, not unmixed with alarm.“Glancing at ye; strait custrut; them same eyes as inspired ye to do that little bit of shootin’, wi’ Charley Clancy for a target.”“You think shesawme?” asks the assassin, with increasing uneasiness.“Think! I’m sure of it. More than saw—she recognised ye. I could tell that from the way she shot back into the shadow. Did ye not notice it yourself?”“No,” rejoins Darke, the monosyllable issuing mechanically from his lips, while a shiver runs through his frame.His questioner, observing these signs, continues,—“T’ike my advice, and come with us fellows to Texas. Before you’re long there, the Mexikin girls will make you stop moping about Miss Armstrong. After the firstfandangoyou’ve been at, you won’t care a straw for her. Believe me, you’ll soon forget her.”“Never!” exclaims Darke, in the fervour of his passion—thwarted though it has been—forgetting the danger he is in.“If that’s your detarmination,” returns Borlasse, “an’ you’ve made up your mind to keep that sweetheart in sight, you won’t be likely to live long. As sure as you’re sittin’ thar, afore breakfast time to-morrow mornin’ the town of Naketosh ’ll be too hot to hold ye.”Darke starts from his chair, as ifithad become too hot.“Keep cool, Quantrell!” counsels the Texan. “No need for ye to be scared at what I’m sayin’. Thar’s no great danger jest yet. There might be, if you were in that chair, or this room, eight hours later. I won’t be myself, not one. For I may as well tell ye, that Jim Borlasse, same’s yourself, has reasons for shiftin’ quarters from the Choctaw Chief. And so, too, some o’ the fellows we’ve been drinkin’ with. We’ll all be out o’ this a good hour afore sun-up. Take a friend’s advice, and make tracks along wi’ us. Will you?”Darke still hesitates to give an affirmative answer. His love for Helen Armstrong—wild, wanton passion though it be—is the controlling influence of his life. It has influenced him to follow her thus far, almost as much as the hope of escaping punishment for his crime. And though knowing, that the officers of justice are after him, he clings to the spot where she is staying, with that fascination which keeps the fox by the kennel holding the hounds. The thought of leaving her behind—perhaps never to see her again—is more repugnant than the spectre of a scaffold!The Texan guesses the reason of his irresolution. More than this, he knows he has the means to put an end to it. A word will be sufficient; or, at most, a single speech. He puts it thus—“If you’re detarmined to stick by the apron-strings o’ Miss Armstrong, you’ll not do that by staying here in Naketosh. Your best place, to benear her, will be alongwith me.”“How so, Mr Borlasse?” questions Darke, his eyes opening to a new light. “Why do you say that?”“You ought to know, without my tellin’ you—a man of your ’cuteness, Quantrell! You say you can never forget the older of that pair o’ girls. I believe you; and will be candid, too, in sayin’, no more is Jim Borlasse like to forget the younger. I thought nothin’ could ’a fetched that soft feelin’ over me. ’Twant likely, after what I’ve gone through in my time. But she’s done it—them blue eyes of hers; hanged if they hain’t! Then, do you suppose that I’m going to run away from, and lose sight o’ her and them?No; not till I’ve had her within these arms, and tears out o’ them same peepers droppin’ on my cheeks. That is, if she take it in the weepin’ way.”“I don’t understand,” stammers Darke.“You will in time,” rejoins the ruffian; “that is, if you become one o’ us, and go where we’re a-goin’. Enough now for you to be told that,there you will find your sweetheart!”Without waiting to watch the effect of his last words, the tempter continues—“Now, Phil Quantrell, or Dick Darke, as in confidence I may call ye, are you willin’ to be one o’ us?”“I am.”“Good! That’s settled. An’ your comrade, Harkness; I take it, he’ll go, too, when told o’ the danger of staying behind; not that he appears o’ much account, anyway. Still, among usmustangers, the more the merrier; and, sometimes we need numbers to help in the surroundin’ o’ the horses. He’ll go along, won’t he?”“Anywhere, with me.”“Well, then, you’d better step into his bedroom, and roust him up. Both of ye must be ready at once. Slip out to the stable, an’ see to the saddles of your horses. You needn’t trouble about settlin’ the tavern bill. That’s all scored to me; we kin fix the proportions of it afterward. Now, Quantrell, look sharp; in twenty minutes, time, I expect to find you an’ Harkness in the saddle, where you’ll see ten o’ us others the same.”Saying this, the Texan strides out into the corridor, Darke preceding him. In the dimly-lighted passage they part company, Borlasse opening door after door of several bedrooms, ranged on both sides of it; into each, speaking a word, which, though only in whisper, seems to awake a sleeper as if a cannon were discharged close to his ears. Then succeeds a general shuffling, as of men hastily putting on coats and boots, with an occasional grunt of discontent at slumber disturbed; but neither talking nor angry protest. Soon, one after another, is seen issuing forth from his sleeping apartment, skulking along the corridor, out through the entrance door at back, and on towards the stable.Presently, they fetch their horses forth, saddled and bridled. Then, leaping upon their backs, ride silently off under the shadow of the trees; Borlasse at their head, Quantrell by his side, Harkness among those behind.Almost instantly they are in the thick forest which comes close up to the suburbs of Natchitoches; the Choctaw Chief standing among trees never planted by the hand of man.The wholesale departure appearing surreptitious, is not unobserved. Both the tavern Boniface and his bar-keeper witness it, standing in the door as their guests go off; the landlord chuckling at the large pile of glittering coins left behind; Johnny scratching his carroty poll, and saying,—“Be japers! they intind clearin’ that fellow Quantrell out. He won’t long be throubled wid that shinin’ stuff as seems burnin’ the bottom out av his pocket. I wudn’t be surrprized if they putt both him an’ ’tother fool past tillin’ tales afore ayther sees sun. Will, boss, it’s no bizness av ours.”With this self-consolatory remark, to which the “boss” assents, Johnny proceeds to shut and lock the tavern door. Soon after the windows of the Choctaw Chief show lightless, its interior silent, the moonbeams shining upon its shingled roof peacefully and innocently, as though it had never sheltered robber, and drunken talk or ribald blasphemy been heard under it.So, till morning’s dawn; till daylight; till the sun is o’ertopping the trees. Then is it surrounded by angry men; its wooden walls re-echoing their demand for admittance.They are the local authorities of the district; the sheriff of Natchitoches with hisposseof constables, and a crowd of people accompanying. Among them are Colonel Armstrong and the Creole, Dupré; these instigating the movement; indeed, directing it.Ah knew, from yesterday’s newspaper, of the murder committed near Natchez, as also of the murderer having broken jail. Only this morning have they learnt that the escaped criminal has been seen in the streets of their town. From an early hour they have been scouring these in search of him; and, at length, reached the Choctaw Chief—the place where he should be found, if found at all.On its doors being opened, they discover traces of him. No man named Darke has been there, but one calling himself Quantrell, with another, who went by the name of Walsh.As, in this case, neither the landlord nor bar-keeper have any interest in screening that particular pair of their late guests, they make no attempt to do so; but, on the contrary, tell all they know about them; adding, how both went away with a number of other gentlemen, who paid their tavern bills, and took departure at an early hour of the morning.The description of the other “gentlemen” is not so particularly given, because not so specially called for. In that of Quantrell and Walsh, Colonel Armstrong, without difficulty, identifies Richard Darke and the jailer, Joe Harkness.He, sheriff, constables, crowd, stand with countenances expressing defeat—disappointment. They have reached the Choctaw Chief a little too late. They know nothing of Borlasse, or how he has baffled them. They but believe, that, for the second time, the assassin of Charles Clancy has eluded the grasp of justice.
Once inside his sleeping apartment, Borlasse shuts the door, points out a chair to his invited guest, and plants himself upon another. With the promised bottle of whisky between them, he resumes speech.
“I’ve asked you, Quantrell, to be one o’ us. I’ve done it for your own good, as you ought to know without my tellin’ ye. Well; you asked me in return what that means?”
“Yes, I did,” rejoins Darke, speaking without purpose.
“It means, then,” continues Borlasse, taking a gulp out of his glass, “that me, an’ the others you’ve been drinking with, air as good a set of fellows as ever lived. That we’re a cheerful party, you’ve seen for yourself. What’s passed this night ain’t nowheres to the merry times we spend upon the prairies out in Texas—for it’s in Texas we live.”
“May I ask, Mr Borlasse, what business you follow?”
“Well; when we’re engaged in regular business, it’s mostly horse-catchin’. We rope wild horses,mustangs, as they’re called; an’ sometimes them that ain’t jest so wild. We bring ’em into the settlements for sale. For which reason we pass by the name ofmustangers. Between whiles, when business isn’t very brisk, we spend our time in some of the Texas towns—them what’s well in to’rds the Rio Grande, whar there’s a good sprinklin’ of Mexikins in the population. We’ve some rare times among the Mexikin girls, I kin assure you. You’ll take Jim Borlasse’s word for that, won’t you?”
“I have no cause to doubt it.”
“Well, I needn’t say more, need I? I know, Quantrell, you’re fond of a pretty face yourself, with sloe-black eyes in it. You’ll see them among the Mexikin saynoritas, to your heart’s content. Enough o’ ’em, maybe, to make you forget the pair as war late glancin’ at you out of the hotel gallery.”
“Glancing at me?” exclaims Darke, showing surprise, not unmixed with alarm.
“Glancing at ye; strait custrut; them same eyes as inspired ye to do that little bit of shootin’, wi’ Charley Clancy for a target.”
“You think shesawme?” asks the assassin, with increasing uneasiness.
“Think! I’m sure of it. More than saw—she recognised ye. I could tell that from the way she shot back into the shadow. Did ye not notice it yourself?”
“No,” rejoins Darke, the monosyllable issuing mechanically from his lips, while a shiver runs through his frame.
His questioner, observing these signs, continues,—
“T’ike my advice, and come with us fellows to Texas. Before you’re long there, the Mexikin girls will make you stop moping about Miss Armstrong. After the firstfandangoyou’ve been at, you won’t care a straw for her. Believe me, you’ll soon forget her.”
“Never!” exclaims Darke, in the fervour of his passion—thwarted though it has been—forgetting the danger he is in.
“If that’s your detarmination,” returns Borlasse, “an’ you’ve made up your mind to keep that sweetheart in sight, you won’t be likely to live long. As sure as you’re sittin’ thar, afore breakfast time to-morrow mornin’ the town of Naketosh ’ll be too hot to hold ye.”
Darke starts from his chair, as ifithad become too hot.
“Keep cool, Quantrell!” counsels the Texan. “No need for ye to be scared at what I’m sayin’. Thar’s no great danger jest yet. There might be, if you were in that chair, or this room, eight hours later. I won’t be myself, not one. For I may as well tell ye, that Jim Borlasse, same’s yourself, has reasons for shiftin’ quarters from the Choctaw Chief. And so, too, some o’ the fellows we’ve been drinkin’ with. We’ll all be out o’ this a good hour afore sun-up. Take a friend’s advice, and make tracks along wi’ us. Will you?”
Darke still hesitates to give an affirmative answer. His love for Helen Armstrong—wild, wanton passion though it be—is the controlling influence of his life. It has influenced him to follow her thus far, almost as much as the hope of escaping punishment for his crime. And though knowing, that the officers of justice are after him, he clings to the spot where she is staying, with that fascination which keeps the fox by the kennel holding the hounds. The thought of leaving her behind—perhaps never to see her again—is more repugnant than the spectre of a scaffold!
The Texan guesses the reason of his irresolution. More than this, he knows he has the means to put an end to it. A word will be sufficient; or, at most, a single speech. He puts it thus—
“If you’re detarmined to stick by the apron-strings o’ Miss Armstrong, you’ll not do that by staying here in Naketosh. Your best place, to benear her, will be alongwith me.”
“How so, Mr Borlasse?” questions Darke, his eyes opening to a new light. “Why do you say that?”
“You ought to know, without my tellin’ you—a man of your ’cuteness, Quantrell! You say you can never forget the older of that pair o’ girls. I believe you; and will be candid, too, in sayin’, no more is Jim Borlasse like to forget the younger. I thought nothin’ could ’a fetched that soft feelin’ over me. ’Twant likely, after what I’ve gone through in my time. But she’s done it—them blue eyes of hers; hanged if they hain’t! Then, do you suppose that I’m going to run away from, and lose sight o’ her and them?No; not till I’ve had her within these arms, and tears out o’ them same peepers droppin’ on my cheeks. That is, if she take it in the weepin’ way.”
“I don’t understand,” stammers Darke.
“You will in time,” rejoins the ruffian; “that is, if you become one o’ us, and go where we’re a-goin’. Enough now for you to be told that,there you will find your sweetheart!”
Without waiting to watch the effect of his last words, the tempter continues—
“Now, Phil Quantrell, or Dick Darke, as in confidence I may call ye, are you willin’ to be one o’ us?”
“I am.”
“Good! That’s settled. An’ your comrade, Harkness; I take it, he’ll go, too, when told o’ the danger of staying behind; not that he appears o’ much account, anyway. Still, among usmustangers, the more the merrier; and, sometimes we need numbers to help in the surroundin’ o’ the horses. He’ll go along, won’t he?”
“Anywhere, with me.”
“Well, then, you’d better step into his bedroom, and roust him up. Both of ye must be ready at once. Slip out to the stable, an’ see to the saddles of your horses. You needn’t trouble about settlin’ the tavern bill. That’s all scored to me; we kin fix the proportions of it afterward. Now, Quantrell, look sharp; in twenty minutes, time, I expect to find you an’ Harkness in the saddle, where you’ll see ten o’ us others the same.”
Saying this, the Texan strides out into the corridor, Darke preceding him. In the dimly-lighted passage they part company, Borlasse opening door after door of several bedrooms, ranged on both sides of it; into each, speaking a word, which, though only in whisper, seems to awake a sleeper as if a cannon were discharged close to his ears. Then succeeds a general shuffling, as of men hastily putting on coats and boots, with an occasional grunt of discontent at slumber disturbed; but neither talking nor angry protest. Soon, one after another, is seen issuing forth from his sleeping apartment, skulking along the corridor, out through the entrance door at back, and on towards the stable.
Presently, they fetch their horses forth, saddled and bridled. Then, leaping upon their backs, ride silently off under the shadow of the trees; Borlasse at their head, Quantrell by his side, Harkness among those behind.
Almost instantly they are in the thick forest which comes close up to the suburbs of Natchitoches; the Choctaw Chief standing among trees never planted by the hand of man.
The wholesale departure appearing surreptitious, is not unobserved. Both the tavern Boniface and his bar-keeper witness it, standing in the door as their guests go off; the landlord chuckling at the large pile of glittering coins left behind; Johnny scratching his carroty poll, and saying,—
“Be japers! they intind clearin’ that fellow Quantrell out. He won’t long be throubled wid that shinin’ stuff as seems burnin’ the bottom out av his pocket. I wudn’t be surrprized if they putt both him an’ ’tother fool past tillin’ tales afore ayther sees sun. Will, boss, it’s no bizness av ours.”
With this self-consolatory remark, to which the “boss” assents, Johnny proceeds to shut and lock the tavern door. Soon after the windows of the Choctaw Chief show lightless, its interior silent, the moonbeams shining upon its shingled roof peacefully and innocently, as though it had never sheltered robber, and drunken talk or ribald blasphemy been heard under it.
So, till morning’s dawn; till daylight; till the sun is o’ertopping the trees. Then is it surrounded by angry men; its wooden walls re-echoing their demand for admittance.
They are the local authorities of the district; the sheriff of Natchitoches with hisposseof constables, and a crowd of people accompanying. Among them are Colonel Armstrong and the Creole, Dupré; these instigating the movement; indeed, directing it.
Ah knew, from yesterday’s newspaper, of the murder committed near Natchez, as also of the murderer having broken jail. Only this morning have they learnt that the escaped criminal has been seen in the streets of their town. From an early hour they have been scouring these in search of him; and, at length, reached the Choctaw Chief—the place where he should be found, if found at all.
On its doors being opened, they discover traces of him. No man named Darke has been there, but one calling himself Quantrell, with another, who went by the name of Walsh.
As, in this case, neither the landlord nor bar-keeper have any interest in screening that particular pair of their late guests, they make no attempt to do so; but, on the contrary, tell all they know about them; adding, how both went away with a number of other gentlemen, who paid their tavern bills, and took departure at an early hour of the morning.
The description of the other “gentlemen” is not so particularly given, because not so specially called for. In that of Quantrell and Walsh, Colonel Armstrong, without difficulty, identifies Richard Darke and the jailer, Joe Harkness.
He, sheriff, constables, crowd, stand with countenances expressing defeat—disappointment. They have reached the Choctaw Chief a little too late. They know nothing of Borlasse, or how he has baffled them. They but believe, that, for the second time, the assassin of Charles Clancy has eluded the grasp of justice.
Chapter Thirty Five.A ghost going its rounds.It is nearly a month since the day of Clancy’s death; still the excitement caused by it, though to some extent subsided, has not died out. Curiosity and speculation are kept alive by the fact of the body not having been found. For it has not. Search has been made everywhere for miles around. Field and forest, creeks, ponds, swamp, and river, have all been traversed and interrogated, in vain. All have refused to surrender up the dead.That Clancy is dead no one has a doubt. To say nothing of the blood spilt beside his abandoned hat and gun, with the other circumstances attendant, there is testimony of a moral nature, to many quite as convincing.Alive he would long since have returned home, at thought of what his mother must be suffering. He was just the man to do that, as all who knew him are aware. Even wounded and crippled, if able to crawl, it would be to the side of the only woman at such a crisis he should care for.Though it is now known that he cared for another, no one entertains a thought of his having gone off afterher. It would not be in keeping with his character, any more than with the incidents and events that have conspired to make the mystery. Days pass, and it still remains one.The sun rises and sets, without throwing any light upon it. Conjecture can do nothing to clear it up; and search, over and over unsuccessful, is at length abandoned.If people still speculate upon how the body of the murdered man has been disposed of, there is no speculation as to who was his murderer, or how the latter made escape.The treason of the jail-keeper explains this—itself accounted for by Ephraim Darke having on the previous day paid a visit to his son in the cell, and left with him a key that ere now has opened many a prison door. Joe Harkness, a weak-witted fellow, long suspected of faithlessness, was not the man to resist the temptation with which his palm had been touched.Since that day some changes have taken place in the settlement. The plantation late Armstrong’s has passed into the hands of a new proprietor—Darke having disposed of it—while the cottage of the Clancys, now ownerless, stays untenanted. Unfurnished too: for the bailiff has been there, and a bill of sale, which covered its scant plenishing, farm-stock, implements and utensils, has swept all away.For a single day there was a stir about the place, with noise corresponding, when the chattels were being disposed of by public auction. Then the household gods of the decayed Irish gentleman were knocked down to the highest bidder, and scattered throughout the district. Rare books, pictures, and other articles, telling of refined taste, with some slight remnants ofbijouterie, were carried off to log-cabins, there to be esteemed in proportion to the prices paid for them. In fine, the Clancy cottage, stripped of everything, has been left untenanted. Lone as to the situation in which it stands, it is yet lonelier in its desolation. Even the dog, that did such service in pointing out the criminality of him who caused all the ruin, no longer guards its enclosures, or cheers them with his familiar bark. The faithful animal, adopted by Simeon Woodley, has found a home in the cabin of the hunter.It is midnight; an hour still and voiceless in Northern climes, but not so in the Southern. Far from it in the State of Mississippi. There the sun’s excessive heat keeps Nature alert and alive, even at night, and in days of December.Though night, it is not December, but a date nearer Spring. February is written on the heading of letters, and this, a Spring month on the Lower Mississippi, has commenced making its imprint on the forest trees. Their buds have already burst, some showing leaves fully expanded, others of still earlier habit bedecked with blossoms. Birds, too, awaking from a short winter’s silence, pour forth their amorous lays, filling glade and grove with music, that does not end with the day; for the mock-bird, taking up the strain, carries it on through the hours of night; so well counterfeiting the notes of his fellow-songsters, one might fancy them awake—still singing.Not so melodious are other voices disturbing the stillness of the Southern night. Quite the opposite are the croaking of frogs, the screeching of owls, the jerking call of tree-crickets, and the bellowing of the alligator. Still, the ear accustomed to such sounds is not jarred by them. They are but the bass notes, needed to complete the symphony of Nature’s concert.In the midst of this mélange,—the hour, as already stated, midnight—a man, or something bearing man’s semblance, is seen gliding along the edge of the cypress swamp, not far from the place where Charles Clancy fell.After skirting the mud-flat for a time, the figure—whether ghost or human—turns face toward the tract of lighter woodland, extending between the thick timber and cleared ground of the plantations.Having traversed this, the nocturnal wayfarer comes within sight of the deserted cottage, late occupied by the Clancys.The moonlight, falling upon his face, shows it to be white. Also, that his cheeks are pallid, with eyes hollow and sunken, as from sickness—some malady long-endured, and not yet cured. As he strides over fallen logs, or climbs fences stretching athwart his course, his tottering step tells of a frame enfeebled.When at length clear of the woods, and within sight of the untenanted dwelling, he stops, and for a time remains contemplating it. That he is aware of its being unoccupied is evident, from the glance with which he regards it.His familiarity with the place is equally evident. On entering the cottage grounds, which he soon after does, through, some shrubbery at the back, he takes the path leading up to the house, without appearing to have any doubt about its being the right one.For all this he makes approach with caution, looking suspiciously around—either actually afraid, or not desiring to be observed.There is little likelihood of his being so. At that hour all in the settlement should be asleep. The house stands remote, more than a mile from its nearest neighbour. It is empty; has been stripped of its furniture, of everything. What should any one be doing there?What ishedoing there? A question which would suggest itself to one seeing him; with interest added on making note of his movements.There is no one to do either; and he continues on to the house, making for its back door, where there is a porch, as also a covered way, leading to a log-cabin—the kitchen.Even as within the porch, he tries the handle of the door which at a touch goes open. There is no lock, or if there was, it has not been thought worth while to turn the key in it. There are no burglars in the backwoods. If there were, nothing in that house need tempt them.Its nocturnal visitor enters under its roof. The ring of his footsteps, though he still treads cautiously, gives out a sad, solemn sound. It is in unison with the sighs that come, deep-drawn, from his breast; at times so sonorous as to be audible all over the house.He passes from room to room. There are not many—only five of them. In each he remains a few moments, gazing dismally around. But in one—that which was the widow’s sleeping chamber—he tarries a longer time; regarding a particular spot—the place formerly occupied by a bed. Then a sigh, louder than any that has preceded it, succeeded by the words, low-muttered:—“There she must have breathed her last!”After this speech, more sighing, accompanied by still surer signs of sorrow—sobs and weeping. As the moonbeams, pouring in through the open window, fall upon his face, their pale silvery light sparkles upon tears, streaming from hollow eyes, chasing one another down emaciated cheeks.After surrendering himself some minutes to what appears a very agony of grief, he turns out of the sleeping chamber; passes through the narrow hall-way; and on into the porch. Not now the back one, but that facing front to the road.On the other side of this is an open tract of ground, half cleared, half woodland; the former sterile, the latter scraggy. It seems to belong to no one, as if not worth claiming, or cultivating. It has been, in fact, an appanage of Colonel Armstrong’s estate, who had granted it to the public as the site for a schoolhouse, and a common burying-ground—free to all desiring to be instructed, or needing to be interred. The schoolhouse has disappeared, but the cemetery is still there—only distinguishable from the surroundingterrainby some oblong elevations, having the well-known configuration of graves. There are in all about a score of them; some having a plain head-board—a piece of painted plank, with letters rudely limned, recording the name and age of him or her resting underneath.Time and the weather have turned most of them greyish, with dates decayed, and names scarcely legible. But there is one upon which the paint shows fresh and white; in the clear moonlight gleaming like a meteor.He who has explored the deserted dwelling, stands for a while with eyes directed on this recently erected memorial. Then, stepping down from the porch, he passes through the wicket-gate; crosses the road; and goes straight towards it, as though a hand beckoned him thither.When close up, he sees it to be by a grave upon which the herbage has not yet grown.The night is a cold one—chill for that Southern clime. The dew upon the withered grass of the grave turf is almost congealed into hoar frost, adding to its ghostly aspect.The lettering upon the head-board is in shadow, the moon being on the opposite side.But stooping forward, so as to bring his eyes close to the slab, he is enabled to decipher the inscription.It is the simplest form of memento—only a name, with the date of death—“Caroline Clancy,Died January 18—”After reading it, a fresh sob bursts from his bosom, new tears start from his eyes, and he flings himself down upon the grave. Disregarding the dew, thinking nought of the night’s dullness, he stretches his arms over the cold turf, embracing it as though it were the warm body of one beloved!For several minutes he remains in this attitude. Then, suddenly rising erect, as if impelled by some strong purpose, there comes from his lips, poured forth in wild passionate accent, the speeches:—“Mother! dear mother! I am still living! I am here! And you, dead! No more to know—no more hear me! O God!”They are the words of one frantic with grief, scarce knowing what he says.Presently, sober reason seems to assert itself, and he again resumes speech; but now with voice, expression of features, attitude, everything so changed, that no one, seeing him the moment before, would believe it the same man.Upon his countenance sternness has replaced sorrow; the soft lines have become rigid; the melancholy glance is gone, replaced by one that tells of determination—of vengeance.Once more he glances down at the grave; then up to the sky, till the moon, coursing across high heaven, falls full upon his face. With his body slightly leaning backward, the arms along his sides, stiffly extended, the hands closed in convulsive clutch, he cries out:—“By the heavens above—by the shade of my murdered mother, who lies beneath—I swear not to know rest, never more seek contentment, till I’ve punished her murderer! Night and day—through summer and winter—shall I search for him. Yes; search till I’ve found and chastised this man, this monster, who has brought blight on me, death to my mother, and desolation to our house! Ah! think not you can escape me! Texas, whither I know you have gone, will not be large enough to hold, nor its wilderness wide enough to screen you from my vengeance. If not found there, I shall follow you to the end of the earth—to the end of the earth, Richard Darke!”“Charley Clancy!”He turns as if a shot had struck him. He sees a man standing within six paces of the spot.“Sime Woodsy!”
It is nearly a month since the day of Clancy’s death; still the excitement caused by it, though to some extent subsided, has not died out. Curiosity and speculation are kept alive by the fact of the body not having been found. For it has not. Search has been made everywhere for miles around. Field and forest, creeks, ponds, swamp, and river, have all been traversed and interrogated, in vain. All have refused to surrender up the dead.
That Clancy is dead no one has a doubt. To say nothing of the blood spilt beside his abandoned hat and gun, with the other circumstances attendant, there is testimony of a moral nature, to many quite as convincing.
Alive he would long since have returned home, at thought of what his mother must be suffering. He was just the man to do that, as all who knew him are aware. Even wounded and crippled, if able to crawl, it would be to the side of the only woman at such a crisis he should care for.
Though it is now known that he cared for another, no one entertains a thought of his having gone off afterher. It would not be in keeping with his character, any more than with the incidents and events that have conspired to make the mystery. Days pass, and it still remains one.
The sun rises and sets, without throwing any light upon it. Conjecture can do nothing to clear it up; and search, over and over unsuccessful, is at length abandoned.
If people still speculate upon how the body of the murdered man has been disposed of, there is no speculation as to who was his murderer, or how the latter made escape.
The treason of the jail-keeper explains this—itself accounted for by Ephraim Darke having on the previous day paid a visit to his son in the cell, and left with him a key that ere now has opened many a prison door. Joe Harkness, a weak-witted fellow, long suspected of faithlessness, was not the man to resist the temptation with which his palm had been touched.
Since that day some changes have taken place in the settlement. The plantation late Armstrong’s has passed into the hands of a new proprietor—Darke having disposed of it—while the cottage of the Clancys, now ownerless, stays untenanted. Unfurnished too: for the bailiff has been there, and a bill of sale, which covered its scant plenishing, farm-stock, implements and utensils, has swept all away.
For a single day there was a stir about the place, with noise corresponding, when the chattels were being disposed of by public auction. Then the household gods of the decayed Irish gentleman were knocked down to the highest bidder, and scattered throughout the district. Rare books, pictures, and other articles, telling of refined taste, with some slight remnants ofbijouterie, were carried off to log-cabins, there to be esteemed in proportion to the prices paid for them. In fine, the Clancy cottage, stripped of everything, has been left untenanted. Lone as to the situation in which it stands, it is yet lonelier in its desolation. Even the dog, that did such service in pointing out the criminality of him who caused all the ruin, no longer guards its enclosures, or cheers them with his familiar bark. The faithful animal, adopted by Simeon Woodley, has found a home in the cabin of the hunter.
It is midnight; an hour still and voiceless in Northern climes, but not so in the Southern. Far from it in the State of Mississippi. There the sun’s excessive heat keeps Nature alert and alive, even at night, and in days of December.
Though night, it is not December, but a date nearer Spring. February is written on the heading of letters, and this, a Spring month on the Lower Mississippi, has commenced making its imprint on the forest trees. Their buds have already burst, some showing leaves fully expanded, others of still earlier habit bedecked with blossoms. Birds, too, awaking from a short winter’s silence, pour forth their amorous lays, filling glade and grove with music, that does not end with the day; for the mock-bird, taking up the strain, carries it on through the hours of night; so well counterfeiting the notes of his fellow-songsters, one might fancy them awake—still singing.
Not so melodious are other voices disturbing the stillness of the Southern night. Quite the opposite are the croaking of frogs, the screeching of owls, the jerking call of tree-crickets, and the bellowing of the alligator. Still, the ear accustomed to such sounds is not jarred by them. They are but the bass notes, needed to complete the symphony of Nature’s concert.
In the midst of this mélange,—the hour, as already stated, midnight—a man, or something bearing man’s semblance, is seen gliding along the edge of the cypress swamp, not far from the place where Charles Clancy fell.
After skirting the mud-flat for a time, the figure—whether ghost or human—turns face toward the tract of lighter woodland, extending between the thick timber and cleared ground of the plantations.
Having traversed this, the nocturnal wayfarer comes within sight of the deserted cottage, late occupied by the Clancys.
The moonlight, falling upon his face, shows it to be white. Also, that his cheeks are pallid, with eyes hollow and sunken, as from sickness—some malady long-endured, and not yet cured. As he strides over fallen logs, or climbs fences stretching athwart his course, his tottering step tells of a frame enfeebled.
When at length clear of the woods, and within sight of the untenanted dwelling, he stops, and for a time remains contemplating it. That he is aware of its being unoccupied is evident, from the glance with which he regards it.
His familiarity with the place is equally evident. On entering the cottage grounds, which he soon after does, through, some shrubbery at the back, he takes the path leading up to the house, without appearing to have any doubt about its being the right one.
For all this he makes approach with caution, looking suspiciously around—either actually afraid, or not desiring to be observed.
There is little likelihood of his being so. At that hour all in the settlement should be asleep. The house stands remote, more than a mile from its nearest neighbour. It is empty; has been stripped of its furniture, of everything. What should any one be doing there?
What ishedoing there? A question which would suggest itself to one seeing him; with interest added on making note of his movements.
There is no one to do either; and he continues on to the house, making for its back door, where there is a porch, as also a covered way, leading to a log-cabin—the kitchen.
Even as within the porch, he tries the handle of the door which at a touch goes open. There is no lock, or if there was, it has not been thought worth while to turn the key in it. There are no burglars in the backwoods. If there were, nothing in that house need tempt them.
Its nocturnal visitor enters under its roof. The ring of his footsteps, though he still treads cautiously, gives out a sad, solemn sound. It is in unison with the sighs that come, deep-drawn, from his breast; at times so sonorous as to be audible all over the house.
He passes from room to room. There are not many—only five of them. In each he remains a few moments, gazing dismally around. But in one—that which was the widow’s sleeping chamber—he tarries a longer time; regarding a particular spot—the place formerly occupied by a bed. Then a sigh, louder than any that has preceded it, succeeded by the words, low-muttered:—
“There she must have breathed her last!”
After this speech, more sighing, accompanied by still surer signs of sorrow—sobs and weeping. As the moonbeams, pouring in through the open window, fall upon his face, their pale silvery light sparkles upon tears, streaming from hollow eyes, chasing one another down emaciated cheeks.
After surrendering himself some minutes to what appears a very agony of grief, he turns out of the sleeping chamber; passes through the narrow hall-way; and on into the porch. Not now the back one, but that facing front to the road.
On the other side of this is an open tract of ground, half cleared, half woodland; the former sterile, the latter scraggy. It seems to belong to no one, as if not worth claiming, or cultivating. It has been, in fact, an appanage of Colonel Armstrong’s estate, who had granted it to the public as the site for a schoolhouse, and a common burying-ground—free to all desiring to be instructed, or needing to be interred. The schoolhouse has disappeared, but the cemetery is still there—only distinguishable from the surroundingterrainby some oblong elevations, having the well-known configuration of graves. There are in all about a score of them; some having a plain head-board—a piece of painted plank, with letters rudely limned, recording the name and age of him or her resting underneath.
Time and the weather have turned most of them greyish, with dates decayed, and names scarcely legible. But there is one upon which the paint shows fresh and white; in the clear moonlight gleaming like a meteor.
He who has explored the deserted dwelling, stands for a while with eyes directed on this recently erected memorial. Then, stepping down from the porch, he passes through the wicket-gate; crosses the road; and goes straight towards it, as though a hand beckoned him thither.
When close up, he sees it to be by a grave upon which the herbage has not yet grown.
The night is a cold one—chill for that Southern clime. The dew upon the withered grass of the grave turf is almost congealed into hoar frost, adding to its ghostly aspect.
The lettering upon the head-board is in shadow, the moon being on the opposite side.
But stooping forward, so as to bring his eyes close to the slab, he is enabled to decipher the inscription.
It is the simplest form of memento—only a name, with the date of death—
“Caroline Clancy,Died January 18—”
“Caroline Clancy,Died January 18—”
After reading it, a fresh sob bursts from his bosom, new tears start from his eyes, and he flings himself down upon the grave. Disregarding the dew, thinking nought of the night’s dullness, he stretches his arms over the cold turf, embracing it as though it were the warm body of one beloved!
For several minutes he remains in this attitude. Then, suddenly rising erect, as if impelled by some strong purpose, there comes from his lips, poured forth in wild passionate accent, the speeches:—
“Mother! dear mother! I am still living! I am here! And you, dead! No more to know—no more hear me! O God!”
They are the words of one frantic with grief, scarce knowing what he says.
Presently, sober reason seems to assert itself, and he again resumes speech; but now with voice, expression of features, attitude, everything so changed, that no one, seeing him the moment before, would believe it the same man.
Upon his countenance sternness has replaced sorrow; the soft lines have become rigid; the melancholy glance is gone, replaced by one that tells of determination—of vengeance.
Once more he glances down at the grave; then up to the sky, till the moon, coursing across high heaven, falls full upon his face. With his body slightly leaning backward, the arms along his sides, stiffly extended, the hands closed in convulsive clutch, he cries out:—
“By the heavens above—by the shade of my murdered mother, who lies beneath—I swear not to know rest, never more seek contentment, till I’ve punished her murderer! Night and day—through summer and winter—shall I search for him. Yes; search till I’ve found and chastised this man, this monster, who has brought blight on me, death to my mother, and desolation to our house! Ah! think not you can escape me! Texas, whither I know you have gone, will not be large enough to hold, nor its wilderness wide enough to screen you from my vengeance. If not found there, I shall follow you to the end of the earth—to the end of the earth, Richard Darke!”
“Charley Clancy!”
He turns as if a shot had struck him. He sees a man standing within six paces of the spot.
“Sime Woodsy!”
Chapter Thirty Six.“She is true—still true!”The men who thus mutually pronounce each other’s names are they who bear them. For it is, in truth, Charles Clancy who stands by the grave, and Simeon Woodley who has saluted him.The surprise is all upon the side of Sime, and something more. He beholds a man all supposed to be dead, apparently returned from the tomb! Sees him in a place appropriate to resurrection, in the centre of a burying-ground, by the side of a recently made grave!The backwoodsman is not above believing in spiritual existences, and for an instant he is under a spell of the supernatural.It passes off on his perceiving that real flesh and blood is before him—Charles Clancy himself, and not his wraith.He reaches this conclusion the sooner from having all along entertained a doubt about Clancy being dead. Despite the many circumstances pointing to, almost proving, his death, Woodley was never quite convinced of it. No one has taken so much trouble, or made so many efforts, to clear up the mystery. He has been foremost in the attempt to get punishment for the guilty man, as in the search for the body of his victim; both of which failed, to his great humiliation; his grief too, for he sincerely lamented his lost friend. Friends they were of no common kind. Not only had they oft hunted in company, but been together in Texas during Clancy’s visit to the Lone Star State; together at Nacogdoches, where Borlasse received chastisement for stealing the horse; together saw the thief tied to the stake, Woodley being one of the stern jury who sentenced him to be whipped, and saw to the sentence being carried into execution.The hunter had been to Natchez for the disposal of some pelts and deer-meat, a week’s produce of his gun. Returning at a late hour, he must needs pass the cottage of the Clancys, his own humble domicile lying beyond. At sight of the deserted dwelling a painful throb passed through his heart, as he recalled the sad fate of those who once occupied it.Making an effort to forget the gloomy record, he was riding on, when a figure flitting across the road arrested his attention. The clear moonlight showed the figure to be that of a man, and one whose movements betrayed absence of mind, if not actual aberration.With the instinct habitual to the hunter Woodley at once tightened rein, coming to a stop under the shadow of the roadside trees. Sitting in his saddle he watched the midnight wanderer, whose eccentric movements continued to cause him surprise. He saw the latter walk on to the little woodland cemetery, take stand by the side of a grave, bending forward as if to read the epitaph on its painted slab. Soon after kneeling down as in prayer, then throwing himself prostrate along the earth. Woodley well knew the grave thus venerated. For he had himself assisted in digging and smoothing down the turf that covered it. He had also been instrumental in erecting the frail tablet that stood over. Who was this man, in the chill, silent hour of midnight, flinging himself upon it in sorrow or adoration?With a feeling far different from curiosity, the hunter slipped out of his saddle, and leaving his horse behind, cautiously approached the spot. As the man upon the grave was too much absorbed with his own thoughts, he got close up without being observed; so close as to hear that strange adjuration, and see a face he never expected to look upon again. Despite the features, pale and marked with emaciation, the hollow cheeks, and sunken but glaring eyeballs, he recognised the countenance of Charles Clancy; soon as he did so, mechanically calling out his name.Hearing his own pronounced, in response, Sime again exclaims, “Charley Clancy!” adding the interrogatory, “Is it yurself or yur shader?”Then, becoming assured, he throws open his arms, and closes them around his old hunting associate.Joy, at seeing the latter still alive, expels every trace of supernatural thought, and he gives way—to exuberant congratulation.On Clancy’s side the only return is a faint smile, with a few confused words, that seem to speak more of sadness than satisfaction. The expression upon his face is rather or chagrin, as if sorry at the encounter having occurred. His words are proof of it.“Simeon Woodley,” he says, “I should have been happy to meet you at any other time, but not now.”“Why, Clancy!” returns the hunter, supremely astonished at the coldness with which his warm advances have been received. “Surely you know I’m yur friend?”“Right well I know it.”“Wal, then, believin’ you to be dead—tho’ I for one never felt sure o’t—still thinking it might be—didn’t I do all my possible to git justice done for ye?”“You did. I’ve heard all—everything that has happened. Too much I’ve heard. O God! look there! Her grave—my murdered mother!”“That’s true. It killed the poor lady, sure enough.”“Yes;hekilled her.”“I needn’t axe who you refar to. I heerd you mention the name as I got up. We all know that Dick Darke has done whatever hez been done. We hed him put in prison, but the skunk got away from us, by the bribin’ o’ another skunk like hisself. The two went off thegither, an’ no word’s ever been since heerd ’bout eyther. I guess they’ve put for Texas, whar every scoundrel goes nowadays. Wal, Lordy! I’m so glad to see ye still alive. Won’t ye tell me how it’s all kim about?”“In time I shall—not now.”“But why are ye displeezed at meetin’ me—me that mayent be the grandest, but saitinly one o’ the truest an’ fastest o’ yur friends?”“I believe you are, Woodley—am sure of it. And, now that I think more of the matter, I’m not sorry at having met you. Rather am I glad of it; for I feel that I can depend upon you. Sime, will you go with me to Texas?”“To Texas, or anywhars. In coorse I will. An’ I reck’n we’ll hev a good chance o’ meetin’ Dick Darke thar, an’ then—”“Meet him!” exclaimed Clancy, without waiting for the backwoodsman to finish his speech, “I’m sure of meeting him. I know the spot where. Ah, Simeon Woodley! ’tis a wicked world! Murderer as that man is, or supposed to be, there’s a woman gone to Texas who will welcome him—receive him with open arms; lovingly entwine them around his neck. O God!”“What woman air ye talkin’ o’, Clancy?”“Her who has been the cause of all—Helen Armstrong.”“Wal; ye speak the truth partwise—but only partwise. Thar’ can be no doubt o’ Miss Armstrong’s being the innercent cause of most o’ what’s been did. But as to her hevin’ a likin’ for Dick Darke, or puttin’ them soft white arms o’ hern willingly or lovingly aroun’ his neck, thar you’re clar off the trail—a million miles off o’ it. That ere gurl hates the very sight o’ the man, as Sime Woodley hev’ good reason to know. An’ I know, too, that she’s nuts on another man—leastwise has been afore all this happened, and I reck’n still continue to be. Weemen—that air, weemen o’ her kidney—ain’t so changeable as people supposes. ’Bout Miss Helen Armstrong hevin’ once been inclined to’ardst this other man, an’ ready to freeze to him, I hev’ the proof in my pocket.”“The proof! What are you speaking of?”“A dookyment, Charley Clancy, that shed hev reached you long ago, seein’ that it’s got your name on it. Thar’s both a letter and a pictur’. To examine ’em, we must have a clarer light than what’s unner this tree, or kin be got out o’ that ’ere moon. S’pose we adjern to my shanty. Thar we kin set the logs a-bleezin’. When they throw thar glint on the bit o’ paper I’ve spoke about, I’ll take long odds you won’t be so down in the mouth. Come along, Charley Clancy! Ye’ve had a durned dodrotted deal both o’ sufferin’ an’ sorrow. Be cheered! Sime Woodley’s got somethin’ thet’s likely to put ye straight upright on your pins. It’s only a bit o’ pasteboard an’ a sheet o’ paper—both inside what in Natcheez they calls a enwelope. Come wi’ me to the ole cabin, an’ thar you kin take a squint at ’em.”Clancy’s heart is too full to make rejoinder. The words of Woodley have inspired him with new hope. Health, long doubtful, seems suddenly restored to him. The colour comes back to his cheeks; and, as he follows the hunter to his hut, his stride exhibits all its old vigour and elasticity.When the burning logs are kicked into a blaze; when by its light he reads Helen Armstrong’s letter, and looks upon her photograph—on that sweet inscript intended for himself—he cries out in ecstasy,—“Thank heaven! she is true—still true!”No longer looks he the sad despairing invalid, but the lover—strong, proud, triumphant.
The men who thus mutually pronounce each other’s names are they who bear them. For it is, in truth, Charles Clancy who stands by the grave, and Simeon Woodley who has saluted him.
The surprise is all upon the side of Sime, and something more. He beholds a man all supposed to be dead, apparently returned from the tomb! Sees him in a place appropriate to resurrection, in the centre of a burying-ground, by the side of a recently made grave!
The backwoodsman is not above believing in spiritual existences, and for an instant he is under a spell of the supernatural.
It passes off on his perceiving that real flesh and blood is before him—Charles Clancy himself, and not his wraith.
He reaches this conclusion the sooner from having all along entertained a doubt about Clancy being dead. Despite the many circumstances pointing to, almost proving, his death, Woodley was never quite convinced of it. No one has taken so much trouble, or made so many efforts, to clear up the mystery. He has been foremost in the attempt to get punishment for the guilty man, as in the search for the body of his victim; both of which failed, to his great humiliation; his grief too, for he sincerely lamented his lost friend. Friends they were of no common kind. Not only had they oft hunted in company, but been together in Texas during Clancy’s visit to the Lone Star State; together at Nacogdoches, where Borlasse received chastisement for stealing the horse; together saw the thief tied to the stake, Woodley being one of the stern jury who sentenced him to be whipped, and saw to the sentence being carried into execution.
The hunter had been to Natchez for the disposal of some pelts and deer-meat, a week’s produce of his gun. Returning at a late hour, he must needs pass the cottage of the Clancys, his own humble domicile lying beyond. At sight of the deserted dwelling a painful throb passed through his heart, as he recalled the sad fate of those who once occupied it.
Making an effort to forget the gloomy record, he was riding on, when a figure flitting across the road arrested his attention. The clear moonlight showed the figure to be that of a man, and one whose movements betrayed absence of mind, if not actual aberration.
With the instinct habitual to the hunter Woodley at once tightened rein, coming to a stop under the shadow of the roadside trees. Sitting in his saddle he watched the midnight wanderer, whose eccentric movements continued to cause him surprise. He saw the latter walk on to the little woodland cemetery, take stand by the side of a grave, bending forward as if to read the epitaph on its painted slab. Soon after kneeling down as in prayer, then throwing himself prostrate along the earth. Woodley well knew the grave thus venerated. For he had himself assisted in digging and smoothing down the turf that covered it. He had also been instrumental in erecting the frail tablet that stood over. Who was this man, in the chill, silent hour of midnight, flinging himself upon it in sorrow or adoration?
With a feeling far different from curiosity, the hunter slipped out of his saddle, and leaving his horse behind, cautiously approached the spot. As the man upon the grave was too much absorbed with his own thoughts, he got close up without being observed; so close as to hear that strange adjuration, and see a face he never expected to look upon again. Despite the features, pale and marked with emaciation, the hollow cheeks, and sunken but glaring eyeballs, he recognised the countenance of Charles Clancy; soon as he did so, mechanically calling out his name.
Hearing his own pronounced, in response, Sime again exclaims, “Charley Clancy!” adding the interrogatory, “Is it yurself or yur shader?”
Then, becoming assured, he throws open his arms, and closes them around his old hunting associate.
Joy, at seeing the latter still alive, expels every trace of supernatural thought, and he gives way—to exuberant congratulation.
On Clancy’s side the only return is a faint smile, with a few confused words, that seem to speak more of sadness than satisfaction. The expression upon his face is rather or chagrin, as if sorry at the encounter having occurred. His words are proof of it.
“Simeon Woodley,” he says, “I should have been happy to meet you at any other time, but not now.”
“Why, Clancy!” returns the hunter, supremely astonished at the coldness with which his warm advances have been received. “Surely you know I’m yur friend?”
“Right well I know it.”
“Wal, then, believin’ you to be dead—tho’ I for one never felt sure o’t—still thinking it might be—didn’t I do all my possible to git justice done for ye?”
“You did. I’ve heard all—everything that has happened. Too much I’ve heard. O God! look there! Her grave—my murdered mother!”
“That’s true. It killed the poor lady, sure enough.”
“Yes;hekilled her.”
“I needn’t axe who you refar to. I heerd you mention the name as I got up. We all know that Dick Darke has done whatever hez been done. We hed him put in prison, but the skunk got away from us, by the bribin’ o’ another skunk like hisself. The two went off thegither, an’ no word’s ever been since heerd ’bout eyther. I guess they’ve put for Texas, whar every scoundrel goes nowadays. Wal, Lordy! I’m so glad to see ye still alive. Won’t ye tell me how it’s all kim about?”
“In time I shall—not now.”
“But why are ye displeezed at meetin’ me—me that mayent be the grandest, but saitinly one o’ the truest an’ fastest o’ yur friends?”
“I believe you are, Woodley—am sure of it. And, now that I think more of the matter, I’m not sorry at having met you. Rather am I glad of it; for I feel that I can depend upon you. Sime, will you go with me to Texas?”
“To Texas, or anywhars. In coorse I will. An’ I reck’n we’ll hev a good chance o’ meetin’ Dick Darke thar, an’ then—”
“Meet him!” exclaimed Clancy, without waiting for the backwoodsman to finish his speech, “I’m sure of meeting him. I know the spot where. Ah, Simeon Woodley! ’tis a wicked world! Murderer as that man is, or supposed to be, there’s a woman gone to Texas who will welcome him—receive him with open arms; lovingly entwine them around his neck. O God!”
“What woman air ye talkin’ o’, Clancy?”
“Her who has been the cause of all—Helen Armstrong.”
“Wal; ye speak the truth partwise—but only partwise. Thar’ can be no doubt o’ Miss Armstrong’s being the innercent cause of most o’ what’s been did. But as to her hevin’ a likin’ for Dick Darke, or puttin’ them soft white arms o’ hern willingly or lovingly aroun’ his neck, thar you’re clar off the trail—a million miles off o’ it. That ere gurl hates the very sight o’ the man, as Sime Woodley hev’ good reason to know. An’ I know, too, that she’s nuts on another man—leastwise has been afore all this happened, and I reck’n still continue to be. Weemen—that air, weemen o’ her kidney—ain’t so changeable as people supposes. ’Bout Miss Helen Armstrong hevin’ once been inclined to’ardst this other man, an’ ready to freeze to him, I hev’ the proof in my pocket.”
“The proof! What are you speaking of?”
“A dookyment, Charley Clancy, that shed hev reached you long ago, seein’ that it’s got your name on it. Thar’s both a letter and a pictur’. To examine ’em, we must have a clarer light than what’s unner this tree, or kin be got out o’ that ’ere moon. S’pose we adjern to my shanty. Thar we kin set the logs a-bleezin’. When they throw thar glint on the bit o’ paper I’ve spoke about, I’ll take long odds you won’t be so down in the mouth. Come along, Charley Clancy! Ye’ve had a durned dodrotted deal both o’ sufferin’ an’ sorrow. Be cheered! Sime Woodley’s got somethin’ thet’s likely to put ye straight upright on your pins. It’s only a bit o’ pasteboard an’ a sheet o’ paper—both inside what in Natcheez they calls a enwelope. Come wi’ me to the ole cabin, an’ thar you kin take a squint at ’em.”
Clancy’s heart is too full to make rejoinder. The words of Woodley have inspired him with new hope. Health, long doubtful, seems suddenly restored to him. The colour comes back to his cheeks; and, as he follows the hunter to his hut, his stride exhibits all its old vigour and elasticity.
When the burning logs are kicked into a blaze; when by its light he reads Helen Armstrong’s letter, and looks upon her photograph—on that sweet inscript intended for himself—he cries out in ecstasy,—
“Thank heaven! she is true—still true!”
No longer looks he the sad despairing invalid, but the lover—strong, proud, triumphant.
Chapter Thirty Seven.The home of the hunted slave.Throughout all these days where has Clancy been? Dead, and come to life again? Or, but half killed and recovered? Where the while hidden? And why? Questions that in quick succession occur to Simeon Woodley meeting him by his mother’s grave.Not all put then or there; but afterwards on the hunter’s own hearth, as the two sit before the blazing logs, by whose light Clancy has read the letter so cheering him.Then Woodley asks them, and impatiently awaits the answers.The reader may be asking the same questions, and in like manner expecting reply.He shall have it, as Woodley, not in a word or at once, but in a series of incidents, for the narration of which it is necessary to return upon time; as also to introduce a personage hitherto known but by repute—the fugitive slave, Jupiter.“Jupe” is of the colour called “light mulatto,” closely approximating to that of newly tanned leather. His features are naturally of a pleasing expression; only now and then showing fierce, when he reflects on a terrible flogging, and general ill treatment experienced, at the hands of the cruel master from whom he has absconded.He is still but a young fellow, with face beardless; only two darkish streaks of down along the upper lip. But the absence of virile sign upon his cheeks has full compensation in a thick shock covering his crown, where the hair of Shem struggles for supremacy with the wool of Ham, and so successfully, as to result in a profusion of curls of which Apollo might be proud. The god of Beauty need not want a better form or face; nor he of Strength a set of sinews tougher, or limbs more tersely knit. Young though he may be, Jupe has performed feats of Herculean strength, requiring courage as well. No wonder at his having won Jule!A free fearless spirit he: somewhat wild, though not heart-wicked; a good deal given to nocturnal excursions to neighbouring plantations; hence the infliction of the lash, which has finally caused his absconding from that of Ephraim Darke.A merry jovial fellow he has been—would be still—but for the cloud of danger that hangs over him; dark as the den in which he has found a hiding-place. This is in the very heart and centre of the cypress swamp, as also in the heart and hollow of a cypress tree. No dead log, but a living growing trunk, which stands on a little eyot, not immediately surrounded by water, but marsh and mud. There is water beyond, on every side, extending more than a mile, with trees standing in and shadowing its stagnant surface.On the little islet Nature has provided a home for the hunted fugitive—an asylum where he is safe from pursuit—beyond the scent of savage hounds, and the trailing of men almost as savage as they; for the place cannot be approached by water-craft, and is equally unapproachable by land. Even a dog could not make way through the quagmire of mud, stretching immediately around it to a distance of several hundred yards. If one tried, it would soon be snapped up by the great saurian, master of this darksome domain. Still is there a way to traverse the treacherous ground, for one knowing it, as does Darke’s runaway slave. Here, again, has Nature intervened, lending her beneficent aid to the oppressed fleeing from oppression. The elements in their anger, spoken by tempest and tornado, have laid prostrate several trees, whose trunks, lying along the ooze, lap one another, and form a continuous causeway. Where there chances to be a break, human ingenuity has supplied the connecting link, making it as much as possible to look like Nature’s own handiwork; though it is that of Jupiter himself. The hollow tree has given him a house ready built, with walls strong as any constructed by human hands, and a roof to shelter him from the rain. If no better than the lair of a wild beast, still is it snug and safe. The winds may blow above, the thunder rattle, and the lightning flash; but below, under the close canopy of leaves and thickly-woven parasites, he but hears the first in soft sighings, the second in distant reverberation, and sees the last only in faint phosphoric gleams. Far brighter the sparkle of insects that nightly play around the door of his dwelling.A month has elapsed since the day when, incensed at the flogging received—this cruel as causeless—he ran away, resolved to risk everything, life itself, rather than longer endure the tyrannous treatment of the Darkes.Though suspected of having taken refuge in the swamp, and there repeatedly sought for, throughout all this time he has contrived to baffle search. Nor has he either starved or suffered, except from solitude. Naturally of a social disposition, this has been irksome to him. Otherwise, he has comforts enough. Though rude his domicile, and remote from a market, it is sufficiently furnished and provided. The Spanish moss makes a soft couch, on which he can peacefully repose. And for food he need not be hard up, nor has he been for a single day. If it come to that, he can easily entrap an alligator, and make a meal off the tenderest part of its tail; this yielding a steak which, if not equal to best beef, is at all events eatable.But Jupe has never been driven to diet on alligator meat too much of musky flavour. His usual fare is roast pork, with now and then broiled ham and chicken; failing which, africasséeof ’coon or abarbecueof ’possum. No lack of bread besides—maize bread—in its various bakings of “pone,” “hoe cake,” and “dodger.” Sometimes, too, he indulges in “Virginia biscuit,” of sweetest and whitest flour.The question is called up, Whence gets he such good things? The ’coon and ’possum may be accounted for, these being wild game of the woods, which he can procure by capture; but the other viands are domestic, and could only be obtained from a plantation.And from one they are obtained—that of Ephraim Darke! How? Does Jupiter himself steal them? Not likely. The theft would be attended with too much danger. To attempt it would be to risk not only his liberty, but his life. He does not speculate on such rashness, feeling sure his larder will be plentifully supplied, as it has hitherto been—by a friend.Who is he?A question scarce requiring answer. It almost responds to itself, saying, “Blue Bill.” Yes; the man who has kept the fugitive in provisions—the faithful friend and confederate—is no other than the coon-hunter.Something more than bread and meat has Blue Bill brought to the swamp’s edge, there storing them in a safe place of deposit, mutually agreed upon. Oft, as he starts forth “a-cooning,” may he be observed with something swelling out his coat-pockets, seemingly carried with circumspection. Were they at such times searched, they would be found to contain a gourd of corn whisky, and beside it a plug of tobacco. But no one searches them; no one can guess at their contents—except Phoebe. To her the little matter of commissariat has necessarily been made known, by repeated drafts on her meat-safe, and calls upon her culinary skill. She has no jealous suspicion as to why her scanty store is thus almost daily depleted—no thought of its being for Brown Bet. She knows it is for “poor Jupe,” and approves, instead of making protest.
Throughout all these days where has Clancy been? Dead, and come to life again? Or, but half killed and recovered? Where the while hidden? And why? Questions that in quick succession occur to Simeon Woodley meeting him by his mother’s grave.
Not all put then or there; but afterwards on the hunter’s own hearth, as the two sit before the blazing logs, by whose light Clancy has read the letter so cheering him.
Then Woodley asks them, and impatiently awaits the answers.
The reader may be asking the same questions, and in like manner expecting reply.
He shall have it, as Woodley, not in a word or at once, but in a series of incidents, for the narration of which it is necessary to return upon time; as also to introduce a personage hitherto known but by repute—the fugitive slave, Jupiter.
“Jupe” is of the colour called “light mulatto,” closely approximating to that of newly tanned leather. His features are naturally of a pleasing expression; only now and then showing fierce, when he reflects on a terrible flogging, and general ill treatment experienced, at the hands of the cruel master from whom he has absconded.
He is still but a young fellow, with face beardless; only two darkish streaks of down along the upper lip. But the absence of virile sign upon his cheeks has full compensation in a thick shock covering his crown, where the hair of Shem struggles for supremacy with the wool of Ham, and so successfully, as to result in a profusion of curls of which Apollo might be proud. The god of Beauty need not want a better form or face; nor he of Strength a set of sinews tougher, or limbs more tersely knit. Young though he may be, Jupe has performed feats of Herculean strength, requiring courage as well. No wonder at his having won Jule!
A free fearless spirit he: somewhat wild, though not heart-wicked; a good deal given to nocturnal excursions to neighbouring plantations; hence the infliction of the lash, which has finally caused his absconding from that of Ephraim Darke.
A merry jovial fellow he has been—would be still—but for the cloud of danger that hangs over him; dark as the den in which he has found a hiding-place. This is in the very heart and centre of the cypress swamp, as also in the heart and hollow of a cypress tree. No dead log, but a living growing trunk, which stands on a little eyot, not immediately surrounded by water, but marsh and mud. There is water beyond, on every side, extending more than a mile, with trees standing in and shadowing its stagnant surface.
On the little islet Nature has provided a home for the hunted fugitive—an asylum where he is safe from pursuit—beyond the scent of savage hounds, and the trailing of men almost as savage as they; for the place cannot be approached by water-craft, and is equally unapproachable by land. Even a dog could not make way through the quagmire of mud, stretching immediately around it to a distance of several hundred yards. If one tried, it would soon be snapped up by the great saurian, master of this darksome domain. Still is there a way to traverse the treacherous ground, for one knowing it, as does Darke’s runaway slave. Here, again, has Nature intervened, lending her beneficent aid to the oppressed fleeing from oppression. The elements in their anger, spoken by tempest and tornado, have laid prostrate several trees, whose trunks, lying along the ooze, lap one another, and form a continuous causeway. Where there chances to be a break, human ingenuity has supplied the connecting link, making it as much as possible to look like Nature’s own handiwork; though it is that of Jupiter himself. The hollow tree has given him a house ready built, with walls strong as any constructed by human hands, and a roof to shelter him from the rain. If no better than the lair of a wild beast, still is it snug and safe. The winds may blow above, the thunder rattle, and the lightning flash; but below, under the close canopy of leaves and thickly-woven parasites, he but hears the first in soft sighings, the second in distant reverberation, and sees the last only in faint phosphoric gleams. Far brighter the sparkle of insects that nightly play around the door of his dwelling.
A month has elapsed since the day when, incensed at the flogging received—this cruel as causeless—he ran away, resolved to risk everything, life itself, rather than longer endure the tyrannous treatment of the Darkes.
Though suspected of having taken refuge in the swamp, and there repeatedly sought for, throughout all this time he has contrived to baffle search. Nor has he either starved or suffered, except from solitude. Naturally of a social disposition, this has been irksome to him. Otherwise, he has comforts enough. Though rude his domicile, and remote from a market, it is sufficiently furnished and provided. The Spanish moss makes a soft couch, on which he can peacefully repose. And for food he need not be hard up, nor has he been for a single day. If it come to that, he can easily entrap an alligator, and make a meal off the tenderest part of its tail; this yielding a steak which, if not equal to best beef, is at all events eatable.
But Jupe has never been driven to diet on alligator meat too much of musky flavour. His usual fare is roast pork, with now and then broiled ham and chicken; failing which, africasséeof ’coon or abarbecueof ’possum. No lack of bread besides—maize bread—in its various bakings of “pone,” “hoe cake,” and “dodger.” Sometimes, too, he indulges in “Virginia biscuit,” of sweetest and whitest flour.
The question is called up, Whence gets he such good things? The ’coon and ’possum may be accounted for, these being wild game of the woods, which he can procure by capture; but the other viands are domestic, and could only be obtained from a plantation.
And from one they are obtained—that of Ephraim Darke! How? Does Jupiter himself steal them? Not likely. The theft would be attended with too much danger. To attempt it would be to risk not only his liberty, but his life. He does not speculate on such rashness, feeling sure his larder will be plentifully supplied, as it has hitherto been—by a friend.
Who is he?
A question scarce requiring answer. It almost responds to itself, saying, “Blue Bill.” Yes; the man who has kept the fugitive in provisions—the faithful friend and confederate—is no other than the coon-hunter.
Something more than bread and meat has Blue Bill brought to the swamp’s edge, there storing them in a safe place of deposit, mutually agreed upon. Oft, as he starts forth “a-cooning,” may he be observed with something swelling out his coat-pockets, seemingly carried with circumspection. Were they at such times searched, they would be found to contain a gourd of corn whisky, and beside it a plug of tobacco. But no one searches them; no one can guess at their contents—except Phoebe. To her the little matter of commissariat has necessarily been made known, by repeated drafts on her meat-safe, and calls upon her culinary skill. She has no jealous suspicion as to why her scanty store is thus almost daily depleted—no thought of its being for Brown Bet. She knows it is for “poor Jupe,” and approves, instead of making protest.
Chapter Thirty Eight.An excursion by canoe.On that day when Dick Darke way-laid Charles Clancy, almost the same hour in which the strife is taking place between them, the fugitive slave is standing by the side of his hollow tree, on the bit of dry land around its roots.His air and bearing indicate intention not to stay there long. Ever and anon he casts a glance upward, as if endeavouring to make out the time of day. A thing not easily done in that sombre spot. For he can see no sun, and only knows there is such by a faint reflection of its light scarce penetrating through the close canopy of foliage overhead. Still, this gradually growing fainter, tells him that evening is at hand.Twilight is the hour he is waiting for, or rather some twenty minutes preceding it. For, to a minute he knows how long it will take him to reach the edge of the swamp, at a certain point to which he contemplates proceeding. It is the place of deposit for the stores he receives from the coon-hunter.On this particular evening he expects something besides provender, and is more than usually anxious about it. Mental, not bodily food, is what he is craving. He hopes to get tidings of her, whose image is engraven upon his heart—his yellow girl, Jule. For under his coarse cotton shirt, and saddle-coloured skin, Jupe’s breast burns with a love pure and passionate, as it could, be were the skin white, and the shirt finest linen.He knows of all that is taking place in the plantations; is aware of what has been done by Ephraim Darke in the matter of the mortgage, and what is about to be done by Colonel Armstrong. The coon-hunter has kept him posted up in everything—facts and fancies, rumours and realities.One of the last, and latest, is the intention of the Armstrongs to remove from the neighbourhood. He has already heard of this, as also their destination. It might not so much concern him, but for the implied supposition that his sweetheart will be going along with them. In fact, he feels sure of it; an assurance that, so far from causing regret, rather gives him gladness. It promises a happier future for all. Jupe, too, has had thoughts about Texas. Not that the Lone Star State is at all a safe asylum for such as he; but upon its wild borderland there may be a chance for him to escape the bondage of civilisation, by alliance with the savage! Even this idea of a freedom far off, difficult of realisation, and if realised not so delectable, has nevertheless been flitting before the mind of the mulatto. Any life but that of a slave! His purpose, modified by late events and occurrences, is likely to be altogether changed by them. His Jule will be going to Texas, along with her master and young mistresses. In the hope of rejoining her, he will go there too—as soon as he can escape to the swamp.On this evening he expects later news, with a more particular account of what is about to be done. Blue Bill is to bring them, and direct from Jule, whom the coon-hunter has promised to see. Moreover, Jupe has a hope of being able to see her himself, previous to departure; and to arrange an interview, through the intervention of his friend, is the matter now most on his mind. No wonder, then, his scanning the sky, or its faint reflection, with glances that speak impatience.At length, becoming satisfied it must be near night, he starts off from the eyot, and makes way along the causeway furnished by the trunks of the fallen trees. This serves him only for some two hundred yards, ending on the edge of deep water, beyond which the logs lie submerged. The last of them showing above, is the wreck of a grand forest giant, with branches undecayed, and still carrying the parasite of Spanish moss in profusion. This hanging down in streamers, scatters over the surface and dips underneath, like the tails of white horses wading knee-deep. In its midst appears something, which would escape the eye of one passing carelessly by. On close scrutiny it is seen to be a craft of rude construction—a log with the heart wood removed—in short, a canoe of the kind called “dug-out.”No surprise to the runaway slave seeing it there; no more at its seeming to have been placed in concealment. It is his own property, by himself secreted.Gliding down through the moss-bedecked branches, he steps into it; and, after balancing himself aboard, dips his paddle into the water, and sets the dug-out adrift.A way for a while through thick standing trunks that require many tortuous turnings to avoid them.At length a creek is reached, abayouwith scarce any current; along which the canoe-man continues his course, propelling the craft up-stream. He has made way for something more than a mile, when a noise reaches his ear, causing him to suspend stroke, with a suddenness that shows alarm.It is only the barking of a dog; but to him no sound could be more significant—more indicative of danger.On its repetition, which almost instantly occurs, he plucks his paddle out of the water, leaving the dug-out to drift.On his head is a wool hat of the cheap fabric supplied by the Penitentiaries of the Southern States, chiefly for negro wear. Tilting it to one side, he bends low, and listens.Certainly a dog giving tongue—but in tone strange, unintelligible. It is a hound’s bay, but not as on slot, or chase.It is a howl, or plaintive whine, as if the animal were tied up, or being chastised!After listening to it for some time—for it is nearly continuous—the mulatto makes remark to himself. “There’s no danger in the growl of that dog. I know it nearly as well as my own voice. It’s the deer-hound that belong to young Masser Clancy. He’s no slave-catcher.”Re-assured he again dips his blade, and pushes on as before.But now on the alert, he rows with increased caution, and more noiselessly than ever. So slight is the plash of his paddle, it does not hinder him from noting every sound—the slightest that stirs among the cypresses.The only one heard is the hound’s voice, still in whining, wailing note.“Lor!” he exclaims once more, staying his stroke, and giving way to conjectures, “what can be the matter with the poor brute? There must be something amiss to make it cry; out in that strain. Hope ’taint no mischance happened its young masser, the best man about all these parts. Come what will, I’ll go to the ground, an’ see.”A few more strokes carries the canoe on to the place, where its owner has been accustomed to moor it, for meeting Blue Bill; and where on this evening, as on others, he has arranged his interview with the coon-hunter. A huge sycamore, standing half on land, half in the water, with long outstretching roots laid bare by the wash of the current, affords him a safe point of debarkation. For on these his footsteps will leave no trace, and his craft can be stowed in concealment.It chances to be near the spot where the dog is still giving tongue—apparently not more than two hundred yards off.Drawing the dug-out in between the roots of the sycamore, and there roping it fast, the mulatto mounts upon the bank. Then after standing some seconds to listen, he goes gliding off through the trees.If cautious while making approach by water, he is even more so on the land; so long being away from it, he there feels less at home.Guided by the yelps of the animal, that reach him in quick repetition, he has no difficulty about the direction—no need for aught save caution. The knowledge that he may be endangering his liberty—his life—stimulates him to observe this. Treading as if on eggs, he glides from trunk to trunk; for a time sheltering behind each, till assured he can reach another without being seen.He at length arrives at one, in rear of which he remains for a more prolonged period.For he now sees the dog—as conjectured, Clancy’s deer-hound. The animal is standing, or rather crouching, beside a heap of moss, ever and anon raising its head and howling, till the forest is filled with the plaintive refrain.For what is it lamenting? What can the creature mean? Interrogatives which the mulatto puts to himself; for there is none else to whom he may address them. No man near—at least none in sight. No living thing, save the hound itself.Is there anything dead? Question of a different kind which now occurs, causing him to stick closer than ever to his cover behind the tree.Still there is nought to give him a clue to the strange behaviour of the hound. Had he been there half-an-hour sooner, he need not now be racking his brain with conjectures. For he would have witnessed the strife, with all the incidents succeeding, and already known to the reader—with others not yet related, in which the hound was itself sole actor. For the animal, after being struck by Darke’s bullet, did not go directly home. There could be no home where its master was not; and it knew he would not be there. In the heart of the faithful creature, while retreating, affection got the better of its fears; and once more turning, it trotted back to the scene of the tragedy.This time not hindered from approaching the spot; the assassin—as he supposed himself—having wound up his cruel work, and hurriedly made away. Despite the shroud thrown over its master’s body, the dog soon discovered it—dead, no doubt the animal believed, while tearing aside the moss with claws and teeth, and afterwards with warm tongue licking the cold face.Believing it still, as crouched beside the seeming corpse it continues its plaintive lamentation, which yet perplexes the runaway, while alarming him.Not for long does he listen to it. There is no one in sight, therefore no one to be feared. Certainly not Charles Clancy, nor his dog. With confidence thus restored, he forsakes his place of concealment, and strides on to the spot where the hound has couched itself. At his approach the animal starts up with an angry growl, and advances to meet him. Then, as if in the mulatto recognising a friend of its master, it suddenly changes tone, bounding towards and fawning upon him.After answering its caresses, Jupe continues on till up to the side of the moss pile. Protruding from it he sees a human head, with face turned towards him—the lips apart, livid, and bloodless; the teeth clenched; the eyes fixed and filmy.And beneath the half-scattered heap he knows there is a body; believes it to be dead.He has no other thought, than that he is standing beside a corpse.
On that day when Dick Darke way-laid Charles Clancy, almost the same hour in which the strife is taking place between them, the fugitive slave is standing by the side of his hollow tree, on the bit of dry land around its roots.
His air and bearing indicate intention not to stay there long. Ever and anon he casts a glance upward, as if endeavouring to make out the time of day. A thing not easily done in that sombre spot. For he can see no sun, and only knows there is such by a faint reflection of its light scarce penetrating through the close canopy of foliage overhead. Still, this gradually growing fainter, tells him that evening is at hand.
Twilight is the hour he is waiting for, or rather some twenty minutes preceding it. For, to a minute he knows how long it will take him to reach the edge of the swamp, at a certain point to which he contemplates proceeding. It is the place of deposit for the stores he receives from the coon-hunter.
On this particular evening he expects something besides provender, and is more than usually anxious about it. Mental, not bodily food, is what he is craving. He hopes to get tidings of her, whose image is engraven upon his heart—his yellow girl, Jule. For under his coarse cotton shirt, and saddle-coloured skin, Jupe’s breast burns with a love pure and passionate, as it could, be were the skin white, and the shirt finest linen.
He knows of all that is taking place in the plantations; is aware of what has been done by Ephraim Darke in the matter of the mortgage, and what is about to be done by Colonel Armstrong. The coon-hunter has kept him posted up in everything—facts and fancies, rumours and realities.
One of the last, and latest, is the intention of the Armstrongs to remove from the neighbourhood. He has already heard of this, as also their destination. It might not so much concern him, but for the implied supposition that his sweetheart will be going along with them. In fact, he feels sure of it; an assurance that, so far from causing regret, rather gives him gladness. It promises a happier future for all. Jupe, too, has had thoughts about Texas. Not that the Lone Star State is at all a safe asylum for such as he; but upon its wild borderland there may be a chance for him to escape the bondage of civilisation, by alliance with the savage! Even this idea of a freedom far off, difficult of realisation, and if realised not so delectable, has nevertheless been flitting before the mind of the mulatto. Any life but that of a slave! His purpose, modified by late events and occurrences, is likely to be altogether changed by them. His Jule will be going to Texas, along with her master and young mistresses. In the hope of rejoining her, he will go there too—as soon as he can escape to the swamp.
On this evening he expects later news, with a more particular account of what is about to be done. Blue Bill is to bring them, and direct from Jule, whom the coon-hunter has promised to see. Moreover, Jupe has a hope of being able to see her himself, previous to departure; and to arrange an interview, through the intervention of his friend, is the matter now most on his mind. No wonder, then, his scanning the sky, or its faint reflection, with glances that speak impatience.
At length, becoming satisfied it must be near night, he starts off from the eyot, and makes way along the causeway furnished by the trunks of the fallen trees. This serves him only for some two hundred yards, ending on the edge of deep water, beyond which the logs lie submerged. The last of them showing above, is the wreck of a grand forest giant, with branches undecayed, and still carrying the parasite of Spanish moss in profusion. This hanging down in streamers, scatters over the surface and dips underneath, like the tails of white horses wading knee-deep. In its midst appears something, which would escape the eye of one passing carelessly by. On close scrutiny it is seen to be a craft of rude construction—a log with the heart wood removed—in short, a canoe of the kind called “dug-out.”
No surprise to the runaway slave seeing it there; no more at its seeming to have been placed in concealment. It is his own property, by himself secreted.
Gliding down through the moss-bedecked branches, he steps into it; and, after balancing himself aboard, dips his paddle into the water, and sets the dug-out adrift.
A way for a while through thick standing trunks that require many tortuous turnings to avoid them.
At length a creek is reached, abayouwith scarce any current; along which the canoe-man continues his course, propelling the craft up-stream. He has made way for something more than a mile, when a noise reaches his ear, causing him to suspend stroke, with a suddenness that shows alarm.
It is only the barking of a dog; but to him no sound could be more significant—more indicative of danger.
On its repetition, which almost instantly occurs, he plucks his paddle out of the water, leaving the dug-out to drift.
On his head is a wool hat of the cheap fabric supplied by the Penitentiaries of the Southern States, chiefly for negro wear. Tilting it to one side, he bends low, and listens.
Certainly a dog giving tongue—but in tone strange, unintelligible. It is a hound’s bay, but not as on slot, or chase.
It is a howl, or plaintive whine, as if the animal were tied up, or being chastised!
After listening to it for some time—for it is nearly continuous—the mulatto makes remark to himself. “There’s no danger in the growl of that dog. I know it nearly as well as my own voice. It’s the deer-hound that belong to young Masser Clancy. He’s no slave-catcher.”
Re-assured he again dips his blade, and pushes on as before.
But now on the alert, he rows with increased caution, and more noiselessly than ever. So slight is the plash of his paddle, it does not hinder him from noting every sound—the slightest that stirs among the cypresses.
The only one heard is the hound’s voice, still in whining, wailing note.
“Lor!” he exclaims once more, staying his stroke, and giving way to conjectures, “what can be the matter with the poor brute? There must be something amiss to make it cry; out in that strain. Hope ’taint no mischance happened its young masser, the best man about all these parts. Come what will, I’ll go to the ground, an’ see.”
A few more strokes carries the canoe on to the place, where its owner has been accustomed to moor it, for meeting Blue Bill; and where on this evening, as on others, he has arranged his interview with the coon-hunter. A huge sycamore, standing half on land, half in the water, with long outstretching roots laid bare by the wash of the current, affords him a safe point of debarkation. For on these his footsteps will leave no trace, and his craft can be stowed in concealment.
It chances to be near the spot where the dog is still giving tongue—apparently not more than two hundred yards off.
Drawing the dug-out in between the roots of the sycamore, and there roping it fast, the mulatto mounts upon the bank. Then after standing some seconds to listen, he goes gliding off through the trees.
If cautious while making approach by water, he is even more so on the land; so long being away from it, he there feels less at home.
Guided by the yelps of the animal, that reach him in quick repetition, he has no difficulty about the direction—no need for aught save caution. The knowledge that he may be endangering his liberty—his life—stimulates him to observe this. Treading as if on eggs, he glides from trunk to trunk; for a time sheltering behind each, till assured he can reach another without being seen.
He at length arrives at one, in rear of which he remains for a more prolonged period.
For he now sees the dog—as conjectured, Clancy’s deer-hound. The animal is standing, or rather crouching, beside a heap of moss, ever and anon raising its head and howling, till the forest is filled with the plaintive refrain.
For what is it lamenting? What can the creature mean? Interrogatives which the mulatto puts to himself; for there is none else to whom he may address them. No man near—at least none in sight. No living thing, save the hound itself.
Is there anything dead? Question of a different kind which now occurs, causing him to stick closer than ever to his cover behind the tree.
Still there is nought to give him a clue to the strange behaviour of the hound. Had he been there half-an-hour sooner, he need not now be racking his brain with conjectures. For he would have witnessed the strife, with all the incidents succeeding, and already known to the reader—with others not yet related, in which the hound was itself sole actor. For the animal, after being struck by Darke’s bullet, did not go directly home. There could be no home where its master was not; and it knew he would not be there. In the heart of the faithful creature, while retreating, affection got the better of its fears; and once more turning, it trotted back to the scene of the tragedy.
This time not hindered from approaching the spot; the assassin—as he supposed himself—having wound up his cruel work, and hurriedly made away. Despite the shroud thrown over its master’s body, the dog soon discovered it—dead, no doubt the animal believed, while tearing aside the moss with claws and teeth, and afterwards with warm tongue licking the cold face.
Believing it still, as crouched beside the seeming corpse it continues its plaintive lamentation, which yet perplexes the runaway, while alarming him.
Not for long does he listen to it. There is no one in sight, therefore no one to be feared. Certainly not Charles Clancy, nor his dog. With confidence thus restored, he forsakes his place of concealment, and strides on to the spot where the hound has couched itself. At his approach the animal starts up with an angry growl, and advances to meet him. Then, as if in the mulatto recognising a friend of its master, it suddenly changes tone, bounding towards and fawning upon him.
After answering its caresses, Jupe continues on till up to the side of the moss pile. Protruding from it he sees a human head, with face turned towards him—the lips apart, livid, and bloodless; the teeth clenched; the eyes fixed and filmy.
And beneath the half-scattered heap he knows there is a body; believes it to be dead.
He has no other thought, than that he is standing beside a corpse.