THE 
 
 DEATH-SHOT 
 
 Jl ^torp gUtolb. 
 
 CAPTAIN MAYNE KEID, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE HEADLESS HORSEMAX," ETC. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 WARD, LOCK, & TYLER, WARWICK HOUSE, 
 
 PATERNOSTKK BOW. 
 
• 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Long time since this hand hath penned a preface. Now 
 only to say, that this romance, as originally published; was 
 written when the author was suffering severe affliction, both 
 physically and mentally —the result of a gun-wound that 
 brought him as near to death as Darke's bullet did Clancy. 
 
 It may be asked, Why under such strain was the tale 
 written at all? A good reason could be given; but this, 
 private and personal, need not, and should not be intruded 
 on the public. Suffice it to say, that, dissatisfied with the 
 execution of the work, the author has remodelled — almost 
 rewritten it. 
 
 It is the same story; but, as he hopes and believes, 
 better told. 
 
 Great Malvern, 
 
 September, 1874. 
 
 M1 2:1-17 
 
THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 -prologue. 
 
 PLAIN, treeless, shrubless, smooth as a sleeping sea. 
 Grass upon it ; this so short, that the smallest quad- 
 ruped could not cross over without being 1 seen. 
 Even the crawling reptile would not be concealed 
 among its tufts. 
 
 Objects are upon it — sufficiently visible to be distinguished 
 at some distance. They are of a character scarce deserving 
 a glance from the passing traveller. He would deem it little 
 worth while to turn his eyes towards a pack of prairie 
 wolves, much less go in chase of them. 
 
 With vultures soaring above, he might be more disposed 
 to hesitate, and reflect. The foul birds and filthy beasts 
 seen consorting together, would be proof of prey — that some 
 quarry had fallen upon the plain. Perhaps, a stricken stag, 
 a prong-horn antelope, or a wild horse crippled by some mis- 
 chance due to his headlong nature ? 
 
 Believing it any of these, the traveller would reloosen his 
 rein, and ride onward, — leaving the beasts and birds to their 
 banquet. 
 
 There is no traveller passing over the prairie in question 
 — no human being upon it. Nothing like life, save the c< ' 
 grouped over the ground, and the buzzards swooping above. 
 
 They are not unseen by human eye. There is one sees — 
 one who has reason to fear them. 
 
 Their eager excited movements tell them to be anticipating 
 a repast ; at the same time, that they have not yet com- 
 menced it. 
 
 Something appears in -Their midst. At intervals they 
 approach it: the birds swoopinj.lv from heaven, the beasts 
 
 1 
 
* TIIU DEATH SUOT. 
 
 croueliihgly along the earth. Both go close, almost to 
 touching it ; then suddenly withdraw, starting back as in 
 affright! 
 
 Soon again to return ; but only to bo frayed as before. 
 And so on, in a series of approaches, and recessions. 
 
 What can be the thing thus attracting, at the same time 
 repelling them ? Surely no common quarry, as the carcase 
 of elk, antelope, or mustang ? It seems not a thing that is 
 dead. Nor yet looks it like anything alive. Seen from a 
 distance it resembles a human head. Nearer, the resem- 
 blance is stronger. Close up, it becomes complete. Certainly, 
 it is a human head — ihc head of a man! 
 
 Not much in this to cause surprise — a man's head lying 
 upon a Texan prairie! Nothing, whatever, if scalpless. It 
 would only prove that some ill-starred individual — traveller, 
 trapper, or hunter of wild horses — has been struck down by 
 Comanches ; afterwards beheaded, and scalped. 
 
 But this head — it head it be — is not scalped. It still 
 carries it-, hair — a fine chevelure, waving and profuse. Nor 
 is if lying upon the ground, as it naturally should, after being 
 severed from the body, and abandoned. On the contrary, it 
 stands erect, and square, as if still on the shoulders from 
 v. 1 . !i ii has been separated; the neck underneath, the chin 
 just touching the surface. With cheeks pallid, or blood 
 spotted, and eves closed or glassy, the attitude could not 
 fail to cause surprise. And yet more to note, that there is 
 neither pallor, nor stain on the cheeks ; and the eyes are 
 neither shut, nor glassed. On the contrary, they are 
 \ i: acing — glaring — rolling. _Z?y Heavens the hind is alive! 
 
 No wonder the wolves start back in affright ; no wonder 
 the vultures, after stooping low, ply their wings in quick 
 nervous stroke, and soar up again ! The odd thing seems 
 to puzzle both beasts and birds ; baffles their instinct, and 
 keeps them at bay. 
 
 Still know they, or seem to believe, 'tis flesh and blood. 
 Sight and scent tell them so. By both they cannot be 
 deceived. 
 
 And living flesh it must be ? A Death"s head could 
 neither flash its eyes, nor cause them to revolve in then- 
 sockets. Besides, the predatory creatures have other evi- 
 dence of its being alive. At intervals they see opened a 
 month, disclosing two rows of white teeth; from which 
 come cries that, startling, send them afar. 
 
 These are only put forth, when they approach too threat- 
 
eningly near — evidently intended to drive them to a distance. 
 They have done so for the greater part of a day. 
 
 Strange spectacle ! The head of a man, without any 
 body ; with eyes in it that scintillate and see ; a mouth that 
 opens, and shows teeth; a throat from which issue sounds 
 of human intonation; around this object of weird super- 
 natural aspect, a group of wolves, and over it a flock of 
 vultures ! 
 
 Twilight approaching, spreads a purple tint over the 
 prairie. But it brings no change in the attitude of assailed, 
 or assailants. There is still light enough for the latter to 
 perceive the flash of those liery eyes, whose glances of 
 menace master their voracious instincts, warning them back. 
 
 On a Texan prairie twilight is short. There are no moun- 
 tains, or high hills intervening, no obliquit\ T in the sun's 
 diurnal course, to lengthen out the day. When the golden 
 orb sinks below the horizon, a brief crepusculous light suc- 
 ceeds ; then darkness, sudden as though a curtain of crape 
 were dropped over the earth. 
 
 Night descending causes some chp.ngo in the tableau de- 
 scribed. The buzzards, obedient to their customary habit — 
 not nocturnal — take departure from the spot, and wing their 
 way to their usual roosting place. Different do the coyotes. 
 These stay. Night is the time best suited to their ravening 
 instincts. The darkness may give them a better opportunity 
 to assail that thing of spherical shape, which by shouts, and 
 scowling glances, has so long kept them aloof. 
 
 To their discomfiture, the twilight is succeeded by a mag- 
 nificent moon, whose silvery effulgence falling over the 
 plain almost equals the light of day. They see the head still 
 erect, the eyes angrily glancing ; while in the nocturnal still- 
 ness that cry, proceeding from the parted lips, affrights them 
 as ever. 
 
 And now, that night is on, more than ever does the tableau 
 appear strange — more than ever unlike reality, and more 
 nearly allied to the spectral. For, under the moonlight, shim- 
 mering through a film that has spread over the plain, the 
 head seems magnified to the dimensions of the Sphinx ; 
 while the coyotes — mere jackals of terrier size — look large as 
 Canadian stags ! 
 
 In truth, a perplexing spectacle — full of wild, weird mystery. 
 
 Who can explain it ? 
 
PTEE I. 
 
 TWO SORTS OF SLAVE-OWNBKS. 
 
 X the "lil slave wiring times of the United States 
 — happily now no more — there was mil 
 to humanity ; proud oppression upon the uue side, 
 with sad suffering on the otl 
 It may be true; that fche majority of the slave proprietors 
 were humane men ; that some of them were even philanthropic 
 in their way, and inclined towards giving bo the unholy in- 
 stitution a colour of J itriarclciam, This idea — delusive, as 
 intended to delude — is old as slavery, itself; at the same time, 
 modern as Mormonism, where it has had its latest, and 
 coarsest illustration. 
 
 Though it cannot be denied, that slavery in the States was, 
 comparatively, of a mild type, neither can it he questioned, 
 that among American masters occurred cases of lamentable 
 harshness — even to inhumanity. There were slave-owners 
 who were kind, and slave-owners who were cruel. 
 
 Not far from the town of Natchez, in the State of Missis- 
 sippi, lived two planters, whose lives illustrated the cxt: 
 of these distinct moral types. Though their estates lay con- 
 tigous, their characters were as opposite, as could well he 
 conceived in the scale of manhooi! and morality. Colonel 
 Archibald Armstrong — a true Southerner of the old Virginian 
 aristocracy, who had catered the Mississippi Valley before the 
 Choctaw Indians evacuated it — was a model of the kiud 
 slave-master; while Ephraim Darke — a Massachusetts man, 
 who had moved thither at a much later period — was as fair a 
 specimen of the cruel. Coming from New England, of the 
 purest stock of the Puritans — a people whose descendants have 
 made much sacrifice in the cause of negro emancipation — this 
 about Darke may seem strange. It is, notwithstanding, a 
 common tale ; one which no traveller through the Son 
 States can help hearing. For the Southerner will not fail to 
 tell him, that the hardest task-master to the slave is either 
 one, who has been himself a slave, or descended from the 
 Pilgrim Fathers, whose feet first touched American soil by 
 the side of Plymouth Rock! 
 
TWO SOETS OF SLAVE-OWNERS. 
 
 Having a respect for many traits in the character of these 
 same Pilgrim Fathers, I -would fain think the accusation ex- 
 r.ited — if not altogether untrue — and that Ephraim Darke 
 was an exceptional individual. 
 
 To accuse him of inhumanity was no exaggeration whatever. 
 Throughout the Mississippi valley there could be nothing 
 ruore heartless than his treatment of the sable helots, whose 
 luckless lot it was to have him for a master. Around his 
 courts, and in his cotton-fields, the crack of the whip was 
 heard habitually — its thong sharply felt by the victims of his 
 caprice, or malice. The "cow-hide" was constantly carried 
 by himself, and his overseer. He had a son, too, who could 
 wield it wickedly as either. None of the three ever went 
 abroad without that pliant, painted, switch — a very emblem of 
 devilish cruelty — in their hands ; never returned home, with- 
 out having used it in the castigation of some unfortunate 
 " darkey," whose evil star had caused him to stray across their 
 track, while riding the rounds of the plantation. 
 
 A far different discipline was that of Colonel Armstrong; 
 whose slaves seldom went to bed without a prayer poured 
 forth, concluding with: " God bress do good massr ;" while the 
 poor whipped bondsmen of his neighbour, their backs oft smart - 
 ing from the lash, nightly lay down, not always to sleep, bti 
 nearly always with curses on their lips — the name of the 
 Devil coupled with that of Ephraim Darke. 
 
 The old story, of like cause followed by like result, mns 
 alas ! be chronicled in this case. The man of the Devil pros- 
 pered ; while he of God came to grief. Armstrong, open- 
 hearted, free-handed, indulging in a too profuse hospitality, 
 lived widely outside the income accruing from the culture of 
 his cotton-fields, and in time became the debtor of Darke, who 
 lived as widely within his. 
 
 Notwithstanding the proximity of their estates, there was 
 but little intimacy, and less friendship, between the two. The 
 Virginian — scion of an old Scotch family, who had been gentry 
 in the colonial times — felt something akin to contempt for his 
 New England neighbour, whose ancestors had been steerage 
 passengers in the famed "Mayflower." False pride, perhaps, 
 but natural to a citizen of the Old Dominion — of late yearn 
 brought low enough. 
 
 Still, not much of this influenced the conduct of Arm- 
 strong. For his dislike to Darke he had a better, and more 
 honourable, reason — the bad behaviour of the latter. This, 
 notorious throughout the community, made for the Massachu- 
 
8 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 setts man many enemies; while in the noble mind of tho 
 M rippian it produced positive aversion. 
 
 Under these circumstances, it may seem strange there 
 should be any intercourse, or relationship, between the two 
 men. But there was — that of debtor and creditor — a lien 
 not always conferring friendship. Notwithstanding his dislike, 
 the proud Southerner had not been above accepting a loan 
 from the despised Northern, which the latter was but too 
 eager to extend. The Massachusetts man had long coveted 
 the Mississippian's fine estate; not alone from its tempting 
 contiguity, but also because it looked like a ripe pear that 
 must soon fall from the tree. With secret satisfaction he had 
 observed the wasteful extravagance of its owner ; a satisfac- 
 tion increased on discovering tho lattcr's impecuniosity. It 
 became joy, almost openly exhibited, on the day when Colonel 
 Armstrong came to him requesting a loan of twenty thousand 
 dollars ; which he consented to give, with an alacrity that 
 would have appeared suspicious to any but a borrower. 
 
 If he gave the money in great glee, still greater was that 
 with which he contemplated the mortgage deed taken in 
 exchange. For he knew it to be the first entering of a wedge, 
 that in due time would ensure him possession of the J'ee- 
 simple. All the surer, from a condition in that particular 
 deed : Foreclosure, without time. Pressure from other quarters 
 had forced planter Armstrong to accept these terrible terms. 
 
 As, Darke, before locking it up in his drawer, glanced the 
 document over, his eyes scintillating with the glare of greed 
 triumphant, he said to himself, 
 
 "This day's work has doubled the area of my acres, and 
 the number of my niggers. Armstrong's land, his slaves, his 
 houses, — everything he has, will soon be mine!" 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A FLAT REFUSAL. 
 
 IJWO years have elapsed since Ephraim Darke became 
 the creditor of Archibald Armstrong. Apparently, 
 no great change has taken place in the relationship 
 between the two men, though in reality much. 
 The twenty thousand dollars' loan has been long ago dissi- 
 pated, and the borrower is once more in need. 
 
A FLAT EEFUSA1. '.' 
 
 It would be useless, idle, for him to seek a second mortgage 
 in the same quarter; or in any other, since he can show no 
 collateral. His property has been nearly all hypothecated 
 in the deed to Darke; who perceives his long-cherished 
 dream on the eve of becoming a reality. At any hour he may 
 cause foreclosure, turn Colonel Armstrong out of his estate, 
 and enter upon possession. 
 
 Why does he not take advantage of the power, with which 
 the legal code of the United States, as that existing all over 
 the world, provides him ? 
 
 There is a reason for his not doing so, wide apart from any 
 motive of mercy, or humanity. Or of friendship either, though 
 something erroneously considered akin to it. Love hinders 
 him from pouncing on the plantation of Archibald Armstrong, 
 and appropriating it ! 
 
 Not love in his own breast, long ago steeled against such 
 a trifling affection. There only avarice has a home ; cupidity 
 keeping house, and looking carefully after the expenses. 
 
 But there is a spendthrift who has also a shelter in 
 Ephraim Darke's heart — one who does much to thwart his 
 designs, oftimes defeating them. As already said, he has a 
 son, by name Richard ; better known throughout the settle- 
 ment as " Dick" — abbreviations of nomenclature being almost 
 universal in the South Western States. An only son — only 
 child as well — motherless too — she who bore him having 
 been buried long before the Massachusetts man planted 
 his roof-tree in the soil of Mississippi. A hopeful scion he, 
 showing no improvement on the paternal stock. Rather the 
 reverse; for the grasping avarice, supposed to be character- 
 istic of the Yankee, is not improved by admixture with 
 the reckless looseness alleged to be habitual in the 
 Southerner. 
 
 Both these bad qualities have been developed in Dick 
 Darke, each to its extreme. Never was New Englandcr more 
 secretive and crafty ; never Mississippian more loose, or 
 licentious. 
 
 Mean in the matter of personal expenditure, he is at the 
 same time of dissipated and disorderly habits ; the associate 
 of the poker- playing, and cock-fighting, fraternity of the neigh- 
 bourhood ; one of its wildest spirits, without any of those 
 generous traits oft coupled with such a character. 
 
 As only son, he is heir-presumptive to all the father's pro- 
 perty — slaves and plantation lands; and. being thoroughly in 
 his father's confidence, he is aware of the probability of a 
 
LO THE DEATH: SHOT. 
 
 proximate reversion to the i ■ plantation lands bc- 
 to C Lrmsl rong. 
 
 much as Dick Darke may like money, there is that he 
 likes more, even to <■ ■ ■ -Colonel Armstrong's 
 
 daughter. There are two of them — Helen and Je '< 
 
 grown girls, — motherless too — for tho colonel is himself a 
 widower. 
 
 Jessie, the younger, is bright-haired, of blooming com- 
 plexion, merry to madness ; in spirit, the per mific n of a 
 romping elf; in pi Hebe. Helen, ")i the 
 
 other hand, is dark as gipsy, or Jewess; stat.lv 
 with the proud grandeur of Juno. Her features of v 
 classic type, form tall and magnificently moulded, a 
 others she appears as a palm rising above the commoner 
 of the forest. Ever since her coming out in society, she 
 has been universally esteemed the beauty of the 
 hood — as belle in tho balls of Natchez. It is to her Kiel 
 Darke has extended his homage, and surrendered his heart. 
 
 He is in love with her, as much as his selfish nature will 
 allow — perhaps the only unselfish passion ever felt by him. 
 
 His father sanctions, or at all events does not oppose it. 
 For the wicked son holds a wonderful ascendancy over a 
 parent, who has trained him to wickedness equalling his 
 own. 
 
 With the power of creditor over debtor — a debt of which 
 payment can be demanded at any moment, and not the 
 slightest hope of the latter being able to pay it — the Darkes 
 seem to have the vantage ground, and may dictate their own 
 terms. 
 
 Helen Armstrong knows nought of the mortgage ; no 
 more, of herself being the cause which keeps it from fore- 
 closure. Little does she dream, that her beauty is the sole 
 shield imposed between her father and impending ruin. 
 Possibly if she did, Richard Darki 's attentions to her would 
 be received with less slighting indifference. For months he 
 has been paying them, whenever, and wherever, an oppor- 
 tunity has offered — at balls, Jinrbrcucs, and the like. Of late 
 also at her father's house; where the power spoken of 
 him not only admission, but polite reception, and hospitable 
 entertainment, at the hands of its owner ; while the con- 
 sciousness of possessing it hinders him from observing, how 
 coldly his assiduities are met by her to whom they are 
 so warmly addressed. 
 
 He wonders why, too. He knows that Helen Armstrong 
 
A FLAT KEFUSAL. 11 
 
 has many admirers. It could not bo otherwise with one so 
 splendidly beautiful, so gracefully gifted. But among them 
 there is none for whom she lias shown partiality. 
 
 Ho has, himself, conceived a suspicion, that a young man, 
 by name Charles Clancy — son of a decayed Irish gentleman, 
 living near — has found favour in her eyes. Still, it is only 
 a suspicion ; and Clancy has gone to Texas the year before — 
 sent, so said, by his father, to look out for a new home. The 
 latter has since died, leaving his widow sole occupant of an 
 humble tenement, with a small holding of land— a roadside 
 tract, on the edge of the Armstrong estate. 
 
 Rumour runs, that young Clancy is about coming back — 
 indeed, every day expected. 
 
 That can't matter. The proud planter, Armstrong, is not 
 the man to permit of his daughter marrying a " poor white " 
 — as Richard Darke scornfully styles his supposed rival — 
 much less consent to the so bestowing of her hand. There- 
 fore no danger need be dreaded from that quarter. 
 
 "Whether there need, or not, the suitor of Helen Armstrong 
 at length resolves on bringing the affair to an issue. His love 
 for her has become a strong passion, the stronger for being 
 cheeked — restrained by her cold, almost scornful behaviour. 
 This may be but coquetry. He hopes, and has a fancy it is. 
 Not without reason. For he is far from being ill-favoured ; 
 only in a sense moral, not physical. But this has not pre- 
 venl id him from making many conquests among backwocd's 
 belles ; even some city celebrities living in Natchez. All know- 
 he is rich ; or will be, when his father fulfils the last condi- 
 tions of his will — by dying. 
 
 So fortified, so flattered, Dick Darke cannot comprehend 
 why Miss Armstrong has not at once surrendered to him. 
 Is it because her haughty disposition hinders her from being 
 too demonstrative r Does she really love him, without giving 
 sign ? 
 
 For months he has been cogitating in this uncertain way ; 
 and now determines upon knowing the truth. 
 
 One morning he mounts his horse ; riui s across the bound- 
 ary line between the two plantations, and on to Colonel 
 Armstrong's house. Entering, he requests an interview with 
 the colonel's eldest (laughter; obtains it; makes declaration 
 of his love ; asks her if she will have him for a husband ; 
 and in response receives a chilling negative. 
 
 As he rides back through the woods, the birds arc trilling 
 among the trees. It is their merry morning lay, but it gives 
 
]2 TUB DEATH SHOT. 
 
 him no gladness. There is still ringing in his cars thai harsh 
 monosyllable, "no." The wild- wood songsfc necho 
 
 i i I in K : the 1 iluc jay, and red cardinal, seem scold- 
 ing him for intrusion on their domain! 
 
 Having recrossed the boundary between the two planta- 
 tions, 1m reins up and looks back. His brow is black with 
 chagrin ; his lips white with rancorous rage. It is sup- 
 pressed no longer. Curses come hissing through his I 
 along with them the words, — 
 
 "In less than six weeks these woods will he mine, and 
 hang me. if I don't shoot every bird that hasroost in them! 
 Then, Miss Helen Armstrong, you'll not feel in such eo 
 with yourself. It will be different when you haven't a roof 
 over your head ! So good-bye, sweetheart ! Good-bye to 
 you!" 
 
 " Now, dad ! " he continues, in fancy apostrophising his 
 father, "you can take your own way, as you've been long 
 wanting. Yes, my respected parent ; you shall be free to 
 foreclose your mortgage ; put in execution ; sheriff's officers 
 — anything you like." 
 
 Angrily grinding his teeth, he plunges the spur into his 
 horse's ribs, and rides on — the short, but bitter, speech still 
 echoing in his cars. 
 
 CHAPTER, III. 
 
 A FOKEST rOST-OFFICE. 
 
 jTROM the harsh treatment of slaves sprang a result, 
 little thought of by the inhuman master ; though 
 greatly detrimental to his interests. It caused them 
 occasionally to abscond ; so making it necessary to 
 insert an advertisement in the county newspaper, offering a 
 reward for the runaway. Thus cruelty proved expensive. 
 
 In planter Darke's case, however, the cost was partially 
 recouped by the cleverness of his son ; who was a note I 
 " nigger-catcher," and kept dogs for the especial purpose. He 
 had a natural penchant tor this kind of chase ; and, having 
 little else to do, passed a good deal of his time scouring the 
 
A FOREST POST-OFFICE. 13 
 
 country in pursuit of his father's advertised runaways. 
 Having caught them, he would claim the " bounty," just as if 
 they belonged to a stranger. Darke, pere, paid it without 
 grudsre or grumbling — perhaps the only disbursement he ever 
 made in such mood. It was like taking out of one pocket to 
 put into the other. Besides, he was rather proud of his son's 
 acquitting himself so shrewdly. 
 
 Skirting the two plantations, with others in the same line 
 of settlements, was a cypress swamp. It extended along the 
 edge of the great river, covering an area of many square 
 miles. Besides being a swamp, it was a network of creeks, 
 bayous, and lagoons — often inundated, and only passable by 
 means of skiff or canoe. In most places it was a slough of 
 soft mud, where man might not tread, nor any kind of water- 
 craft make way. Over it, at all times, hung the obscurity of 
 twilight. The solar rays, however bright above, could not 
 penetrate its close canopy of cypress tops, loaded with that 
 strangest of parasitical plants— the iillandsia usne i ' ■•. 
 
 This tract of forest offered a safe place of concealment for 
 runaway slaves ; and. as such, was it noted tliroughout the 
 neighbourhood. A "darkey" absconding from any of the 
 contiguous plantations, was as sure to make for the marshy 
 expanse, as would a chased rabbit to its warren. 
 
 Sombre and gloomy though it was, around its edge lay the 
 favourite scoutisg-ground of Richard Darke. To him the 
 cypress swamp was a precious preserve — as a coppice to the 
 pheasant shooter, or a scrub-wood to tho hunter of foxes. 
 With the difference, that his game was human, and therefore 
 the pursuit more exciting. 
 
 There were places in its interior to which he had never 
 penetrated — large tracts unexplored, and where exploration 
 could not be made without great difficulty. But for him to 
 reach them was not necessary. The runaways who sought 
 asylum in the swamp, could not always remain within its 
 gloomy recesses. Food must be obtained beyond its border, 
 or starvation be their fate. For this reason the fugitive 
 required some mode of communicating with the outside 
 world. And usually obtained it, by means of a confederate — 
 some old friend, and fellow-slave, on one of the adjacent 
 plantations — privy to the secret of his hiding-place 
 
 On this necessity the negro-catcher most depended ; often 
 finding the stalk — or " still-hunt," in backwoods phraseology 
 — more profitable than a pursuit with trained hounds. 
 
 About a month alter his rejection by Miss Armstrong, 
 
1 i Tilt: DEATH SHOT. 
 
 I.'" bard Darke is oat upon & chase; as usual along the-edge of 
 the c; a romp. Rather should it be called a search:: 
 
 as found no traces of the human game that lias 
 tempted him forth. This is a fugitive negro— one of th 
 licM-hands belonging to his father's plantation — who has 
 absented himself, and cannot be recalled. 
 
 For several weeks "Jupiter" — as the runaway is named — 
 has been missing ; and his description, with the reward at- 
 >!. has appeared in the county newspaper. The planter's 
 s m, having a suspicion that be is secreted somewhere in the 
 swamp, has made several excursions thither, in the hope of 
 lighting upon his tracks. But " Jape " is an astute fellow, 
 and has hitherto contrived to leave no sign, which can in any 
 way Contribute to his capture. 
 
 Dick Darke is returning home, after an unsucc sful day's 
 ■. in anything hut a cheerful mood. Though not so 
 much from having failed in finding traces of the missing 
 slave. That is only a matter of money ; and, as he has plenty, 
 the disappointment can be borne. The thought embittering 
 his spirit relates to another matter. He thinks of his scorned 
 suit, and blighted love prospects. 
 
 The chagrin caused him by Helen Armstrong's refusal has 
 terribly distressed, and driven him to more reckless courses. 
 He drinks deeper than ever; while in his cups he has been 
 silly enough to let his boon companions become acquainted 
 with his reason for thus running riot, making not much 
 t, either, of the mean ; i designs for her who has 
 
 ejected him. She is to be punished through her father. 
 
 Colonel Armstrong's indebtedness to Ephraim Darke 
 hi become known throughout the settlement — all about 
 the mortgage. Taking into consideration the respective 
 characters of the mortgagor and mortgagi e, men .-hake 
 their heads, and say that Darke will soon own the Armstrong 
 plantation. All the sooner, since the chief obstacle to the fulfil- 
 ment of his long-cherished design has been his son, and this 
 is now removed. 
 
 Notwithstanding the near prospect of having his spite 
 gratified, Richard Darke keenly feels his humiliation. He 
 has done so ever since the day of bis receiving it ; and as 
 determinedly has he been nursing his wrath. He has been 
 still farther exasperated by a circumstance which has lately 
 occurred — the return of Charles Clancy from Texas. Some 
 one has told him of Clancy having been seen in company with 
 Helen Armstrong — the two walking the woods alone! 
 
A FOREST POST-OFFICE. 15 
 
 Such an interview could not have been with her father's 
 consent, but clandestine. So much the more aggravating to 
 him — Darke. The thought of it is tearing his heart, as he 
 returns from his fruitless search after the fugitive. 
 
 He has left the swamp behind, and is continuing on through 
 a tract of woodland, which separates his father's plantation 
 from that of Colonel Armstrong, when he sees something 
 that promises relief to his perturbed spirit. It is a woman, 
 ; making her way through the woods, coming towards him, 
 , from the direction of Armstrongs house. 
 
 She is not the colonel's daughter — neither one. Nor does 
 Dick Darke suppose it either. Though seen indistinctly 
 i under the shadow of the trees, he identities the approaching 
 form as that of Julia — a mulatto maiden, whose special dim- 
 it is to attend upon the young ladies of the Armstrong family. 
 
 " Thank God for the devil's luck !" he mutters, on making 
 her out. " It's Jupiter's sweetheart ; his Juno or Leda, 
 yellow-hided as himself. No doubt she's on her way to keep 
 an appointment with him ? No more, that I shall be | r 
 
 tie interview. Two hundred dollars reward for old Jupe, 
 and the fun of giving the d — d nigger a q-ood " lamming," 
 once I lay hand on him. Keep on, Jule, girl ! You'll track 
 him up for me, better than the sharpest scented hound in my 
 kennel." 
 
 While making this soliloquy, the speaker witkdra-w.s him- 
 self behind a bush ; and, concealed by its dense foliage, 
 keeps his eye on the mulatto wench, still wending her way 
 agh the thick standing tree trunks. 
 
 As there is no path, and the girl is evidently goi: 
 
 a, he has reason to believe she is on the errand con- 
 jectured. 
 
 Indeed he can have no doubt about her being on the way 
 to an interview with Jupiter ; and he is now good as certain 
 of soon discovering, and securing, the runaway who has so 
 long contrived to elude him. 
 
 After the girl has passed the place of his concealmei I — 
 which she very soon does— he slips out from behind the 
 bush, ind follows her with stealthy tread, still taking care to 
 keep cover between them. 
 
 ISot. long before she comes to a stop; under a errand 
 magnolia, whose spreading branches, with their large laurel. 
 es, shadow a vast circumference of ground. 
 
 Darke, who has again taken stand behind a fallen tree, 
 where he has a full view of her movements, watches them 
 
1«: 
 
 THE DEATH SI10T. 
 
 •with eager eyes. Two hundred dollars at stake — two hun- 
 dred on his own account — fifteen hundred for his father — 
 Jape's market value — no wonder at his being all eyes, all 
 tins, on the alert! 
 
 What is his astonishment, at seeing the girl take a letter 
 from her pocket, and, standing on tiptoe, drop it into a knot- 
 ] ile in i he mag aolia ! 
 
 This done, she turns shoulder towards the tree: and, with- 
 out Btaying Longer under its shadow, glides back along 
 the path by which she has come — evidently going home 
 again ! 
 
 The negro-catcher is not only surprised, but greatly 
 chagrined. He has experienced a double disappointment — 
 the anticipation of earning two hundred dollars, and giving 
 his old slave the lash: both pleasant if realized, but painful 
 the thought in both to be foiled. 
 
 Still keeping in concealment, he permits Julia to de] 
 not only unmolested, but unchallenged. There may be 
 secret in the Inter to concern, though it may not console 
 him. In any case, it will soon be his. 
 
 And it soon is, without imparting consolation. Bather 
 the reverse. Whatever the contents of that epistle, so 
 curiously deposit* d, Richard Darke, on becoming ac mi 
 with them, reels like a drunken man; and to save b 
 from falling, seeks support against the trunk of the tree ! 
 
 Alter a time, recovering, he re-reads the letter, and j 
 at a picture — a photograph — also found within the envi 
 
 Then from his lips come words, low-muttered — words of 
 menace, made emphatic by an oath. 
 
 A man's name is heard among his. mutterings. more than 
 once re] 
 
 As lJick Darke, after thrusting letter and picture into his 
 pocket, strides away from the spot, his clenched teeth, with 
 the lurid light scintillating in his eyes, to this man foretell 
 danger — maybe death. 
 

 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 TWO GOOD GIELS. 
 
 [HE dark cloud, long lowering over Colonel Arm- 
 strong and his fortunes, is about to fall. A dia- 
 logue with his eldest daughter occurring on the same 
 day — indeed in the same hour — when she refused 
 Richard Darke, shows him to have been but too well aware 
 of the prospect of impending ruin. 
 
 The disappointed suitor had not long left the presence of 
 the lady, who so laconically denied him, when another appears 
 by her side. A man, too ; but no rival of Richard Darke — no 
 lover of Helen Armstrong. The venerable white-haired gen- 
 tleman, who has taken Darke's place, is her father, the old 
 colonel himself. His air, on entering the room, betrays uneasi- 
 ness about the errand of the planter's son — a suspicion there 
 is something amiss. He is soon made certain of it, by his 
 daughter unreservedly communicating the object of the inter- 
 view. He says in rejoinder: — 
 
 " I supposed that to be his purpose ; though, from his com- 
 ing at this early hour, I feared something worse." 
 
 These words bring a shadow over the countenance of her 
 to whom they .are addressed, simultaneous with a glance of 
 inquiry from her grand, glistening eyes. 
 
 First exclaiming, then interrogating, she says : — 
 
 "Worse! Feared! Father, what should you be afraid of ? " 
 
 ' : Xever mind, my child ; nothing that concerns yon. 
 Tell me: in what way did you give him answer?" 
 
 " In one little word. I simply said no." 
 
 " That little word will, no doubt, be enough. O Heaven ! 
 what is to become of us ?" 
 
 " Dear father ! "' demands the beautiful girl, laying her hand 
 upon his shoulder, with a searching look into his eves ; " why 
 do you speak thus ? Are you angry with me for refusing 
 him ? Surely you would not wish to see me the wife of 
 Richard Darke" " 
 
 " You do not love him, Helen ? " 
 
 " Luve him ! Can you ask? Love that man!" 
 
 " Yuu would not marry him?" 
 
 2 
 
1H THE Pr.ATII SHOT. 
 
 •■ Would not — could not. I'd prefer death." 
 
 " Enough ; I must submit to my (ate." 
 
 "Fate, father! What maybe the meaning of this? There 
 is some secret — a danger P Trust to me. Let me know all."* 
 
 ''1 may well c! > that, Brace ii cannot remain much longer a 
 secret. There is danger, Helen — the danger of debt! My 
 i -late is mortgaged to the father of iliis fellow — so much as to 
 l>ut me completely in his power. Everything I possess, land, 
 houses, slaves, may become his at any hour ; this day, if he so 
 will it. He is sure to will it now. Your little word 'no,' 
 will bring about a big change — the crisis I've been long 
 apprehending. Never mind ! Let it come ! I must meet it 
 like a man. It is for you, daughter — you and your sister — I 
 grieve. My poor dear girls; what a change there trill be in 
 your lives, as your prospects! Poverty, coarse fare, coarse 
 garments to wear, and a log cabin to live in! Henceforth, 
 this must be your lot. I can hold out hope of no other." 
 
 " What of all that, lather ? I, for one, care not ; and I'm 
 sure sister will feel the same. But is there no way to " j 
 
 " Save me from bankruptcy, you'd say ? You need notff 
 ask that. I have spent many a sleepless night thinking if 
 there was. But no ; there is only one — that one. It I have 
 never contemplated, even for an instant, knowing it would 
 not do. I was sure you did not love Richard Darke, and 
 would not consent to marry him. You could not, my child ? " 
 
 Helen Armstrong does not make immediate answer, though 
 there is one ready to leap to her lips. 
 
 She hesitates giving it, from a thought, that it may add to 
 the weight of unhappiness pressing upon her father's spirit. 
 
 Mistaking her silence, and perhaps with the spectre of 
 poverty staring him in the face — oft inciting to meanness, 
 even the noblest natures — he repeats the test interrogatory : — 
 
 " Tell me, daughter ! Could you marry him ? " 
 
 " Speak candidly," he continues, " and take time to reflect 
 before answering. If you think you could not be contented — 
 happy — with Richard Darke for your husband, bctterit should 
 never be. Consult your own heart, ami do not be swayed by 
 me, or my necessities. Say, is the thing impossible ? " 
 
 " I have said. It is impossible ! " 
 
 For a moment both remain silent ; the father drooping, 
 spiritless, as if struck by a galvanic shock ; the daughter look- 
 ing sorrowful, as though she had given it. 
 
 She soonest recovering, makes an effort to restore him. 
 
 "Dear father!" she exclaims, laying her hand upon his 
 
 
TWO GOOD GIRLS. 19 
 
 shoulder, and gazing tenderly into his eyes ; "you speak of 
 a change in our circumstances — of bankruptcy and other ills. 
 Let them come ! For myself I care not. Even if the alter- 
 native were death, I've told you — I tell you again — I would 
 rather that, than be the wife of Richard Darke." 
 
 " Then his wife you'll never be ! Now, let the subject drop, 
 and the ruin fall ! Wo must prepare for poverty, and Texas ! " 
 
 " Texas, if you will, but not poverty. Nothing of the kind. 
 The wealth of affection will make you feel rich ; and in a 
 lowly log-hut, as in this grand house, you'll still have mine." 
 
 So speaking, the fair girl flings herself upon her father's 
 breast, her hand laid across his forehead, the white fingers 
 soothingly caressing it. 
 
 The door opens. Another enters the room — another girl, 
 almost fair as she, but brighter, and younger. 'Tis Jessie. 
 
 " Not only my affection," Helen adds, at sight of the new 
 comer, " but hers as well. Won't he, sister? " 
 
 Sister, wondering what it is all about, nevertheless sees 
 something is wanted of her. She has caught the word 
 " affection," at the same time observing an afflicted cast 
 upon her father's countenance. This decides her ; and, gliding 
 forward, in another instant she is by his side, clinging to the 
 opposite shoulder, with an arm around his neck. 
 
 Thus grouped, the three figures compose a family picture 
 expressive of purest love. 
 
 A pleasing tableau to one who knew nothing of what has 
 thus drawn them together ; or knowing it, could truly ap- 
 preciate. For in the faces of all beams affection, which 
 bespeaks a happy, if not prosperous, future — without any 
 doubting fear of either poverty, or Texas. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A PHOTOGRAPH IN THE FOREST. 
 
 N the third day, after that on which Richard Darke 
 abstracted the letter from the magnolia, a man is 
 seen strolling along the edge of the cypress swamp. 
 The hour is nearly the same, but the individual 
 altogether different. Only in age does he bear any similarity 
 to the planter's son ; for he is also a youth of some three or 
 
20 THE DEATH F1I0T. 
 
 four and twenty. In all else he is unlike Dick Darke, as 
 one man could well be to another. 
 
 He is of medium size and height, with a figure pleasingly 
 proportioned. His .shoulders squarely set, and chest rounded 
 out, tell of great strength ; while limbs tersely knit, and a 
 linn elastic tread betoken toughness and activity. Features 
 of smooth, regular outline — the jaws broad, and well balanced ; 
 the chin prominent : the nose nearly Grecian — while eminently 
 handsome, proclaim a noble nature, with courage equal to any 
 demand that may be made upon it. Not les3 the glance of a 
 blue-grey eye, unquailing as an eagle's. 
 
 A grand shock of hair, slightly curled, and dark brown in 
 colour, gives the finishing touch to his fine countenance, as 
 the feather to a Tyrolese hat. 
 
 Dressed in a sort of shooting costume, with jack -boots, and 
 gaiters buttoned above them, he carries a gun ; which, as can 
 be seen, is a single-barrelled rifle ; while at his heels trots 
 a dog of large size, apparently a cross between stag-hound 
 and mastiff, with a spice of terrier in its composition. Such 
 mongrels are not necessarily curs, but often the best breed 
 for backwoods' sport ; where the keenness of scent required to 
 track a deer, needs supplementing by strength and staunch- 
 ness, when the game chances, as it often does, to be a bear, 
 a wolf, or a panther. 
 
 The master of this trebly crossed canine is the man whose 
 name rose upon the lips of Richard Darke, after reading 
 the purloined epistle — Charles Clancy. To him was it ad- 
 dressed, and for him intended, as also the photograph found 
 inside. 
 
 Several days have elapsed since his return from Texas, 
 having come back, as already known, to find himself father- 
 less. During the interval he has remained much at home — 
 a dutiful son, doing all he can to console a sorrowing mother. 
 Only now and then has he sought relaxation in the chase, of 
 which he is devotedly fond. On this occasion he has 
 come down to the cypress swamp ; but, having encountered 
 no game, is going back with an empty bag. 
 
 He is not in low spirits at his ill success ; for he has some- 
 thing to console him — that which gives gladness to his heart — 
 joy almost reaching delirium. She, who has won it, loves him. 
 
 This she is Helen Armstrong. She has not signified as 
 much, in words ; but by ways equally expressive, and quite 
 as convincing. They have met clandestinely, and so corres- 
 ponded ; the knot-hole in the magnolia serving them as a post- 
 
A PHOTOGRAPH IN THE FOREST. 21 
 
 box. At first, only phrases of friendship in their conversa- 
 tion ; the same in the letters thus surreptitiously exchanged. 
 For despite Clancy's courage among men, he is a coward in 
 the presence of women — in hers more than any. 
 
 For all this, at their latest interview, he had thrown aside 
 his shyness, and spoken words of love — fervent love, in its 
 last appeal. He had avowed himself wholly hers, and asked 
 her to be wholly his. She declined giving him an answer 
 viva voce, but promised it in writing. He will receive it in 
 a letter, to be deposited in the place convened. 
 
 He feels no offence at her having thus put him off. He 
 believes it to have been but a whim of his sweetheart — the 
 caprice of a woman, who has been so much flattered and 
 admired. He knows, that, like the Anne Hathaway of Shake- 
 speare, Helen Armstrong " hath a way " of her own. For she 
 is a girl of no ordinary character, but one of spirit, free 
 and independent, consonant with the scenes and people that 
 surrounded her youth. So far from being offended at her not 
 giving him an immediate answer, he but admires her the 
 more. Like the proud eagle's mate, she does not condescend 
 to be wooed as the soft cooing dove, nor yield a too easy 
 acquiescence. 
 
 Still daily, hourly, does he expect the promised response. 
 And twice, sometimes thrice, a day pays visit to the forest 
 post-office. 
 
 Several days have elapsed since their last interview ; and 
 yet he has found no letter lying. Little dreams he, that one 
 has been sent, with a carte de visite enclosed ; and less of 
 both being in the possession of his greatest enemy on earth. 
 
 He is beginning to grow uneasy at the delay, and shape 
 conjectures as to the cause. All the more from knowing, 
 that a great change is soon to take place in the affairs of the 
 Armstrong family. A knowledge which emboldened him to 
 make the proposal he has made. 
 
 And now, his day's hunting done, he is on his way for the 
 tract of woodland in which stands the sweet trysting tree. 
 
 He has no thought of stopping, or turning aside ; nor 
 would he do so for any small game. But at this moment 
 a deer- — a grand antlered stag — comes " loping " along. 
 
 Before he can bring his gun to bear upon it, the animal is 
 out of sight ; having passed behind the thick standing trunks 
 of the cypresses. He restrains his hound, about to spring off 
 on the slot. The stag has not seen him ; and, apparently, 
 going unscared, he hopes to stalk, and again get sight of it. 
 
■22 
 
 TIIE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 He has not proceeded over twenty paces, when a sound fills 
 his cars, as well as the woods around. It is the repovt of a 
 gun, fired by ono who cannot be far off. And not at tho 
 pi real ing stag, but himself I 
 
 Ho feels that the bullet has hit him. This, from a sting- 
 ing sensation in his arm, like tho touch of red-hot iron, or a. 
 drop of scalding water. He might not know it to bo a bullet, 
 but for the crack heard simultaneously — this coming from 
 behind. 
 
 The wound, fortunately but a slight one, does not disable 
 him; and, like a tiger stung by javelins, he is round in an 
 instant, ready to return the fire. 
 
 There is no one in sight ! 
 
 As there has been no warning — not a word — he can have 
 no doubt of the intent : some one meaning to murder him ! 
 
 He is sure about its being an attempt to assassinate him, 
 as of the man who lias made it. Richard Darke — certain, as 
 if the crack of the gun had been a voice pronouncing the name. 
 
 Clancy's eyes, flashing angrily, interrogate the forest. The 
 trees stand close, the spaces between shadowy and sombre. 
 For, as said, they are cypresses, and the hour twilight. 
 
 He can see nothing save the huge trunks, and their lower 
 limbs, garlanded with ghostly tillaadsia here and there 
 draping down to the earth. This baffles him, both by its 
 colour and form. The grey gauze-like festoonery, having a 
 resemblance to ascending smoke, hinders him from perceiving 
 that of the discharged gun. 
 
 He can see none. In must have whiffed up suddenly, and 
 become commingled with the moss? 
 
 It does not matter much. Neither the twilight obscurity, 
 nor that caused by the overshadowing trees, can prevent his 
 canine companion from discovering the whereabouts of the 
 would-be assassin. On hearing the shot the hound has harked 
 back ; and, at some twenty paces off', brought up beside a huge 
 trunk, where it stands fiercely baying, as if at a bear. The 
 tree is buttressed, with " knees " several feet in height rising 
 around. In the dim light, these might easily be mistaken for 
 men. 
 
 Clancy is soon among them ; and sees crouching between 
 two pilasters, the man who meant to murder him — Richard 
 Darke as conjectured. 
 
 Darke makes no attempt at explanation. Clancy calls for 
 none. His rifle is already cocked ; and, soon as seeing his 
 adversary, he raises it to his shoulder, exclaiming : — 
 
A PIIOTOGKAFH IN THE FOREST. Z-i 
 
 " Scoundrel ! you've had the first shot. It's my turn now." 
 
 Darke does not remain inactive, but leaps forth from his 
 lurking-place, to obtain more freedom for his arms. The but- 
 tresses hinder him from having elbow room. He also elevates 
 his gun ; but, perceiving it will be too late, instead of taking 
 aim, he lowers the piece again, and dodges behind the tree. 
 
 The movement, quick and subtle, as a squirrel's bound, saves 
 him. Clancy fires without effect. His ball but pierces through 
 the skirt of Darke's coat, without touching his body. 
 
 With a wild shout of triumph, the latter advances upon his 
 adversary, whose gun is now empty. His own, a double-barrel, 
 has a bullet still undischarged. Deliberately bringing the 
 piece to his shoulder, and covering the victim he is now sure 
 of, he says derisivelj r , — 
 
 " What a devilish poor shot you've made, Mister Charlie 
 Clancy ! A sorry marksman — to miss a man scarce six feet 
 from the muzzle of your gun ! I shan't miss you. Turn 
 about's fair play. I've had the first, and I'll have the last. 
 Dog ! take your death shut!" 
 
 While delivering the dread speech, his finger presses the 
 trigger; the crack comes, with the flash and fiery jet. 
 
 For some seconds Clancy is invisible, the sulphurous smoke 
 forming a nimbus around him. When it ascends, he is seen 
 prostrate upon the earth ; the blood gushing from a wound 
 in his breast, and spurting over his waistcoat. 
 
 He appears writhing in his death agony. 
 
 And evidently thinks so himself, from his words spoken in 
 slow, choking utterance, — 
 
 " Richard Darke — you have killed — murdered me ! " 
 
 " I meant to do it," is the unpitying response. 
 
 " O Heavens ! You horrid wretch ! Why — why " 
 
 " Bah ! what are you blubbering about ? You know why. 
 If not, I shall tell you— Helen Armstrong. After all, it isn't 
 jealousy that's made me kill you ; only your impudence, to 
 suppose you had a chance with her. You hadn't ; she never 
 cared a straw for you. Perhaps, before dying, it may be somo 
 consolation for you to know, she didn't. I've got the proof. 
 Since it isn't likely you'll ever see herself again, it may give 
 you a pleasure to look at her portrait. Here it is ! The sweet 
 girl sent it me this very morning, with her autograph attached, 
 as you see. A capital likeness, isn't it?" 
 
 The inhuman wretch stooping down, holds the photograph 
 before the eyes of the dying man, gradually growing dim. 
 But only death could hinder them from turning towards 
 
'21 
 
 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 that sun-painted picture: — the portrait of her who lias his 
 
 He gazes on it lovingly, but not long. For the script 
 underneath claims hie attention. In this. lie recognizes tier 
 handwriting, well known ti> him. Terrible the despair that 
 sweeps through his soul, as he deciphers it : — 
 
 "Helen Armstrong. — For him she loves." 
 
 The picture is in the possession of Richard Darke. To 
 him have the Sweet words been vouchsafed! 
 
 "A charming creature!" Darke tauntingly continues, kiss- 
 ing the carte, and pouring the venomous speech into his 
 victim's ear. " It's the very counterpart of her sweet self. As 
 I said, she sent it me this morning. Come, Clancy ! Before 
 giving up the ghost, tell me what you think of it. Isn't it an 
 excellent likeness ? " 
 
 To the inhuman interrogatory Clancy makes no response 
 — either by word, look, or gesture. His lips are mute, Ids 
 eyes without light of life, his limbs and body motionless as 
 the mud on which they lie. 
 
 A short, but profane, speech terminates the terrible episode; 
 four words of most heartless signification : — 
 
 " D n him ; he's dead ! " 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A COON CHASE INTERRUPTED. 
 
 ilOTWITHSTANDETC the solitude of the place 
 where the strife, apparently fatal, has occurred, and 
 the slight chances of its being seen, its sounds 
 have been heard. 
 The shots, the excited speeches, and angry exclamations, 
 have reached the ears of one who can well interpret them. 
 This is a coon hunter. 
 
 There is no district in the Southern States without its 
 coon hunter. In most, many of them ; but in each, one who 
 is noted. And, notedly, ho is a negro. The pastime is too 
 tame, or too humble, to tempt the white man. Sometimes 
 the sons of "poor white trash" take part in it; but it is 
 usually delivered over to the " darkey." 
 
A COON CHASE INTERRUPTED. 25 
 
 In the old times of slavery every plantation could boast of 
 one, or more, of these sable Nimrods ; and they arc not yot 
 extinct. To them coon-catching is a profit, as well as sport ; 
 the skins keeping them in tobacco — and whisky, when ad- 
 dicted to drinking it. The flesh, too, though little esteemed 
 by white palates, is a bo>ine-bonche to the negro, with whom 
 animal food is a scarce commodity. It often furnishes him 
 with the substance for a savoury roast. 
 
 The plantation of Ephraim Darke is no exception to the 
 general rule. It, too, has its coon hunter — a negro named, or 
 nicknamed, "Blue Bill;" the qualifying term bestowed, from 
 u cerulean tinge, that in certain lights appears upon the sur- 
 face of his sable epidermis. Otherwise he is black as ebony. 
 
 Blue Bill is a mighty hunter of his kind, passionately fond 
 of the coon chase — too much, indeed, for his own personal 
 safety. It carries him abroad, when the discipline of the 
 plantation requires him to be at home ; and more than once, 
 for so absenting himself, have his shoulders been scored by 
 the " cowskin." 
 
 Still the punishment has not cured him of his proclivity. 
 Unluckily for Richard Darke, it has not. For on the even- 
 ing of Clancy's being shot down, as described, Blue Bill 
 chances to be abroad ; and, with a small cur, which he has 
 trained to his favourite chase, is scouring the timber near the 
 edge of the cypress swamp. 
 
 He has "treed" an old he-coon, and is just preparing to 
 ascend to the creature's nest — a cavity in a sycamore high up — 
 when a deer comes dashing by. Soon after a shot startles 
 him. He is more disturbed at the peculiar crack, than by 
 the mere fact of its being the report of a gun. His ear, accus- 
 tomed to such sounds, tells him the report has proceeded 
 from a fowling piece, belonging to his young master — just 
 then the last man he would wish to meet. He is away from 
 the " quarter " without " pass," or permission of any kind. 
 
 His first impulse is, to continue the ascent of the sycamore, 
 aud conceal himself among its branches. 
 
 But his dog, remaining below — that will betray him ? 
 
 While hurriedly reelecting on what he had best do, ho 
 hears a second shot. Then a third, coming quickly alter ; 
 while preceding, and mingling with the reports are men's 
 voices, apparently in mad expostulation. He hears, too, the 
 angry growling of a hound, at intervals barking and baying. 
 
 "Gorramity !" mutters Bine Bill; " dar's a skrimmage 
 goin' on dar — a tight, I rcck'n, an scemin' to de def ! Clam 
 
26 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 cnuf who dat fight's between. Do fuss shot wa' Mass' Dick's 
 double-barrel; do odcr am Charl Clancy rifle. By golly J 
 'taint sale dis child be seen hya, no how. Whar kin a hide 
 inasefi'r' " 
 
 Again he glances upward, scanning the sycamore : then 
 down at his dog ; and once more to the trunk of the tree. This 
 is embraced by a creeper — a gigantic grape-vine — up which 
 an ascent may easily be made; so easily, there need be no 
 difficulty in carrying the cur along. It was the ladder he 
 intended using to get at the treed coon. 
 
 With the fear of his young master coming past — and if 
 so, surely " cow-hiding" him — he feels there is no time to be 
 wasted in vacillation. 
 
 Nor docs he waste any. Without further stay, he flings his 
 arm around the coon dog : raises the unresisting animal from 
 the earth ; and " swarms " up the creeper, like a she-bear 
 carrying her cub. 
 
 In ten seconds after, he is snugly ensconced in a crotch of 
 the sycamore ; screened from observation of any one who may 
 pass underneath, by the profuse foliage of the parasite. 
 
 Feeling fairly secure, he once more sets himself to listen. 
 And, listening attentively, he hears the same voices as before. 
 But not any longer in angry ejaculation. The tones are tran- 
 quil, as though the two men were now quietly convcr.sin^. 
 One says but a word or two ; the other all. Then the last 
 alone appears to speak, as if in soliloquy, or from the first 
 failing to make response. 
 
 The sudden transition of tone has in it something strange 
 —a contrast inexplicable. 
 
 The coon hunter can tell, that he continuing to talk is his 
 young master, Richard Darke ; though he cannot catch the 
 words, much less make out their meaning. The distance 
 is too great, and the current of sound interrupted by the 
 thick standing trunks of the cypresses. 
 
 At length, also, the monologue ends ; soon after, succeeded 
 by a short exclamatory phrase, in voice louder and more 
 earnest. 
 
 Then there is silence ; so profound, that Blue Bill hears but 
 his own heart, boating in loud sonorous thumps — louder from 
 his ribs being contiguous to the hollow trunk of the tree. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MURDER WITHOUT REMORSE 
 
 HE breathless silence, succeeding Darke's profane 
 speech, is awe-inspiring ; death-like, as though every 
 living creature in the forest had been suddenly struck 
 dumb, or dead, too. 
 
 Unspeakably, incrediblj- atrocious is the behaviour of the 
 man who has remained master of the ground. During the 
 contest, Dick Darke has shown the cunning of the fox, com- 
 bined with the fiercer treachery of the tiger; victorious, his 
 conduct seems a combination of the jackal and vulture. 
 
 Stooping over his fallen foe, to assure himself that the 
 latter no longer lives, he says, — 
 
 " Dead, I take it." 
 
 These are his cool words ; after which, as though still in 
 doubt, he bends lower, and listens. At the same time he 
 clutches the handle of his hunting knife, as with the intent 
 to plunge its blade into the body. 
 
 He sees there is no need. It is breathless, almost blood- 
 less — clearly a corpse ! 
 
 Believing it so, he resumes his erect attitude, exclaiming 
 in louder tone, and with like profanity as before, — 
 
 " Yes, dead, d — n him ! " 
 
 As the assassin bends over the body of his fallen foe, he 
 shows no sign of contrition, for the cruel deed he has done. 
 No feeling save that of satisfied vengeance; no emotion that 
 resembles remorse. On the contrary, his cold animal eyes 
 continue to sparkle with jealous hate ; w T hile his hand has 
 moved mechanically to the hilt of his knife, as though he 
 meant to mutilate the form he has laid lifeless. Its beauty, 
 even in death, seems to embitter his spirit ! 
 
 But soon, a sense of danger comes creeping over him, 
 and fear takes shape in his soul. For, beyond doubt, he has 
 done murder. 
 
 " No ! " he says, in an effort at self-justification. " Nothing of 
 the sort. I've killed him ; that's true ; but he's had the chance 
 to kill me. They'll seo that his gun's discharged ; and here's 
 
28 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 his bullet gone through the skirt of my coat. By thunder, 
 'twas a close shave!" 
 
 For a time he stands reflecting — his glance now turned 
 (dv. anls the body, now sent Bearchingly through the trees, as 
 though is dread of some one earning that way. 
 
 Not much likelihood of this. The spot is one of perfect 
 solitude, as is always a cypress forest. There is no path near, 
 accustomed to be trodden by the traveller. The planter has 
 no business among those great buttressed trunks. The wood- 
 man will never assail them with his axe. Only a stalking 
 hunter, or perhaps some runaway slave, is at all likely to si ray 
 thither. 
 
 Again soliloquizing, he says, — 
 
 "Shall I put a bold lace upon it, and confess to having 
 killed him? I can say we met while out hunting; quarrelled, 
 and fonght — a fair fight ; shot for shot ; my luck to have the 
 last. Will that story stand?" 
 
 A pause in the soliloquy ; a glance at the prostrate form ; 
 another, which interrogates the scene around, taking in the 
 huge unshapely trunks, their long outstretched limbs, with 
 tin 1 pall-like festoonery of Spanish moss; a thought about 
 the loneliness of the place, and its fitness for concealing a 
 dead body. 
 
 Like the lightning's flashes, all this flits through the mind of 
 the murderer. The result, to divert him from his half-formed 
 resolution — perceiving its futility. 
 
 " It won't do," ho mutters, his speech indicating the 
 chancre. " Xo, that it won't! Better say nothing about 
 what's happened. They're not likely to look for him 
 here." 
 
 Again he glances inquiringly around, with a view to 
 secreting the corpse. He has made up his mind to this. 
 
 A sluggish creak meanders among the trees, some two hun- 
 dred yards from the spot. At about a like distance below, it 
 discharges itself into the stagnant reservoir of the swamp. 
 
 Its waters are dark, from the overshadowing of the cypresses, 
 and deep enough for the purpose he is planning. 
 
 But to carry the body thither will require an effort of 
 strength ; and to drag it would be sure to leave traces. 
 
 In view of this difficulty, he says to himself, — 
 
 "I'll let it lie w lure it is. No one ever comes along hero 
 — not likely. At the same time, I take it, there can be 
 no harm in hiding him a little. So, Charley Clancy, if I 
 ha\e sent you to kingdom come, I shan't leave your bones 
 
MDRDER WITHOUT REMORSE. 2£) 
 
 unburied. Tour ghost might haunt rue, if I did. To hinder 
 that you shall have interment." 
 
 In the midst of this horrid mockery, he rests his gun against 
 a tree, and commences dragging the Spanish moss from the 
 branches above. The beard-like parasite comes off in flakes 
 — in armfuls. Half a dozen he flings over the still palpi- 
 tating corpse ; then pitches on top some pieces of dead wood, 
 to prevent any stray breeze from sweeping off the hoary 
 shroud. 
 
 Aiter strewing other tufts around, to conceal the blood 
 and boot tracks, he rests from his labour, and for a time 
 stands surveying what he has done. 
 
 At length seeming satisfied, he again grasps hold of his 
 gun ; and is about taking departure from the place, when a 
 sound, striking his ear, causes him to start. No wonder, since 
 it seems the voice of one wailing for the dead ! 
 
 At first he is affrighted, fearfully so ; but recovers himself 
 on learning the cause. 
 
 " Only the dog ! " he mutters, perceiving Clancy's hound at 
 a distance, among the trees. 
 
 On its master being shot down, the animal had scampered 
 off — perhaps fearing a similar fate. It had not gone far, and 
 is now returning — by little and little, drawing nearer to the 
 dangerous spot. 
 
 The creature seems struggling between two instincts — 
 affection for its fallen master, and fear for itself. 
 
 As Darke's gun is empty, he endeavours to entice the dog 
 within reach of his knife. Despite his coaxing, it will not 
 come! 
 
 Hastily ramming a cartridge into the right-hand barrel, 
 he aims, and fires. 
 
 The shot takes effect ; the ball passing through the fleshy 
 part of the dog's neck. Only to crease the skin, and draw 
 forth a spurt of blood. 
 
 The hound hit, and further frightened, gives out a wild 
 gowl, and goes off, without sign of return. 
 
 Equally wild are the words that leap from the lips of 
 Richard Darke, as lie stands gazing after. 
 
 " Great God ! " he cries ; " I've done an infernal foolish 
 thing. The cur will go home to Clancy's house. That'll tell 
 a tale, sure to set people searching. Aye, and it may run 
 back here, guiding them to the spot. Holy h — 1 !" 
 
 While speaking, the murderer turns pale. It is the first 
 rime for him to experience real fear. In such an out-of-thc- 
 
30 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 way place he lias felt confident of concealing the body, and 
 along with it the bloody deed. Then, he had not taken the 
 dog into account, and the odds were in his favour. Sow, 
 with the latter adrift, they arc heavily against him. 
 
 It needs no calculation of chances to make this clear. Nor 
 is it any doubt which causes him to stand hesitating. His 
 irresolution springs from uncertainty as to what course he 
 shall pursue. 
 
 One thing certain — he must not remain there. The hound 
 has gone off howling. It is two miles to the widow Clancy's 
 house; but there is an odd squatter's cabin and del 
 between. A dog going in that guise, blood-bedraggled, in 
 full cry of distress, will be sure of being seen — equally sure 
 to raise an alarm. 
 
 On the probable, or possible, contingencies Dick Darke does 
 not stand long reflecting. Despite its solitude, the cypress 
 forest is not the place for tranquil thought — at least, not now 
 for him. Far off through the trees he can hear the wail of 
 the wounded Molossian. 
 
 Is it fancy, or does he also hear human voices ? 
 
 He stays not to be sure. Beside that gory corpse, 
 shrouded though it be, ho dares not remain a moment 
 longer. 
 
 Hastily shouldering his gun, he strikes off through the 
 trees ; at first in quick step ; then in double ; this increasing 
 to a rapid run. 
 
 He retreats in a direction contrary to that taken by the 
 dog. It is also different from the way leading to his father's 
 house. It forces him still further into the swamp — across 
 sloughs, and through soft mud, where he makes footmarks. 
 Though he has carefully concealed Clancy's corpse, and oblit- 
 erated all other traces of the strife, in his " scare," he does 
 not think of those he is now making. 
 
 The murderer is only cunning before the crime. After it, 
 if he have conscience, or be deficient in coolness, he loses self- 
 possession, and is pretty sure to leave behind something which 
 will furnish a clue for the detective. 
 
 So is it with Richard Darke. As he retreats from the 
 scene of his diabolical deed, his only thought is to put space 
 between himself and the spot where he has shed innocent 
 blood ; to get beyond earshot of those canine cries, that 
 seem commingled with the shouts of men — the voices of 
 avengers ! 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE COOX-UU-N'TEE CAUTIOUS. 
 
 CURING the time that Darke is engaged in covering 
 up Clancy's body, and afterwards occupied in the 
 attempt to kill his dog, the coon-hunter, squatted in 
 the sycamore fork, sticks to his seat like " death 
 to a dead nigger." And all the time trembling. Not with- 
 out reason. For the silence succeeding the short exclamatory 
 speech has not reassured him. He believes it to bo but a 
 lull, denoting some pause in the action, and that one, or both, 
 of the actors is still upon the ground. If only one, it will be 
 his master, whose monologue was last heard. During the 
 stillness, somewhat prolonged, he continues to shape conjec- 
 fcures aud put questions to himself, as to what can have been 
 the J'rac is, aad its cause. Undoubtedly a " shooting scrape " 
 between Dick Darke and Charles Clancy. But how has it 
 terminated, or is the end yet come ? Has one of the com- 
 batants been killed, or gone away ? Or have both forsaken 
 the spot where they have been trying to spill each other's 
 blood ? 
 
 "While thus interrogating himself, a new sound distarbs 
 the tranquillity of the forest — the same, which the assassin 
 at first fancied was the voice of one wailing for his victim. 
 The coou-hunter has no such delusion. So in as hearing, he 
 recognizes the tongue of a stag-hound, knowing it to be 
 Clancy's. He is only astray about its peculiar ton?, now 
 quite changed. The animal is neither barking nor baying; 
 nor yet does it yelp as if suffering chastisement. Tho soft 
 tremulous whine, that comes pealing in prolonged reverbera- 
 tion through the trunks of the cypresses, proclaims distress 
 of a different kind — as of a dog asleep and dreaming ! 
 
 And now, once more a man's voice, his master's. It too 
 changed in tone. No longer in angry exclaim, or quiet con- 
 versation, but as if earnestly entreating ; the speech evidently 
 not addressed to Clancy, but the hound. 
 
 Strange all this ; and so thinks the coon-hunter. He has 
 but little time to dwell on it, before another sound waking 
 the echoes of the forest, interrupts the current of his re- 
 
32 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 flections. Another shot! This time, as twice before, the 
 broad round boom of a smooth-bore, so different from the 
 shorl sharp "spang" "'' a ride. 
 
 'I'll roughly versed in the distinction — indeed an adept — 
 Blue Bill knows from whose gun the shot hus been discharged. 
 It is the double-barrel belonging to Richard Darke. All the 
 reason for him to hug close to his concealment. 
 
 And not the less to be careful about the behaviour of his 
 own dog, which he is holding in hard embrace. For hearing 
 the bound, the cur is disposed to give response; would do so 
 but for the muscular fingers of its master closed chokingly 
 around its throat, at intervals detached to give it a cau- 
 tionary cuff. 
 
 After the shot the staghound continues its lugubrious 
 cries; but again with altered intonation, and less distinctly 
 heard : as though the animal had gone farther off, and were 
 still making away. 
 
 But now a new noise strikes upon the coon-hunter's ears ; 
 one at first slight, but rapidly growing louder. It is the 
 tread of footsteps, accompanied by a swishing among the 
 palmettoes, that form an underwood along the edge of the 
 swamp. Some one is passing through them, advancing 
 towards the tree where he is concealed. 
 
 More than ever does he tremble on his perch : tighter than 
 ever clutching the throat of his canine companion. For he 
 is sure, that the man wdiose footsteps speak approach, is his 
 master, or rather his master's son. The sounds seem to indi- 
 cate great haste — a retreat rapid, headlong, confused. On 
 which the peccant slave bases a hope of escaping obscrvat Ion, 
 and too probable chastisement. Correct in his conjecture, as 
 in the prognostication, in a few seconds after he sees Richard 
 Darke coming between the trees; running as for very lite — 
 the more like it that he goes crouchingly ; at intervals stop- 
 ping to look back and listen, with chin almost touching his 
 shoulder ! 
 
 When opposite the sycamore — indeed under it — ho makes 
 pause longer than usual. The perspiration stands in beads 
 upon his forehead, pours down his cheeks, over his eyebrows, 
 almost blinding him. He whips a kerchief out of his coat 
 i. and wipes it off. While so occupied, he does not 
 I i rceive that he has let something drop — something white 
 that came out along with the kerchief. Replacing the piece 
 of cambric he hurries on again, leaving it behind; on, on, till 
 the dull thud of his footfall, and the crisp rustling of the 
 
THE COOX-IIUXTEU CAUTIOUS. 
 
 stiff fan-like leaves, become botli blended with the ordinary 
 noises of the forest. 
 
 Then, but not before, does Blue Bill think of forsaking the 
 fork. Descending: from his irksome seat, he approaches the 
 white thing; left lying; on the ground — a letter enveloped in 
 the ordinary way. He takes it up, and sees it has been 
 already opened. He thinks not of drawing out the sheet 
 folded inside. It would be no use ; since the coon-hunter 
 cannot read. Still, an instinct tells him, the little bit of 
 treasure-trove may some time, and in some way, prove 
 useful. So forecasting, he slips it into his pocket. 
 
 This done he stands reflecting. No noise to disturb him 
 now. Darke's footsteps have died away in the distance, leaving 
 swamp and cypress forest restored to their habitual stillness. 
 The only sound, Blue Bill hears, is the beating of his own 
 heart, yet loud enough. 
 
 No longer thinks he of the coon he has succeeded in treeing. 
 The animal, late devoted to certain death, will owe its escape 
 to an accident, and may now repose securely within its cave. 
 Its pursuer has other thoughts — emotions, strong enough to 
 drive coon-hunting clean out of his head. Among these are 
 apprehensions about his own safetj-. Though unseen by 
 Richard Darke — his presence there unsuspected — he knows 
 that an unlucky chance has placed him in a position of 
 danger. That a sinister deed has been done he is sure. 
 
 Under the circumstances, how is he to act? Proceed to the 
 place whence the shots came, and ascertain what has actually 
 occurred ? 
 
 At first he thinks of doing this ; but surrenders the 
 intention. Affrighted by what is already known to him, he 
 dares not know more. His young master may be a murderer ? 
 The way in which he was retreating almost said as much. Is 
 he, Blue Bill, to make himself acquainted with the crime, and 
 bear witness against him who has committed it? As a slave, 
 he knows his testimony will count for little in a court of 
 justice. And as the slave of Ephraim Darke, as little would 
 his life be worth after giving it. 
 
 The last reflection decides him ; and, still carrying the coon- 
 dog under his arm, he parts from the spot, in timid skulking 
 gait, never stopping, not feeling safe, till he finds himself 
 inside the limits of the " negro quarter." 
 
i 
 
 :*TER IX. 
 
 AS ASSASSfS !'•' EETEF.AI. 
 
 jjTHWART the t] - as ore pursued 
 
 — in a track straight as the I will allow 
 
 ing through it I . : 
 stumbling over ■ in a trail- 
 
 ing grape-vine- Richard Darke i l the place where he 
 
 has laid his rival low. 
 
 lie makes neither stop, nor stay. If so, only for a few 
 instants, just long enough to listen, and if possible learn 
 whether he is b ing follow ed. 
 
 Whether or not, he f> ici i in smarting off, with 
 
 terror in his looks, and trembling in his limbs. The snntj- 
 froid he exhibited while bending over the I r of his 
 
 victim, and afterwards concealing it, has. quite forsaken him 
 now. Then he was confident, there could be no witness of 
 the deed — nothing to connect him with it as the doer, 
 there is a change — the unthoughfc-of presence of tl 
 produced it. Or, rather, the though I aving 
 
 escaped. This, and his own imagination. 
 
 For more than a mile he keeps on, in headlong reckless 
 rushing. Until fatigue overtaking him, his terror becomes 
 less impulsive, his fancies freer from exaggeration ; and, 
 believing himself Ear enough from the scene of danger, he at 
 length desists from flight, and comes to a dead stop. 
 
 Sitting down upon a log, he draws forth his pocket-hand- 
 kerchief, and wipes the sweat from his face. For he is per- 
 spiring at every pore, panting, palpitating. He now finds 
 time to reflect; his first reflection being the absurdity of his 
 making such precipitate retreat ; his next, its imprudence. 
 
 " I've been a fool for it," he mutters. " Suppoi e that some 
 one has seen me ? 'Twill only have made >'■■ . And 
 
 what have I been running away from? A dead body, and a 
 
 living dog! Why should I 01 C I her? Even tl D h 
 
 the adage lie true — about a live dog better than- a dead lion. 
 
 Lot me hope the hound n in't tell a tale upon me. For ci in 
 ■ lie shol I : . ] im. T ' Who i ld«ay \vh 
 
 of ball, or the kind of ic fj on '.' No da: t in 
 
AN ASSASSIN IN RETREAT. 
 
 that. I'd be stupid to think there could be. 'Well, it's all 
 over now, and the question is: what nest?" 
 
 Fi ir some minutes he remains upon the lop-, with the gun 
 resting across his knees, and his head bent over the barrels. 
 He appears engaged in some abstruse calculation. Anew 
 thought has sprung up in his mind — a scheme requiring all 
 his intellectual power to elaborate. 
 
 "/shall keep that tryst," he says, in soliloquy, seeming at 
 length to have settled it. " Yes ; I'll meet her under the 
 magnolia. Who can tell what changes may occur in the 
 heart of a woman? In history I had a royal namesake — an 
 ;h king, with an ugly hump on his shoulders — as he's 
 : c\d himself, ' deformed, unfinished, sent into the world scarce 
 half made up,' so that the 'dogs barked at him,' just as this 
 of Clancy's has been doing- at me. And this royal 
 Richard, shaped ' so lamely and unfashionable,' made court to 
 
 \ >man, whose husband he had just assassinated — more than 
 a woman, a proud queen — and more than wooed, he subdued 
 This ought to encourage me : the better that I, Richard 
 ■. am neither halt, nor hunchbacked. No, nor yet un- 
 liable, as many a Mississippian girl says, aud more than 
 one is ready to swear. 
 
 "Proud Helen Armstrong may be, and is; proud as 
 England's queeu herself. For all that, I've pot something t<> 
 subdue her — a scheme, cunning as that of my royal name- 
 May God, or the Devil, grant me like success !" 
 
 At the moment of giving utterance to the profane prayer, 
 lie rises to his feet. Then, taking out his watch, consults it. 
 
 It is too dark for him to see the dial ; but springing open 
 the class, he gropes against it, feeling for the hands. 
 
 " Half-past nine," ho mutters, after making out the time. 
 " Ten is the hour of her assignation. No chance for me 
 to get home before, and then over to Armstrong's wood- 
 ground. It's more than two miles from here. What matters 
 my going home? Nor any need changing this dress. 
 
 notice the hole in the skirt. If she do, she wouldn't 
 think of what caused it — above all it's being a bullet. Well, 
 I must be off! It will never do to keep the young lady 
 waiting. If she don't feel disappointed at seeing me, bless 
 her! If she do, I shall curse her! What's passed prepares 
 me for either event. In any case, I shall have satisfaction 
 for the slight she's put upon me. By G — d I'll get that! " 
 
 He is moving away, when a thought occurs staying him. 
 He is not quite certain about the exact hour of Helen 
 
30 THE DJ a SHOT. 
 
 strong's tryst, convoyed in her lotfcer to Clancy. In the mart- 
 
 oe of his mind ever since that epistle, no wonder he 
 
 e circnmsl I f osg< Ltes. 
 
 To make sure, heplnngi band into the pocket, where 
 
 posited both Inter and photograph — after holding the 
 I i fore the eyes of bis dying foeman, and \\ itnessis 
 fatal effect. With all his diabolical hardihood, he had been 
 awed by this — so as to 1 : papers into his | 
 
 hastily, carelessly. 
 
 They are no longer there ! 
 
 He searches in hi other pockets — in all of them, with like 
 result. He examines Ids bullet-pouch and game-bag. But 
 finds no letter, no photograph, not a scrap of paper, in any! 
 The stolen epistle, its envelope, the enclosed carta de visitc — 
 all are absent. 
 
 After ransacking Ids pockets, turning them inside out, he 
 comes to the conclusion that the precious papers are lost. 
 
 It startles, and for a moment dismays him. Where are 
 they? He must have let them fall in his hasty retreat 
 through the trees ; or left them by the dead body. 
 
 Shall he go back in search of them ? 
 
 No — no — no ! He does not dare to return upon that track. 
 The forest path is too sombre, too solitary, now. By the 
 margin of the dank lagoon, under the ghostly shadow of the 
 cypresses, he might meet the ghost of the man murdered ! 
 
 And why should he go back? After all, there is no need ; 
 nothing in the letter which can in any way compromise him. 
 Why should he care to recover it ? 
 
 " It may go to the devil, her picture along ! Let both 
 rot where I suppose I must have dropped them — in the mud, 
 or among the palmettoes. No matter where. But it does 
 matter, my being under the magnolia at the right time, to 
 meet her. Then shall I learn my fate — know it, for better, 
 for worse. If the former, I'll continue to believe in the story 
 of Richard Plantagenct ; if the latter, Richard Darke won't 
 much care what becomes of him." 
 
 So ending his strange soliloquy, with a corresponding cast 
 upon his countenance, the assassin rebuttonshis coat — thrown 
 open in search for the missing papers. Then, flinging the 
 double-barrelled fowling piece — the murder-gun — over his 
 sinister shoulder, he strides off to keep an appointment not 
 d ade for him, hut for the man he has murdered ! 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 TIIE EYE OF DEPARTURE. 
 
 jfHE evil day has arrived ; the ruin, foreseen, has 
 fallen. 
 
 The mortgage deed, so long held in menace 
 over the head of Archibald Armstrong — suspended, 
 as it were, by a thread, like the sword of Damocles — is to 
 be put into execution. Darke has demanded immediate 
 payment of the debt, coupled with threat of foreclosure. 
 
 The demand is a month old, the threat has been carried 
 out, and the foreclosure effected. The thread having been 
 cut, the keen blade of adversity has come down, severing 
 the tie which attached Colonel Armstrong to his property, 
 as it to him. Yesterday, he was owner, reputedly, of one of 
 the finest plantations along the line of the Mississippi river, 
 an hundred able-bodied negroes hoeing cotton in his fields, 
 with fifty more picking it from the pod, and " ginning " 
 the staple clear of seed ; to-day, he is but their owner in 
 seeming, Ephraim Darke being this in reality. And in 
 another day the apparent ownership will end : for Darke has 
 given his debtor notice to yield up houses, lands, slaves, 
 plantation-stock — in short, everything he possesses. 
 
 In vain has Armstrong striven against this adverse fate ; 
 in vain made endeavours to avert it. When men are falling, 
 false friends grow falser; even true ones becoming cold. 
 Sinister chance also against him ; a time of panic — a crisis 
 in the money-market — as it always is on such occasions, 
 when interest runs high, and second mortgages are sneered at 
 by those who grant loans. 
 
 As no one — neither friend nor financial speculator — comes 
 to Armstrong's rescue, he has no alternative but submit. 
 
 Too proud to make appeal to his inexorable creditor — in- 
 deed deeming it idle — he vouchsafes no answer to the notice 
 of foreclosure, beyond saying: " Let it be done." 
 
 At a later period he gives ear to a proposal, coming from 
 the mortgagee: to put a valuation upon the property, and 
 save the expenses of a public sale, by disposing of it privately 
 to Darke himself. 
 
;n 
 
 ■jnc death shot. 
 
 To this he consents; I to the convenie 
 
 of the i sensitive nature recoils 
 
 i ii ■ I '11 mc a more trying test to tl 
 
 delicate sensibilities of a gentleman, or his equanimity, 
 
 ers pa : d over with the black and' white 
 show bills of the auctioneer; a strip oi' stair carpet dai I 
 down from one of his bed-room windows, and a crowd oi 
 hungry harpies clustered around his door-stoop; some enti 
 with eye.-, that expn I coming i 
 
 with count. ■- I, b gj away his Penal 
 
 jeering and over them — insulting the Household 
 
 Gods ho has so long held in adoration. Ugh ! A hid 
 horrid sight — a spec lemonium! 
 
 With a vision of siic!i domestic iconoclasm flitting 1 
 his mind — not a dream, hut a reality, that will surely arise 
 by letting his estate go to the hammer — Colonel Arm- 
 accepts Darke's offer to deliver everything over in a lump, 
 and for a lump sum. The conditions have been some time 
 settled; and Armstrong now knows the worst. Some half-score 
 slaves he reserves ; the better terms scenred to his creditor by 
 private bargain enabling him to obtain this concession. 
 
 Several days have elapsed since the settlement came to a 
 conclusion — the interval spent in preparation for the c' 
 A grand one, too; which contemplates, not alone leaving the 
 old home, but the State in which it stands. The fallen man 
 shrinks from further association with those who have wit- 
 nessed his fall. Not but that he will leave behind many 
 friends, faithful and true. Still to begin life again in their 
 midst. — to be seen humbly struggling at the bottom of the 
 ladder on whose top he once proudly reposed — that would 
 indeed be unendurable. 
 
 He prefers to carry out the design, he once thought only a 
 dreamy prediction — migrating to Texas. There, he may 
 recommence life with more hopeful energy, and lesser sense 
 of hnmilliation. 
 
 The moving day has arrived, or rather the eve preceding it. 
 On the morrow, Colonel Archibald Armstrong is called upon 
 by the exigency of human laws, — oft more cruel, if not more 
 inexorable, than those of Nature — to vacate the home long 
 his. 
 
 'Tis night. Darkness has spread its sable pall over forest 
 and field, and broods upon the brighter surface of the stream 
 gliding between — the mighty Mississippi. All are equally 
 
THE ETC OF DErAr.TCT.E. 30 
 
 obscured — from a thick veil of lead-coloured cloud, at the sun's 
 g, drawn over the canopy of the sky. Any light seen 
 is that of the fire-flies, engaged in their nocturnal cotillon ; while 
 the sounds heard are nightly noises in a Southern States forest, 
 semitropical, as the wild creatures who have their home in 
 it. The ' ' ■ntinuously, " Katy did — Katy 
 
 did ;" the hyhtdce, though reptiles, send forth an insect note ; 
 while the sonorous " gluct-glnck " of the huge rana pipiens 
 mingles with the melanehuly " whoo-whooa" of the great 
 horned owl ; which, unseen, sweeps on silent wing through 
 the shadowy aisles of the forest, leading the lone traveller 
 to fancy them peopled by departed spirits in torment from 
 the pains of Purgatory. 
 
 Not more cheerful arc the sounds aloft: for there are such, 
 far above the tops of the tallest trees. There, the night- 
 jar plies its calling, not so blind but that it can see in 
 deepest darkness the smallest moth or midge, that tired of 
 perching on the heated leaves essays to soar higher. Two 
 sorts of these goatsuckers, utter cries quite distinct; though 
 both expressing aversion to " William." One speaks of him 
 as still alive, mingling pity with its hostile demand: " Whip- 
 poor-Will!" The other appears to regard him as dead, and 
 goes against his marital relict, at intervals calling out: 
 " Chuck Will's widow!" 
 
 Other noises interrupt the stillness of a Mississippian night. 
 High up in heaven the " hjitk " of a wild gander leading 
 his flock in the shape of an inverted Y ; at times the more 
 melodious note of a trumpeter swan ; or from the top of a 
 tall cottonwood, or cypress, the sharp saw-filing shriek of 
 the white-headed eagle, angered by some stray creature 
 coming too close, and startling it from its slumbers. Below, 
 out of the swamp sedge, rises the mournful cry of the qua- 
 bird — the American bittern — and from the same, the deep so- 
 norous bellow of that ugliest animal on earth — the alligator. 
 
 Where fields adjoin the forest — plantation clearings — oft few 
 and far between — there are sounds more cheerful. The song 
 of the slave, his day's work done, sure to be preceded, or 
 followed, by peals of loud jocund laughter ; the barking of 
 the house-dog, indicative of a well-watched home ; with the 
 lowing of cattle, and other domestic calls that proclaim it 
 worth watching. A galaxy of little lights, in rows like street 
 lamps, indicate the "negro quarter; " while in the foreground 
 a half-dozen windows of larger size, and brighter sheen, show 
 where stands the " big house " — the planter's own dwelling. 
 
40 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 To that of Colonel Armstrong lias come a night of exeep- 
 fcional character, when its lights arc [■('■•ii Inn ii ing later (lian 
 usual. The plantation clock has tolled nine, nearly an hour 
 ago. Still light shines through the little windows of the 
 negro cabins, while the larger ones of the " big house " arc all 
 aflame. And there are candles being carried to and fro, 
 lighting up a scene of hustling activity : while the clack of 
 voices — none of them in laughter — is heard commingled 
 with the rattling oi' chains,. and the occasional stroke of a 
 hammer. The forms of men and women, are seen to flil 
 athwart the shining windows, all busy about something. 
 
 There is no mystery in the matter. It is simply the planter, 
 with his people, occupied in preparation for the morrow's 
 moving. Openly, and without restraint : for, although so 
 near the mid hour of night, it is no midnight flitting. 
 
 The only individual, who appears to act surreptitiously, is a 
 j-oung girl; who, coming out by the back door of the dwelling, 
 makes away from its walls in gliding gait — at intervals 
 glancing back over her shoulder, as if in fear of being 
 followed, or observed. 
 
 Her style of dress also indicates a desire to shun observa- 
 tion ; for she is cloaked and close hooded. Not enough to 
 ensure disguise, though she may think so. The most stolid 
 slave on all Colonel Armstrong's plantation, could tell at a 
 glance whose figure is enfolded in the shapeless garment, 
 giving it shape. He would at once identify it as that of his 
 master's daughter. For no wrap however loosely flung over 
 it, could hide the queenly form of Helen Armstrong, or con- 
 ceal the splendid symmetry of her person. Arrayed in the 
 garb of a laundress, she would still look the lady. 
 
 Perhaps, for the first time in her life she is walking with 
 stealthy step, crouched form, and countenance showing fear. 
 Daughter of a large slave-owner — mistress over many slaves — 
 she is accustomed to an upright attitude, and aristocratic 
 bearing. But she is now on an errand that calls for more 
 than ordinary caution, and would dread being recognized by 
 the humblest slave on her father's estate. 
 
 Fortunately for her, none see; therefore no one takes note 
 of her movements, or the mode of her apparel. If one did, 
 the last might cause remark. A woman cloaked, with head 
 hooded in a warm summer night, the thermometer at ninety ! 
 
 Notwithstanding the numerous lights, she is not observed 
 as she glides through their crossing coruscations. And 
 beyond, there is but little danger — while passing through 
 
UNDER THE TRYSTING TREE. 
 
 41 
 
 the peacli orchard, that stretches rearward from the dwell- 
 ing. Still less, after getting out through a wicket gate, 
 which communicates with a tract of woodland. For then 
 she is among trees whose trunks stand close, the space; 
 between buried in deep obscurity — deeper from the night 
 being a dark one. It is not likely so to continue : for, be- 
 fore entering into the timber, she glances np to the sky, and 
 sees that the cloud canopy has broken ; here and there stars 
 scintillating in the blue spaces between. While, on the far- 
 ther edge of the plantation clearing, a brighter belt alone,' 
 the horizon foretells the uprising of the moon. 
 
 She does not wait for this ; but plunges into the shadowy 
 forest, daring its darkness, regardless of its dangers. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 UNDER THE TRYSTING TREE. 
 
 jTILL stooping in her gait, casting furtive glances 
 to right, to left, before and behind — at intervals 
 stopping to listen — Helen Armstrong continues 
 her nocturnal excursion. Notwithstanding the 
 obscurity, she keeps in a direct course, as if to reach some 
 particular point, and for a particular reason. 
 
 What this is needs not be told. Only love could lure a 
 young lady out at that late hour, and carry her along a 
 forest path, dark, and not without dangers. And love un- 
 sanctioned, unallowed — perhaps forbidden, by some one who 
 has ascendancy over her. 
 
 Just the first it is which has tempted her forth ; while the 
 last, not the cold, has caused her to cloak herself, and go 
 close hooded. If her father but knew of the errand she 
 is on, it could not be executed. And well is she aware of this. 
 For the proud planter is still proud, despite his reverses, 
 still clings to the phantom of social superiority ; and if he 
 saw her now, wandering through the woods at an hour near 
 midnight, alone ; if he could divine her purpose : to meet a 
 man, who in time past has teen rather coldly received at his 
 house — because scarce ranking with his own select circle — 
 had Colonel Armstrong but the gift of clairvoyance, in all 
 
42 
 
 TIIE DEATn SHOT. 
 
 probability lie would at once suspend the oms for 
 
 departure, rush bo his rifle, then oil' through the woods on 
 the track of has erring da . h the intent to do a deed 
 
 sanguinary as that recorded, if not bo repulsive. 
 
 The gili lias not far to go — only half a mile or so, from the 
 house, and less than a quarter beyond the zigzag rail fence, 
 which forms a boundary line between the maize fields and 
 primeval forest. Her journey, when completed, will bring her 
 under a tree — a grand magnolia, monarch of the fore.sl BUT* 
 rounding. Well does she know it, as the way thither. 
 
 Arriving at the tree, she pauses beneath i:s far-si: 
 ing boughs. At the same time tossing back her hood, she 
 shows her face unveiled. 
 
 She has no fear now. The place is beyond the range of 
 night-strolling negroes. Only one in pursuit of 'possum, or 
 'coon, would be likely to come that way ; a contingency too 
 rare to give her uneasiness. 
 
 With features set in expectation, she stands. The fireflies 
 illuminate her countenance — deserving a better light. But 
 seen, even under their pale fitful coruscation, its beauty 1.; 
 beyond question. Her features of gipsy cast — to which the 
 cloak's hood adds characteristic expression — produce a picture 
 appropriate to its framing — the forest. 
 
 Only for a few short moments does she remain motionless. 
 Just long enough to get back her breath, spent by some exer- 
 tion in making her way through the wood — more difficult in 
 the darkness. Strong emotions, too, contribute to the pulsa- 
 tions of her heart. 
 
 She does not wait for them to be stilled. Facing towari I 
 tree, and standing on tiptoe, she raises her hand alof) 
 commences groping against the trunk. The fireflies flicker 
 over her snow-white fingers, as bheso stray along the bark, 
 at length resting upon the edge of a dark disc — the knot- 
 hole in the tree. 
 
 Into this her hand is plunged ; then drawn out — empty ! 
 
 At first there is no appearance of disappointment. On the 
 contrary, the phosphoric gleam dimly disclosing her features, 
 rather shows satisfaction — still farther evinced by the phrase 
 falling from her lips, with the tone of its utterance. She 
 . iys, contentedly : — " Ho lias got it ! " 
 
 But by the same fitful light, soon after is pern ived a change 
 — the slightest expression of chagrin, as she adds, in mur- 
 mured interrogatory, " Why hasn't he loft an answer?" 
 
 Is she sure he has not ? No. But she soon will be. 
 
e:;dee the thystixg teee. 43 
 
 With tbis determination, she again faces towards the tree ; 
 once more inserts her slender fingers ; plnnges in her white 
 hand np to the wrist — to the elbow ; gropes the cavity all 
 round ; then draws out again, this time with an exclamation 
 which tells of something more than disappointment. It is dis- 
 content — almost anger. So too a speech succeeding, thus : — 
 
 " He might at least have let me know, whether he was 
 coming or not — a word to say, I might expect him. He 
 should have been here before me. It's the hour — past it !" 
 
 She is not certain — only guessing. She may be mistaken 
 about the time — perhaps wronging the man. She draws the 
 watch from her waistbelt, and holds the dial up. By the 
 moon, just risen, she can read it. Reflecting the rays, the 
 watch crystal, the gold rings on her fingers, and the jewels 
 gleam joyfully. But there is no joy on her countenance. On 
 the contrary, a mixed expression of sadness and chagrin. For 
 the hands indicate ten minutes after the hour of appointment. 
 
 There can be no mistake about the time — she herself 
 fixed it. And none in the timepiece. Her watch is not a 
 cheap one. No fabric of Germany, or Geneva ; no pedlar's 
 thing from Yankeeland, which as a Southron she would 
 despise; but an article of solid English manufacture, sun-sure, 
 like the machine-made watches of ''Streeter." 
 
 In confidence she consults it ; saying vexatiously : 
 
 " Ten minutes after, and he not here ! No answer to my 
 note ! He must have received it : Surely Jule put it into the 
 tree ? Who but he could have taken it out ? Oh, this is 
 cruel ! He comes not — I shall go home." 
 
 The cloak is once more closed, the hood drawn over her 
 head. Still she lingers — lingers, and listens. 
 
 No footstep — no sound to break the solemn stillness — 
 only the chirrup of tree-crickets, and the shrieking of owls. 
 
 She takes a last look at the dial, sadly, despairingly. The 
 hands indicate full fifteen minutes after the hour she had 
 named — going on to twenty. 
 
 She restores the watch to its place, beneath her belt, her 
 demeanour assuming a sudden change. Some chagrin still, 
 but no sign of sadness. This is replaced by an air of deter- 
 mination, fixed and stern. The moon's light, with that of 
 the fireflies, have both a response in flashes brighter than 
 cither — sparks from the eyes of an angry woman. For Helen 
 Armstrong is this, now. 
 
 Drawing her cloak closer around, she commences moving 
 off from the tree. 
 
•14 THE Dl VIII HOT. 
 
 She is not got beyond the canopy of its branches, ere her 
 steps are stayed. A rustling among the dead leaves — a 
 swishing against those thai liv« — a footstep with tread solid 
 and heavy — the footfall of a man! 
 
 A figure is seen approaching; as yet only indistinctly, but 
 surely that of a man. As surely the man expected? 
 
 ''He's been detained — no doubt by some good cause," 
 
 she reflects, her spite and sadness departing as he draws near. 
 
 They arc gone, before he can get to her side. But 
 
 woman-like, she resolves to make a grace of forgiveness, and 
 
 begins by upbraiding him. 
 
 " So you're here :»t last. A wonder you condescended coming 
 at all! There's an old adage 'Belter late than never.' 
 Perhaps, you think it befits present time and company? And, 
 perhaps, you may be mistaken. Indeed you are, so far as I'm' 
 concerned. I've beeu here long enough, and won't be any 
 longer. Good night, sir ! Goodnight!" 
 
 Her speech is taunting in tone, and bitter in sense. She 
 intends it to be both — only in seeming. But to still further 
 impress a lesson on the lover who has slighted her, she draws 
 closer the mantle, and makes as if moving away. 
 
 Mistaking her pretence for earnest, the man flings himself 
 across her path — intercepting her. Despite the darkness she 
 can sec that his arms are in the air, and stretched towards 
 her, as if appealingly. The attitude speaks apology, regret, 
 contrition — everything to make her relent. 
 
 She relents ; is ready to fling herself upon his breast, and 
 there lie lovingly, forgivingly. 
 
 Bat again woman-like, not without a last word of reproach, 
 to make more esteemed her concession, she says : — 
 
 " 'Tis cruel thus to have tried me. Charles ! Charles ! why 
 have you done it ? " 
 
 As she utters the interrogatory a cloud comes over her 
 countenance, quicker than ever shadow over sun. Its cause 
 — the countenance of him standing vis-a-viS. A change in 
 their relative positions has brought his face full under the 
 moonlight, lie is not the man she intended meeting! 
 Who he really is can be gathered from his rejoinder: — 
 " You arc mistaken, Miss Armstrong. My name is not 
 Charles, but Richard, I am Richard Darlce.'" 
 
L, ■"*.— •&—. ■&— -"- 
 
 .'• .*•' 
 
 . ,■ . '■-•■ ..- " ;-- ^ <;- >•«,- 
 
 - . ■ "■' u* ** 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE WRONG MAX. 
 
 RICHARD DARKE instead of Charles Clancy ! 
 
 Disappointment were far too weak a word to 
 express the pang that shoots through the heart of 
 Helen Armstrong, on discovering the mistake she 
 has made. It is bitter vexation, commingled with a sense of 
 shame. For her speeches, in feigned reproach, have terribly 
 compromised her. 
 
 She does not drop to the earth, nor show any sign of it. 
 She is not a woman of the weak fainting sort. No cry comes 
 from her lips — nothing to betray surprise, or even the most 
 ordinary emotion. 
 
 As Darke stands before her with arms upraised, she 
 simply says, — 
 
 ' ; Well, sir ; if you are Richard Darke, what then ? Your 
 being so matters not to me ; and certainly gives you no 
 thus to intrude upon me. I wish to be alone, and must 
 beg of you to leave me so." 
 
 The cool firm tone causes him to quail. He had hoped 
 that the surprise of his unexpected appearance — coupled 
 with his knowledge of her clandestine appointment — would 
 do something to subdue, perhaps make her submissive. 
 
 On the contrary, the thought of the last but stings her to 
 resentment, as he soon perceives. 
 
 His raised arms drop down, and he is about to step aside, 
 
 leaving her free to pass. Though not before making an 
 
 attempt to justify himself; instinct supplying a reason, with 
 
 ipended. He does so, saying, — 
 
 " If I've intruded, iliss Armstrong, permit me to apologize 
 
 for it. I assure you it's been altogether an accident. Having 
 
 : you are about to leave the neighbourhood — indeed, 
 
 that you start to-morrow morning — I was on the way to 
 
 lather's house to say farewell. I'm sorry my coming 
 
 ■ here, and chancing to meet you, should lay me open to 
 
 the charge of intrusion. I shall still more regret, if my 
 
 ice has spoiled any plans, or interfered with an ap- 
 
 puiutnicnt. Some one else expected, I presun.e?" 
 
 4 
 
4G THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 For n lime she is silent — abashed, while angered, by the 
 impudent interrogatory. 
 
 K covering he elf, she rejoins, — 
 
 " Even w you say, sir, by what authority do you 
 
 n me? I'w said I wish to be a 
 
 " Oh, if that's your wish, I must obey, and relieve you 
 my pn ace, ap] atl; 
 
 Saying this he steps to one side. Then continues, — 
 
 "As I've told you, I was on the way to your father's 
 i to take have of the family. If you're riot going 
 immediately home, perhaps I may be the b of a incs- 
 
 for you ? " 
 
 The irony is evident ; but Helen Ai a ible 
 
 "I it. She docs not even think of it. Her onl; 
 how to get disemban d of this man win) lei 
 a moment so mal apropos. Charles Clancy — for he was the 
 expected one — maj have been detained by some cause un- 
 .11, a delay still possible of justification. She has a 
 lingering thought he may }-et come ; and, so thinking, her eye 
 turns towards the forest with a quick, subtle glance. 
 
 Notwithstanding its subtlety, and the obscurity surround- 
 ing them, Darke observes, comprehends it. 
 
 Without waiting for her rejoinder, he proceeds to say, — 
 
 " From the mistake you've just made, Miss Armstrong, I 
 presume you took me for some one bearing the baptismal 
 name of Charles. In these parts I know only oue person 
 who carries that cognomen — one Charles Clancy. If it be 
 he you are expecting, 1 think I can save you the necessity of 
 stopping out in the night air any longer. If you're staying 
 tor him you'll be disappointed ; he will certainly not come." 
 
 " What mean you, Mr. Darke ? Why do you say that Y " 
 
 His words carry weighty significance, and throw the proud 
 girl off her guard. She speaks confusedly, and without 
 reflection. 
 
 His rejoinder, cunningly conceived, designed with the 
 subtlety of the devil, still further affects her, and painfully. 
 
 He answers, with assumed nonchalance, — 
 
 " Because I know it." 
 
 " Huwr" comes the quick, unguarded interrogatory. 
 
 " Well ; I chanced to meet Charley Clancy this morning, 
 and he told me he was going olf on a journey. He was just 
 starting when I saw him. Some affair of the heart, 1 be- 
 lieve ; a little love-scrape he's got into with a pretty Creole 
 girl, who lives t'other side of Natchez. By the way, he 
 
THE WRONG MAN. 
 
 47 
 
 showed mo a photograph of yourself, which he said you had 
 sent him. A very excellent likeness, indeed. Excuse mo 
 for tolling you, that ho and I came near quarrelling about 
 it. He had another photograph — that of his Creole chere 
 amie — and would insist that she is more beautiful than you. 
 I may own, Miss Armstrong, you've given me no great 
 reason for standing forth as your champion. Still, I couldn't 
 stand that; and, after questioning Clancy's taste, I plainly 
 told him he was mistaken. I'm ready to repeat the same to 
 him, or any one, who says you are not the most beautiful 
 woman in the State of Mississippi." 
 
 At the conclusion of his fulsome speech Helen Armstrong 
 cares but little for the proffered championship, and not much 
 for aught else. 
 
 Her heart is nigh to breaking. She has given her affec- 
 tions to Clancy — in that last letter written, lavished them. 
 And they have been trifled with — scorned ! She, daughter of 
 the erst proudest planter in all Mississippi State, has been 
 slighted for a Creole girl; possibly, one of the "poor white 
 trash " living along the bayous' edge. Full proof she has of his 
 perfidy, or how should Darke know of it ? More maddening 
 still, the man so slighting her, has been making boast of it, 
 proclaiming her suppliance and shame, showing her photo- 
 graph, exulting in the triumph obtained ! " O God ! " 
 
 Not in prayer, but angry ejaculation, does the name of the 
 Almighty proceed from her lips. Along with it a scarce- 
 suppressed scream, as, despairingly, she turns her face 
 towards homo. 
 
 Darke sees his opportunity, or thinks so ; and again 
 flings himself before her — this time on his knees. 
 
 " Helen Armstrong ! " he exclaims, in an earnestness of 
 passion — if not pure, at least heartfelt and strong — " why 
 should you care for a man who thus mocks you ? Here am 
 I, who love you, truly — madly — more than my own life ! 'Tis 
 not too late to withdraw the answer you have given me. 
 Gainsay it, and there need be no change — no going to Texas. 
 Your father's home may still be his, and yours. Say you'll 
 be my wife, and everything shall be restored to him — all will 
 yet be well." 
 
 She is patient to the conclusion of his appeal. Its apparent 
 sincerity stays her ; though she cannot tell, or does not 
 think, why. It is a moment of mechanical irresolution. 
 
 But, soon as ended, again returns the bitterness that has 
 just swept through her soul — torturing her afresh. 
 
43 THE DEA.IJI SHOT. 
 
 There is no balm in the words spo];cn by Dick Darke; on 
 the contrary, thej bui cause in xeased rankling. 
 
 To his appeal she makes answer, as om I he has 
 
 answered him — with a single word. But now repented three 
 times, and in a tone not to be mistaken. 
 
 On speaking it, she parts from the spot with pr 
 step, and a denying disdainful gesture, which tells him, 
 is not to be further stayed. 
 
 Spited, chagrined, angry, in his craven '. 1- also 
 
 cowed, subdued, orestfallen. So much, he dares notfollow 
 her, but remains under the magnolia; from whose hollow 
 trunk seems to reverberate the echo of her last word, in its 
 treble repetition : — "never — never — never '. " 
 
 CHATTER XIII. 
 
 THE COOS-HUNTER AT HOME. 
 
 YEE the fields of Ephraim Darke's plantation a 
 lingering ray of daylij ! t still flickers, as Blue Bill, 
 returning from his a ts back 
 
 to the negro quarter, lie enters it, with stealthy 
 tread, and looking cautiously around. 
 
 For he knows that some of his fellow-slaves are aware of 
 his having gone out "a-cooning," and will wonder at his 
 soon return — too soon to pass without observation. 1 
 1 y them he may be asked for an i i not 
 
 prepared to give. 
 
 To avoid being called upon fi r it, he skulks in amoi 
 cabins; still carrying the dog under his arm, lest the la 
 may take a fancj to go smelling among the utensils of some 
 other darkey's kitchen, and betray his presence in the 
 •• quarter." 
 
 Fortunately for the coon-hunter, the little " shanty " 
 ls him tenant stands at the outward extra:. 
 
 ow of cabins — nearest the a ; to the plan I 
 
 woodland, lie is therefore ci.. ch, and re-enter it, 
 
 without any great da 'vation. 
 
 And as it chances, he is not observed ; but gets back into 
 the bosom of his family, no one being a bit the wiser. 
 
 Blue Bill's domestic circle consists of his wife, Phcebc, and 
 
THE COOX-IIUXTEE AT HOME. 4'.' 
 
 ral half-naked little "niggers," who, at his return, tack] i 
 
 ■ bis k'gs, and, soon as he sits down, clamber confusedly 
 over his knees. So circumstanced, one would think he should 
 now feel sale, and relieved from further anxiety. Far from 
 it : he has yet a gauntlet to run. 
 
 His re-appearance so early, unexpected ; his empty game- 
 bag ; the coon dog carried under his arm ; all have their 
 cifect upon Phoebe. She cannot help feeling surprise, accom- 
 panied by a keen curiosity. 
 
 She is not the woman to submit to it in silence. 
 
 Confronting her dark-skinned lord and master, with arms 
 set akimbo, she says, — 
 
 " Bress de Lor', Bill ! Wha' for you so soon home ? Neider 
 cocn nor possum ! An' de dog toated arter dat trange fashun ! 
 You ain't been gone more'n a hour ! Who'd speck see you 
 come back dat a way, empy-handed ; nutnn, 'cep your own 
 ole dog! 'Splain it, sah ? " 
 
 Thus confronted, the coon-hunter lets fall his canine com- 
 panion ; which drops with a dump upon the floor. ] 
 
 himself on a stool, but without entering upon the 
 demanded explanation. He only says : — 
 
 '• Nebba mind, Phoebe, gal ; nebba you mind why I'se got 
 home so soon. Dat's nuffin 'trange. I seed de night warn't 
 a gwine to be fav'ble fo' trackin' de coon ; so dis nigga konk- 
 lood he'd leab ole cooney 'lone." 
 
 " Lookee hya, Bill ! " rejoins the sable spouse, laying her 
 hand upon his shoulder, and gazing earnestly into his eyes, 
 ere ain't de correck explicashun. You's not tellin' me 
 de troof ! " 
 
 coon hunter quails under the searching glance, as if in 
 reality a criminal ; but still holds back the demanded expla- 
 nation. He is at a loss what to say. 
 
 " Da's somethin' mysteerus 'bout dis," continues his better 
 half. " Yon'se got a seecrit, nigga ; I kin tell it by do glint 
 
 ■ eye. I nebba see dat look on ye, but I know you ain't 
 f; jess as ye use deseeve me, when you war in sich a 
 'boat brown Bet." 
 
 " Wha you talkin 'bout, Phoebe ? Dar's no brown Bet in 
 do case. I swar dar ain't." 
 
 " Who sayed dar war ? No, Bill, dat's all pass. I only 
 spoked ob her 'kase ya look jess now like ye did when 
 used bamboozle ye. What 1 say now am dat you i 
 Dar's a cat in de bag. somewha ; you better let her out, and 
 confess de whole troof." 
 
50 i::: DEATH SHOT. 
 
 A.( Pho be mal o rests inqv. : ' 
 
 i iaizca tho 
 
 i 'e is nol :h pli I Tli - o i ra-hantor 
 
 '. with features immobile as fchi c 
 \ . : , j t his i n< 
 
 1 ipth of its ebon blacknc 
 : rims, that li:. 
 Bill." 
 . lie stands the Inquisitorial glance, and for 
 i 'in- In' is foiled. 
 Only until after sapper, when the frugality of the meal — 
 
 made so by the barren chasi — has perhaps i to do in 
 
 melting his heart, and relaxing his tongue. Whether this, or 
 
 whatever the c ain itis, thai < ajto bed, ho 
 
 unburdens himself to the parte i . . by making full 
 
 sion of what he 1ms heard and seen l>y tho side oi' the 
 
 9 swamp. 
 
 He tells her, also, of the letter picked np ; which, cau- 
 : ionsly pulling out of his pocket, he submits to her inspection. 
 
 Phoebe has once been a family servant — an indoor domestic, 
 and handmaiden to a white mistress. This in the days of 
 h -the halcyon days of her girlhood, in " ( He Varirinny " 
 — before she was transported west, sold to Ephraim Darke, 
 and by him degraded to the lot of an ordinary outdoor slave. 
 i'.nt her original owner taught her to read, and her memory 
 still retains a trace of this early education — sufficient for 
 her to decipher the script put into her hands. 
 
 .~- ! " Brsl looks ai the photograph ; as it is the first to come 
 out of the envelope. There can be no mistaking whose like- 
 i is. A lady too conspicuously beautiful to have escaped 
 from the humblest slave in the settlement. 
 
 i ress spends some seconds gazing upon the portrait, 
 
 ; s she does so remarking, — 
 
 "How bewful dat young lady!" 
 
 "You am right 'bout dat, Phoebe. She bewful as any 
 white gal dis nigga ebber sot eyes on. And she good as 
 bewful. I'se sorry she gwine leab dis hya place. Dar's 
 many a darkic '11 miss do dear young lady. An' won't Mass 
 Charl Clancy miss her too ! Lor ! I most forgot ; maybe he 
 no trouble 'bout her now ; maybe he's gone dead ! Ef dat 
 so, she miss him, a no mistake. She cry her eyes out." 
 
 " Y ' i link dar war something 'tween dem two?" 
 
 "Tink! I'se shoo ob it, Phoebe. Didn't I see dem boaf down 
 
THE COON-HOHTEE AT H01IE. 
 
 51 
 
 dar in de woodland, when I war out a-coonin. More'n once I 
 seed em togedder. A young: white lady an' genl'm don't meet 
 dat way unless dar's a feelin' atween em, any more dan we 
 brack folks. Besides, dis nigga know dey lub one noder — he 
 know fo satin. Jule, she tell Jupe ; and Jupe hab trussed 
 dat same scccret to me. Dey been in lub long time ; afore 
 Mass Charl went 'way to Texas. But de great Kurnel Arm- 
 trong, he don't know nuffin' 'bout it. Golly ! ef he did, he 
 shoo kill Charl Clancy ; dat is, if de poor young man ain't 
 dead arready. Le's hope 'tain't so. But, Phoebe, gal, open 
 dat letter, an' see what de lady say. Satin it's been wrote 
 by her. Maybe it trow some light on dis dark subjeck." 
 
 Phoebe, thus solicited, takes the letter from the envelope. 
 Then spreading it out, and holding it close to the flare of the 
 tallow dip, reads it from beginning to end. 
 
 It is a task that occupies her some considerable time ; for 
 her scholastic acquirements, not very bright at the best, have 
 become dimmed by long disuse. For all, she succeeds in 
 deciphering its contents and interpreting them to Bill ; who 
 listens with ears wide open and eyes in staring wonderment. 
 When the reading is at length finished, the two remain 
 for some time silent, — pondering upon the strange circum- 
 stances thus revealed to them. 
 
 Blue Bill is the first to resume speech. He says : — 
 " Dar's a good deal in dat letter I know'd afore, and dar's 
 odder points as 'pear new to me ; but whether de old or de 
 new, 'twun't do for us folk declar a single word o' what 
 de young lady hab wrote in dat ere 'pistle. No, Phoebe, 
 neery word must 'scape de lips ob eider o' us. We muss hide 
 de letter, an' nebba let nob'dy know dar's sieh a dockyment 
 in our posseshun. And dar must be nuffin' know'd 'bout dis 
 nigga findin' it. Ef dat sakumstance war to leak out, I 
 needn't warn you what 'ud happen to me. Blue Bill 'ud 
 catch de cow-hide, — maybe de punishment ob de pump. So, 
 Phoebe, gal, gi'e me yar word to keep dark, for de case am a 
 dangersome, an a desprit one." 
 
 The wife can well comprehend the husband's caution, with 
 the necessity of compliance ; and the two retire to rest, in the 
 midst of their black olive branches, with a mutual promise 
 to be " mum." 
 
CHAPTER XTV. 
 
 WnY COMES HE KOT ? 
 
 |ELEN ARMSTRONG .crocs to-bcd, with spiteful 
 
 thoughts about Charles Clancy. So rancorous she 
 
 cannot sleep, but turns distractedly on her couch, 
 
 from time to time changing cheek upon the pillow. 
 
 At little more than a mile's distance from this chamber of 
 
 unrest, another woman is also awake, thinking of the same 
 
 man — not spitefully, but anxiously. It is his mother. 
 
 As aln i'.'. : id, the road running north from Natchez leads 
 past Colonel Armstrong's gate. A traveller, going in the 
 opposite direction — that is towards the city — on el' axil 
 skirts of the plantation, would see, near the road side, a dwell- 
 ing of very different kind ; of humble unpretentious aspect, 
 compared with the grand mansion of the planter. It would 
 1 eallcd a cottage, were this name known in the Si; 
 
 [ssippi — which it is not. Still it is not a log-cabin ; but a 
 " frame house," its walls of " weather-boarding.'' planed and 
 painted, its roof cedar-shingled : a style of architecture occa- 
 llv ei ii in the Southern States, though not so fiequentlv 
 as in the Northern — inhabited by men in moderate circum- 
 i is, poorer than planters, but richer, or more gentle, than 
 the " white trash," who live in log-eabins. 
 
 Planters they are in social rank, though poor; perhaps 
 owning a half-dozen .-laves, and cultivating a small tract of 
 cleared ground, from twenty to fifty acres. The frame-! 
 vouches for their respectability; while two or three log 
 
 i res at back— representing bara, stable, and oth. • 
 building —tell of land at bached. 
 
 Of this class is the habitation referred to — the home of 
 the widow Clancy. 
 
 As already known, her -widowhood is of recent date. She 
 : 11 v ears its embl< ms upon her person, and carries its sor- 
 
 . her heart. 
 Her husband, of good Irish lineage, had found his way to 
 ille, the capii ! city of Tennessee : where, in I 
 long past, man] Irish families made settlement. There he 
 had married her, she hcrscli being a native Tcnncsscan — 
 
Wilt COMCS HE NOT t i).> 
 
 sprang from tlic old Carolina pioneer stock, tliat colonized 
 
 near the end of the eighteenth century — tho 
 
 Robertsons, Hyneses, Hardings, and Bradforda — leaving to 
 
 ■ descendants i I nobility, or at least a family 
 
 :;;:me deserving respect, and generally obtaining it. 
 
 In America, as elsewhere, it is not the rule for Irishmen 
 
 to grow rich ; and still more exceptional in the case of Irish 
 
 gentlemen. When these have wealth their hospitality is too 
 
 i lake the place of a spendthrift profaseness, ending in 
 
 pecuniary eml i 
 
 So was it with Captain Jack Clancy; who got wealth with 
 his wife, but soon squandered it entertaining his own and 
 his wile's friends. The result, a move to Mississippi, where 
 land was cheaper, and his attenuated fortune would enable 
 him to hold out a little 1( . 
 
 Still, the property he had purchased in Mississippi State 
 was but a poor one; leading him to contemplate a further 
 flit into the rich " red lands" of North-Eastern Texas, just 
 becoming famous as a field for colonisation. His son Charles 
 i hither, as said, on a trip of exploration, had spent some 
 months in the Lone ' ■ prospecting for the new home ; 
 
 and brought back a report in every way favourable. 
 
 But the ear, to which il tve been spoken, could no 
 
 more hear. On his return, he found himself fatherless ; and 
 
 • only son there remains only a mother; whose grief, 
 ing heavily, has almost brought her to the grave. It is 
 
 of a long series of reverses which have sorely tax 
 ode. Another of like heaviness, and the tomb may 
 el >se over her. 
 
 Some such presentiment is in the mother's mind, on this 
 very day. as the sun goes down, and she sits in her ehai 
 beside a dim candle, with ear keenly bent to catch the 
 returning footsteps of her son. 
 
 He 1 nt since noon, having gone deer-stalking, 
 
 [uently before. She can spare him for this, and pardon 
 
 1. ah 'iicc. She knows how fond he is of tho 
 
 b en so from a boy. 
 
 But . ' , he is staying beyond his usual 
 
 It is now nigl r have sought their coverts ; 
 
 and he I h-hunting." 
 
 Only one thing it of to explain the tardiness 
 
 return. The ■ widowed mother have been 
 
 • mure watch . She has noticed her son's 
 
 air, and heard si: ;hs that teemed to come from his 
 
54 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 inner heart. Who c:m mistake the signs of love, either in 
 Mrs. Clan cy does not. She sees that Charles 
 has lapsed in! i i lit ion. 
 
 Rumours that seem wafted on the air — signs slight, but 
 significant — perhaps of al servant — 
 
 have given her assurance of the facl : telling her, at the 
 ime, who has won his affections. 
 
 I !] in !■;. i oeither dissatisfied nor displeased. In all the 
 neighbourhood there is no one she would more wish to have 
 for a daughter-in-law than Helen Armstrong. Not from any 
 thought of the girl's great beauty, or high soeial standing. 
 Caroline Clancy is herself too well descended to make much 
 of the latter circumstance. It is the reputed noble character 
 of the lady that influences her approval of her son's choice. 
 
 Thinking of this — remembering her own youth, and the 
 stolen interviews with Charles Clarity's father — oft under the 
 shadow of night — she could not, does not, reflect harshly on 
 the absence of that father's son from home, however long, or 
 late the hour. 
 
 It is only as the clock strikes twelve, she begins to think 
 seriously about it. Then creeps over her a feeling of un- 
 easiness, soon changing to apprehension. Why should he be 
 staving out so late — after midnight ? The same little bird, 
 thai brought her tidings of his love affair, has also told her it 
 is clandestine. Mrs. Clancy may not like this. It has the 
 semblance of a slight to her son, as herself — more keenly felt 
 bv her in their reduced circumstances. But then, as com- 
 pensation, arises the retrospect of her own days of courtship 
 carried on in the same wa\ . 
 
 Still, at that hour the young lady cannot — dares not — be 
 abroad. All the more unlikely, that the Armstrongs are 
 moving off — as all the neighbourhood knows — and intend 
 starting next day, at an early hour. 
 
 The plantation people will long since have retired to rest ; 
 therefore an interview with his sweetheart can scarce be the 
 cause of her son's detention. Something else must be keeping 
 him. What ? So run the reflections of the fond mother. 
 
 At intervals she starts up from her seat, as some sound 
 reaches her; each time gliding to the door, and gazing out — 
 again to go back disappointed. 
 
 I'i ir long periods she remains in the porch, her eye inter- 
 rogating the road that runs past the cottage-gate ; her ear 
 acutely listening for footsteps. 
 
 Early in the night it has been dark ; now there is a brilliant 
 
WHY COMES 11E NOT f Ob 
 
 moonlight. But no man, no form moving underneath it. iNo 
 f coming feet ; nothing that resembles a foo 
 One o'clock, and still silence ; to the mother of Charles 
 ■y become oppressive, as with increased anxiety she 
 . D I waits. 
 At intervals she glances at the little "Connecticut" clock 
 ieks over the mantel. A pedlar's thing, it may be fi Ise, 
 as the men who come south selling "sech." It is the reflec- 
 tion of a Southern woman, hoping her conjecture maybe true. 
 But, as she lingers in the porch, and looks at the moving 
 moon, she knows the hour must be late. 
 
 Certain sounds coming from the forest, and the farther 
 
 '■i, tell her so. As aback'. n she can interpret 
 
 them. She hears the call of the turkey "gobbler." She 
 
 it means morning. 
 
 The clock strikes two ; still she hears no foil of footstep — 
 
 sees no son returning ! 
 
 " Where is my Charles ? What can be detaining him?" 
 Phrases almost identical with those that fell from the lips 
 of Helen Armstrong, but a few hours before, in a different 
 place, and prompted by a different sentiment — a passion 
 equally strong, equally pure ! 
 
 Both doomed to disappointment, alike bitter and hard to 
 bear. The same in cause, but dissimilar in the impression 
 produced. The sweetheart believing herself slighted, for- 
 saken, left without a lover ; the mother tortured with the 
 iment, she no longer has a son I 
 When, at a yet later hour — or rather earlier, since it is nigh 
 daybreak — a dog, his coat disordered, comes gliding through 
 the gate, and .Mrs. Clancy recognizes her son's favourite 
 hunting hound, she has still only a presentiment of the 
 terrible truth. But one which to the maternal heart, already 
 filled with foreboding, feels too like certainty. 
 
 And too much for her strength. Wearied with watching, 
 
 prostrated by the intensity of her vigil, when the hound 
 
 up the steps, and under the dim light she sees bis 
 
 i ody— blood as well as mud upon it — the sight 
 
 | is a climax — a shock apparently fatal. 
 
 swoons upon the spot, and is carried inside the house 
 by a female slave — the last left b 
 

 
 
 <■" iPTEE XV. 
 
 A ZIOOX LIGHT 11 V I M G. 
 
 HILE tlie widowed mother, raw doubly bereft, 
 stricken down by the blow — is still in a . 
 syncope, the faithful uegress doing win be ( I i 
 restore her, there are Bounds outside unheard by 
 A dull ramble of wheels, as of some hes 
 coming along the main road, with the occasional crack of a. 
 whip, and the sonorous "wo-ha" of a teamster. 
 
 Pn i .'!;. a large "CoDestoga" w.agon pa i thee 
 ; id with what looks like house fun. 
 
 1 under ci i < a i. The ••• hide is drawn by a teat 
 four strong mules, driven by a negro; while at the wagon's 
 tail, three or four other darkeys follow afoot. 
 
 The cortege, of purely southern character, has sea i 
 out of . ij at, a id ai I yet I i ■ oni : I ing, when i 
 
 es rolling along the road. This, of I 
 
 and proceeding at a more 
 
 i the warm, and 
 
 leathi : h hood — its i 
 pants can all be se heir individuality made out. ' 
 
 the box-scat is a black coachman; and by his side a; 
 girl whose tawny complexion, visible in the whiter o 
 !, tells her to be a mulatto. Her face has been i 
 
 ler a ee tain iresi tree— a magnolia — its owner 
 depositing a letter in the cavity of the trunk. She v. I o 
 ali i ide the driver is " Jnle." 
 
 In the barouche, behind, is a second face that has been 
 
 seen under the same tree, but with an expression upon it i 
 
 and more disturbed. For of the three who occupy the 
 
 Beleni uer father, and 
 
 They arc en route for the city of Natchez, the port 
 
 parture for their journey south-westward into Texas; just 
 
 awi y from their old : I fed dwelling-, whose 
 
 lefi i jar, LI i w all 1 iehind them. 
 
 The wagon, before, carriei aei imnanl of the ' ■•■■' r's pro- 
 perty, — all his inexorable i 'editor allows him to take along. 
 No wouder he sits in the baro iche, with bowed head, and 
 
A MOONLIGHT MOVING. o7 
 
 cliin between his knees, not caring to look back. For the 
 ne in his life ho feels truly, terribly hnmilliated. 
 
 This, and no flight from creditors, no writ, nor pursuing 
 sheriff', will account for his commencing the journey at so 
 early an hour. To be seen going off in the open daylight 
 would attract spectators around ; it may be many sympa- 
 thisers. But in the hour of adversity his sensitive nature 
 shrinks from the glance of sympathy, as he would dread the 
 stare of exultation, were any disposed to indulge in it. 
 
 But besides the sentiment, there is another cause for 
 night moving — an inexorable to i 
 
 boat, which is to take them up Bed Biver, leaves Nat- 
 chez at sunrise. He must be aboard by daybreak. 
 
 If the bankrupt planter be thus broken-spirited, his el 
 Ver is as much cast down as he, and far more un- 
 happily relic . 
 
 Throughout all that night Helen Armstrong has had no 
 sleep ; and now. in the pale moonlight of the morning, her 
 cheeks show white and wan, while a dark shadow broods 
 upon her brow, and her eyes glisten with wild unnatural 
 light, as one in a racing fever. Absorbed in thought, she- 
 takes no heed of anything road ; and scarce m 
 answer to an occasional observation adrcssed to her bj 
 sister, evidently with the intention to cheer her. 
 chance of success, because of Jessie herself being somewhat 
 out of sorts. Even she, habitually merry, is for the 
 sobered ; indeed saddened at the thought of that they aro 
 leaving behind, and what may be before them. P 
 she looks back at the gate of their grand old home, thron 
 which they will never again go, she may be reflecting on 
 the ch : their late luxurious life, to the l<g-cabin 
 and coarse fare, of •■ forewarned them. 
 
 If so, the reflection is hers — not Helen's. Different with 
 and far more bitter the emotion that stirs within 
 her bosom, scalding her heart. Little cares she what sort of 
 house .she is hitherto to dwell in, what she will have to wear, 
 or eat. The scantiest raiment, or coarsest i'ood, can give no 
 discomfort now. She could bear the thought of sheltering 
 under the humblest roof in Texas — aye, think of it with cheer- 
 fulness — had Charles Clancy been but true, to share its shelter 
 along with her. He has not. and that is an end of it. 
 
 Is it ? Xo ; not for her, though it may be for him. In 
 the company of his Creole girl he will soon cease to think of 
 her — forget the solemn vows made, and the sweet words 
 
58 THE DEATH 
 
 poet seeming 
 ■ i hail y. .. . i i e; 
 Will she < i C thai 
 
 , whither her . Mean 
 
 Oh! it is hitler — keenlj bitter! 
 It reaches the climax of its bitl 
 rolling; along opens oul a vista b 
 cottage — Clancy's. Inside it sli 
 
 a miserj ! Can he ■■■... b 
 
 While making this reflection she h , as if never 
 
 to close her eyelids more — except hi del 
 Her emotions arc terribly intense, b ir anj dish so over- 
 iring, she can scarce conceal it — indeed docs no! 
 the house is in sight. Perhaps fortan . 
 , in his own particular sadne 
 guessing — nay, knowing the cause. She says 
 nothing. Such sorrow is too sacred I > be intruded on. There 
 are times, when even a sister may noi attempt consolation. 
 
 Jessie is glad when the carriage, gliding on, again enters 
 among trees, and the little cottage of the Clancys, like their 
 own great house, is forever lost to view. 
 
 Could the eyes of Helen Armstrong, in passing, have 
 penetrated through the walls of that white painted dwelling — 
 could she have rested them upon a bed with a woman laid 
 astretch upon it, apparently dead, or dying — could she have 
 looked on another bed, unoccupied, untouched, and been told 
 how he, its usual occupant, was at that moment lying in 
 the middle of a chill marsh, under the sombre canopy of 
 cypresses — it would have caused a revulsion in her feelings, 
 sudden, painful, and powerful as the shock already received. 
 
 There would still be sadness in her breast, but no bitter- 
 ness. The former far easier to endure ; she would sooner 
 believe Clancy dead, than think of hi traitorous defection. 
 
 But she is ignorant of all that has occurred; of the san- 
 guinary scene enacted — played out complete — on the edge of 
 the cypress swamp, and the sad one inside the house — still 
 continuing. Aware of the one, .or witness of the other, while 
 passing that lone cottage, as with wet eyes she takes a It 
 look at its walls, she would stdl be shedding tears — not of 
 spite, but sorrow. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 WHAT HAS BECOME OF CLANCY ? 
 
 [HE sun is up — the hour ten o'clock, morning. Around 
 the residence of the widow Clancy a crowd of people 
 has collected. They are her nearest neighbours ; 
 while those who dwell at a distance are still in the 
 act of assembling. Every few minutes two or three horsemen 
 ride up, carrying long rifles over their shoulders, with powder- 
 horns and bullet pouches strapped across their breasts. 
 Those already on the ground are similarly armed, and 
 accoutred. 
 
 The cause of this warlike muster is understood by all. 
 Some hours before, a report has spread throughout the plan- 
 tations that Charles Clancy is missing from his home, under 
 circumstances to justify suspicion of foul play having befallen 
 him. His mother has sent messengers to and fro ; hence the 
 gathering around her house. 
 
 In the South- Western States, on occasions of this kind, it 
 does not do for any one to show indifference, whatever his! 
 station in life. The wealthiest, as well as the poorest, is ex- 
 pected to take part in the administration of backwoods' jus- 
 tice — at times not strictly en reyle with the laws of the land. 
 
 For this reason Mrs. Clancy's neighbours, far and near, sum- 
 moned or not summoned, come to her cottage. Among them 
 Ephraim Darke, and his son Richard. 
 
 Archibald Armstrong is not there, nor looked for. Most 
 kuuw of his having moved away that same morning. The 
 track of his waggon wheels has been seen upon the road ; 
 and, if the boat he is to take passage by, start at the adver- 
 tised hour, he should now be nigh fifty miles from the spot, and 
 still further departing. No one is thinking of him, or his ; 
 since no one dreams of the deposed planter, or his family, hav- 
 ing ought to do with the business that brings them together. 
 
 This is to search for Charles Clancy, still absent from his 
 home. The mother's story has been already told, and only 
 the late comers have to hear it again. 
 
 In detail she narrates what occurred on the preceding night; 
 
CO Till: DEATH SHOT. 
 
 Low the hound came home wet, and wounded. Confirma- 
 tory of her speech, the animal is before their eyes, still in the 
 condition spoken of. They can all see it has been shot — the 
 tear of the bullet being visible on its back, having just cut 
 through the skin. Coupled with its master's absence, this 
 ■in-:: i i agthens the suspicion of something amiss. 
 
 ol less serious suggestion, is a piece of cord 
 
 knotted around the dog's neck— the loose end looking as 
 
 though gnawed by teeth, ami then broken off with a pluck ; as if 
 
 imalhad been tied up, and succeeded in setting itself free. 
 
 But why tied? And why has it been shot? These are 
 
 questions that not anybody can answer. 
 
 Strange, too, in the hound having reached home at the hour 
 it did. As Clancy went out about the middle of the d 
 be could not have gone to such a distance for his dog to have 
 been nearly all night getting back. 
 
 Could he himself have fired the bullet, whose effect is before 
 their eyes ? 
 
 .\ question almost instantly answered in the negative : 
 
 1 backwoodsmen among the mustered crowd — hunters 
 
 iw to interpret " sign" as surely as Champollion 
 
 hieroglyph. These having examined the mark 
 
 bound's skin, pronounce the ball thai made it to have 
 
 come from a smooih-l r md not a rifle. It is notorious, that 
 
 icy never carried a smooth-bore, but always a 
 
 rincd gun. His own dog has not been shot by him. 
 
 ;• some time spent in discussing the probabilities and 
 possibilities of the case, it is at length resolved to drop con- 
 jecturing, and commence search for the missing man. In the 
 presence of his mother no one speaks of searching for his 
 dead body; though there is a general apprehension, that this 
 mil be the thing found. 
 
 She, the mother, most interested of all, has a too true fore- 
 boding of it. When the searchers, starting off, in kindly 
 thy tell her to be of good cheer, her heart more truly 
 he will never see her son again. 
 On leaving the house, the horsemen separate into two dis- 
 
 . and proceed in different directions. 
 With one and the larger, gees Clancy's hound; an old 
 banter, named Woodier, taking the animal along. He has 
 an idea it may prove serviceable, when thrown on its master's 
 track — supposing this can be discovered. 
 
 Just as conjectured, the hound does prove of service. 
 Obcc inside the woods, without even setting nose to the 
 
WHAT HAS BECOME OF CLANCY ? 61 
 
 ground, it starts off in a straight run — going so swiftly, the 
 horsemen find it difficult to keep pace with it. 
 
 It sets them all into a gallop; this continued for quite a 
 couple of miles through timber thick and thin, at length 
 ending upon the edge oj' the swamp. 
 
 Only a few have followed the hound thus far, keeping close. 
 The others, straggling behind, come up by twos and threes. 
 
 The hunter, Woodley, is among the foremost to be in at the 
 death ; for death all expect it to prove. They are sure of it, on 
 seeing the staghound stop beside something, as ifc does so 
 loudly baying. 
 
 Spurring on towards the spot, they expect to behold the 
 dead body of Charles Clancy. They are disappointed. 
 
 There is no body there — dead or alive. Only a pile of 
 Spanish moss, which appears recently dragged from the trees; 
 then thrown into a heap, and afterwards scattered. 
 
 The hound has taken stand beside it ; and there stays, 
 giving tongue. As the horsemen dismount, and get their 
 eyes closer to the ground, they see something red ; which 
 proves to be blood. It is dark crimson, almost black, and 
 coagulated. Still is it blood. 
 
 From under the edge of the moss-heap protrudes the barrel 
 of a gun. On kicking the loose cover aside, they see it is a 
 rifle — not of the kind common among backwoodsmen. But 
 they have no need to waste conjecture on the gun. ilany 
 present identify it as the yager usually carried by Clancy. 
 
 More of the moss being removed, a hat is uncovered — also 
 Clancy's. Several know it as his — can swear to it. 
 
 A gun upon the ground, abandoned, discharged as they see; 
 a hat alongside it ; blood beside both — there must have been 
 shooting on the spot — some one wounded, if not actuaUy 
 killed ? And who but Charles Clancy 'i The gun is his, the 
 hat too, and his must be the blood. 
 
 They have no doubt of its being his, no more of his being 
 dead : the only question asked is " Where's his body ? " 
 
 While those first up are mutually exchanging this interrc- 
 gatory, others, later arriving, also put it in turn. AH equally 
 unable to give a satisfactory answer — alike surprised by what 
 they see, and puzzled to explain it. 
 
 There is one man present who could enlighten them in 
 part, though not altogether — one who comes lagging up with 
 the last. It is Richard Darke. 
 
 Strange he should be among the stragglers. At starting 
 out he appeared the most zealous of all ! 
 
62 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 Then he was not thinking of the dog ; had no idea how 
 direct, and soon, the instinct of the animal would lead them 
 to the spot where he had given Clancy his death shot. 
 
 The foremost of the searchers have dismounted and are stand- 
 ing grouped around it. He sees them, and would gladlygo back, 
 but dares not. Defection now would be damning evidence 
 against him. After all, what has he to fear? They will find 
 a dead body — Clancy's — a corpse with a bullet hole in the 
 breast. They can't tell who fired the fatal shot — how could 
 they ? There were no witnesses save the trunks of the 
 cypresses, and the dumb brute of a dog — not so dumb but that 
 it now makes the woods resound with its long-drawn con- 
 tinuous whining. If it could but shape this into articulate 
 speech, then he might have to fear. As it is, he need not. 
 
 Fortified with these reflections, he approaches the spot, by 
 himself made bloody. Trembling, nevertheless, and with 
 cheeks pale. Not strange. He is about being brought face 
 to face with the man he has murdered — with his corpse ! 
 
 Nothing of the kind. There is no murdered man there, no 
 corpse ! Only a gun, a hat, and some blotches of crimson ! 
 
 Does Darke rejoice at seeing only this ? Judging by his 
 looks, the reverse. Before, he only trembled slightly, with 
 a hue of pallor on his cheeks. Now his lips show white, 
 his eyes sunken in their sockets, while his teeth chatter and 
 his whole frame shivers as if under an ague chill ! 
 
 Luckily for the assassin this tale-telling exhibition occurs 
 under the shadow of the great cypress, whose gloomy ob- 
 scurity guards against its being observed. But to counteract 
 this little bit of good luck there chances to be present a 
 detective that trusts less to sight, than scent. This is 
 Clancy's dog. As Darke presents himself in the circle 
 of searchers collected around it, the animal perceiving, 
 suddenly springs towards him with the shrill cry of an 
 enraged cat, and the elastic leap of a tiger ! 
 
 But for Simeon Woodley seizing the hound, and holding 
 it back, the throat of Richard Darke would be in danger. 
 
 It is so, notwithstanding. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Around the blood-stained spot there is a pause ; the searchers 
 forming a tableau strikingly significant. They have come up, 
 to the very last lagger ; and stand in attitudes expressing 
 astonishment, with glances that speak inquiry. These, not 
 directed to the ground, nor straying through the trees, but fixed 
 upon Dick Darke. 
 
WHAT HAS DF.COME OF CL.VXCY ? Go 
 
 Strange the antipathy of the dog-, which all observe ! For 
 the animal, soon as let loose, repeats its hostile demonstra- 
 tions, and has to be held off again. Surely it signifies some- 
 thing, and this bearing upon the object of their search ? The 
 inference is unavoidable. 
 
 Darke is well aware their eyes are upon him, as also their 
 thoughts. Fortunate for him, that night-like shadow sur- 
 rounding. But for it, his blanched lips, and craven cast of 
 countenance, would tell a tale to condemn him at once — per- 
 haps to punishment on the spot. 
 
 As it is his scared condition is not unnoticed. It is heard, 
 if not clearly seen. Two or three, standing close to him, can 
 hear his teeth clacking like castanets ! 
 
 His terror is trebly intensified — from a threefold cause. 
 Seeing no body first gave him a shock of surprise ; soon fol- 
 lowed by superstitious awe ; this succeeded by apprehension 
 of another kind. But he had no time to dwell upon it before 
 being set upon by the dog, which drove the more distant 
 danger out of his head. 
 
 Delivered also from this, his present fear is about those 
 glances regarding him. In the obscurity he cannot read 
 them, but for all that can tell they are sternly inquisitorial. 
 En revanche, neither can they read his ; and, from this drawing 
 confidence, he recovers his habitual coolness — knowing how 
 much he now needs it. 
 
 The behaviour of the hound must not pass unspoken of. 
 With a forced laugh, and in a tone of assumed nonchalance, 
 he says : 
 
 " I can't tell how many scores of times that dog of Clancy's 
 has made at me in the same way. It's never forgiven me 
 since the day I chastised it, when it came after one of our 
 sluts. I'd have killed the cur long ago, but spared it through 
 friendship for its master." 
 
 An explanation plausible, and cunningly conceived ; though 
 not satisfactory to some. Only the unsuspicious are beguiled 
 by it. However, it holds good for the time ; and, so regarded, 
 the searchers resume their quest. 
 
 It is no use for them to remain longer by the moss heap. 
 There they but see blood ; they are looking for a body. To 
 find this they must go farther. 
 
 One taking up the hat, another the abandoned gun, they 
 scatter off, proceeding in diverse directions. 
 
 For several hours they go tramping among the trees, speer- 
 iDg nnder the broad fan-like fronds of the saw-palmettoes, 
 
trl Till: DEATH BXIOT. 
 
 groping around the buttressed trunks of the cypresses, .send- 
 ing glances into the shadowed spaces between — in short, 
 searching everywhere. 
 
 For more than a mile around they quarter the forest, giving 
 it thorough examination. The swamp also, far as the treach- 
 erous ooze will allow them to penetrate within its gloomy 
 portals — fit abode of death — place appropriate for the conccal- 
 of darkest crime. 
 
 Notwithsta ir zoal, prompted hy sympathizing 
 
 he "!■-'. as by a senso of outraged justice, the day's search 
 proves fruitless — bootless. No body can be found, dead or 
 living; no trace of tho missing man. Nothing beyond what 
 they have aire idy obtained — his hat and gun. 
 
 Dispirited, tired out, hungry, hankering after dinners de- 
 layed, as eve approaches they again congregate around the 
 gory spot; and, with a mutual understanding to resume search 
 on the morrow, separate, and set olT — each to Ins own home. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A BULLET EXTKACTED. 
 
 i»a*;ysjOT all of the searching party leave the place. 
 jj!^Nv?ijl Two remain, staying as by stealth. Some time 
 3KvU] before the departure of the others, these had slipped 
 aside, and sauntered off several hundred yards, 
 taking their horses along with them. 
 
 Halting in an out-of-the-way spot, under deepest shadow, 
 and then dismounting, they want till the crowd shall disperse. 
 To all appearance impatiently, as if they wanted to have 
 the range of the forest to themselves, and (for some particu- 
 lar reason. Just this do they, or at least one of thom does; 
 making bis design known to the other, soon as he believes 
 himself beyond eari lot ol e from whom they separated. 
 
 It is the elder that instructs : who, in addition to the horse 
 he is holding, has another animal by his side— a dog. For 
 it is the hunter, Woodley, still in charge of Clancy's hound. 
 
 The man remaining with him is one of his own kind and 
 calling ; younger in years, but. like himself, a professional fol- 
 lower of the chase — by name, Hoy wood. 
 
 Giving los reason for the step he is taking, Wo idlej si | , 
 
 "We kiu do nothin' till them greenhorns air gone. Old 
 
A BULLET EXTRACTED. C5 
 
 Dan Boone hisself kedn't take up trail, wi' sich a noisy clan- 
 jamfry aroun him. For myself I hain't hardly tried, seem' 
 'twar no use till they'd clar oft' out o' the way. And now the 
 darned fools hev' made the thing more dift'ecquilt, trampin' 
 about, an' blottin' out every shadder o' sign, an everything 
 as looks like a fut^mark. For all, I've tuk notice to somethin' 
 none o' them seed. Soon's the coast is clar we kin go thar, 
 an gie it a more perfdkler examinashun." 
 
 The younger hunter nods assent, adding a word, signifying 
 readiness to follow his older confrere. 
 
 For some minutes they remain ; until silence restored 
 throughout the forest tells them it is forsaken. Then, leaving 
 their horses behind, with bridles looped around branches — 
 the hound also attached to one of the stirrups — they go back 
 to the place, where the hat and gun were found. 
 
 They do not stay there ; but continue a little farther on, 
 Woodley leading. 
 
 At some twenty paces distance, the old hunter comes to a 
 halt, stopping by the side of a cypress " knee " ; one of those 
 vegetable monstrosities that perplex the botanist — to this 
 hour scientifically unexplained. In shape resembling a ham, 
 with the shank end upwards ; indeed so bike to this, that the 
 Yankee bacon-curers have been accused, by their southern 
 customers, of covering them with canvas, and selling them 
 for the real article ! 
 
 It may be that the Mississippian backwoodsman, Woodley, 
 could give a better account of these singular excrescences 
 than all the closet scientists in the world. 
 
 He is not thinking of either science, or his own superior 
 knowledge, while conducting his companion to the side of 
 that ■' cypress knee." His only thought is to show Hey- 
 wood something he had espied while passing it in the search ; 
 but of which he did not then appear to take notice, and said 
 nothing, so long as surrounded by the other searchers. 
 
 The time has come to scrutinize it more closely, and ascer- 
 tain if it be what he suspects it. 
 
 The " knee " in question is one which could not be palmed 
 otf for a porker's ham. Its superior dimensions forbid the 
 counterfeit. As the two hunters halt beside it, its bulk shows 
 bigger than either of their own bodies, while its top is at the 
 height of their heads. 
 
 Standing in front of it, Woodley points to a break in the 
 bark — a round hole, with edge slightly ragged. The fibre ap- 
 pears freshly cut, and more than cut — encrimsoncd! Twenty- 
 
06 THE DEATH" SHOT. 
 
 four hours may liavo elapsed, but not many more, since that 
 hole was made. So believe the backwoodsmen, soon as setting 
 their eyes on it. 
 
 Speaking first, Woodloy asks, — 
 
 " What d' ye think o' it, Ned ?" 
 
 Heywood, of taciturn habit, docs not make immediate 
 answer, but stands silently regarding the perforated spot. 
 Ilis comrade continues : — 
 
 " Thar's a blue pill goed in thar', which jedgin' by the size 
 and shape o' the hole must a kum out a biggish gun barrel. 
 An', lookin' at tho red stain 'roun' its edge, that pill must a 
 been blood-coated." 
 
 "Looks like blood, certainly." 
 
 " It air Hood — the real red thing itself; the blood o' Charley 
 Clancy. The ball inside thar' has first goed through his body. 
 It's been deadened by somethin', and don't appear to hev 
 penetrated a great way into the tinimer, for all o' that bein' soft 
 as sap wood." 
 
 Drawing out his knife, the old hunter inserts the point of 
 its blade into the hole, probing it. 
 
 " Jest as I sayed. Hain't entered the hul o' an inch. I 
 kin feel the lead ludged thar'." 
 
 " Suppose you cut it out, Sime ?" 
 
 " Precisely what I intend doin'. But not in a careless 
 way. I want the surroundin' wood along wi' it. The two 
 thegither will best answer our purpiss. So hyar goes to git 
 'em thegither." 
 
 Saying this, he inserts his knife-blade into the bark, and 
 first makes a circular incision around the bullet hole. Then 
 deepens it, taking care not to touch the ensanguined edge of 
 the orifice, or come near it. 
 
 The soft vegetable substance yields to his keen steel, almost 
 as easily as if he were slicing a Swedish turnip ; and soon he 
 detaches a pear-shaped piece, but bigger than the largest prize 
 "Jargonelle." 
 
 Holding it in his hand, and apparently testing its ponder- 
 osity, he says : 
 
 " Ned ; this chunk o' timmer encloses a bit o' lead as niver 
 kim out o' a rifle. Thar's big eends o' an ounce weight o' metal 
 inside. Only a smooth-bore barrel ked a tuk it ; an' from scch 
 it's been dischurged." 
 
 " You're right about that," responds Heywood, taking hold 
 of the piece of wood, and also trying its -weight. " It's a 
 smooth-bore ball — no doubt of it." 
 
A BULLET EXTRACTED. 67 
 
 " Well, then, who carries a smooth-bore through these hyar 
 woods 'i "Who, Ned Heywood ? " 
 " I know onlj' one man that does." 
 
 " Name him ! Name the d d rascal ! " 
 
 " Dick Darke." 
 
 " Ye kin drink afore me, Ned. That's the skunk I war 
 a-thinkin' 'bout, an' hev been all the day. I've seed other sign 
 beside this — the which escaped the eyes o' the others. An' 
 I'm gled it did : for I didn't want Dick Darke to be about 
 when I war follerin' it up. For that reezun I drawed the 
 rest aside — so as none o' 'em shed notice it. By good luck 
 the}- didn't." 
 
 " Tou saw other sign ! What, Sime ? " 
 " Tracks in the mud, clost in by the edge o' the swamp. 
 They're a good bit from the place whar the poor young 
 fellur's blood's been spilt, an' makin' away from it. I got 
 only a glimp at 'em, but ked see they'd been made by a man 
 runnin'. You bet yur life on't they war made by a pair o' 
 boots I've seen on Dick Darke's feet. It's too gloomsome 
 now to make anythin' out o' them. So let's you an' me come 
 back here by ourselves, at the earliest o' daybreak, afore the 
 people git about. Then we kin gie them tracks a thorrer 
 scrutination. If they don't prove to be Dick Darke's, ye may 
 call Sime Woodley a thick-headed woodchuck." 
 
 " If we on'y had one of his boots, so that we might com- 
 pare it with the tracks." 
 
 " If! Thar's no if. We shall hev one o' his boots — aye, 
 both — I'm boun' to hev 'em." 
 " But how ?" 
 
 " Leave that to me. I've thought o' a plan to git posses- 
 sion o' the scoundrel's futwear, an' everythin' else belongin.' 
 to him that kin throw a ray o' daylight unto this darksome 
 bizness. Come, Ned ! Le's go to the widder's house, an' see 
 if we kin say a word to comfort the poor lady — for a lady she 
 air. Belike enough this thing'll be the death o' her. She 
 warn't strong at best, an' she's been a deal weaker since the 
 husban' died. Now the son's goed too — ah ! Come along, 
 an' le's show her, she ain't forsook by everybody." 
 
 With the alacrity of a loyal heart, alike leaning to pity, tho 
 young hunter promptly responds to the appeal, saying :— 
 " I'm with you, Woodley !" 
 
CHAPTER XT III. 
 
 " TO THE SHEUIFF ! 
 
 DAY of dread, pitiless suspense to the mother of 
 Charles Clancy, while they arc abroad searching ('oi- 
 lier son. 
 
 Still more terrible the night after their return — not 
 without tidings of the missing man. Such tidings! The 
 too certain assurance of his death — of his murder — with the 
 added mystery of their not having been able to find his body. 
 Only his hat, his gun, his blood ! , 
 
 Her grief, hitherto held in check by a still lingering hope, 
 now escapes all trammels, and becomes truly agonizing. Her 
 heart seems broken, or breaking. 
 
 Although without wealth, and therefore with but few 
 friends, in her hour of lamentation she is not left alone. It 
 is never so in the backwoods of the Far West ; where, under 
 rough home-wove coats, throb hearts gentle and sympathetic, 
 as ever beat under the finest broadcloth. 
 
 Among Mrs. Clancy's neighbours are many of this kind ; 
 chiefly " poor whites," — as scornfully styled by the prouder 
 planters. Some half-score of them determine to stay by her 
 throughout the night ; with a belief their presence may de 
 something to solace her, and a presentiment that ere morning 
 they may be needed for a service yet more solemn. She 
 has retired to her chamber — taken to her bed ; she may never 
 leave cither alive. 
 
 As the night chances to be a warm one — indeed stifling 
 hot, the men stay outside, smoking their pipes in the porch, 
 or reclining upon the little grass plot in front of the dwelling; 
 while within, by the bedside of the bereaved widow, are 
 their wives, sisters, and daughters. 
 
 Needless to say, that the conversation of those without 
 relates exclusively to the occurrences of the day, and the 
 mystery of the murder. For this, they all believe it to have 
 been ; though utterly unable to make out, or conjecture a 
 motive. 
 
 They are equally perplexed about the disappearance of the 
 body ; though this adds not much to the mystery. 
 
■'to the stteiuff! " 69 
 
 They deem it simply a corollary, and consequence, of the 
 other. He, who did the foul deed, has taken steps 
 
 it, and so far succeeded. It remains to be seen whether his 
 astuteness will serve against the sea sumed on the 
 
 morrow. 
 
 Two questions in chief, correlative, occupy them: "Who 
 killed Clancy?" and " What has been the motive for killing 
 him r " 
 
 To the former, none of them would have thought of an- 
 swering " Dick Darke," — that is when starting out on the 
 search near noon. 
 
 Now ih.i: night is on, and they have returned from it, his 
 name is on every lip. At first only in whispers, and guarded 
 insinuations; bnt gradually pronounced in louder tone, and 
 bolder speech — this approaching accus: I 
 
 Still ti : remains unanswered: — 
 
 " Why should Dick Darke have killed Charley Clancy ? " 
 
 Even put in this familiar form it receives no reply. It is 
 an enigma to which no one present holds the key. For none 
 know aught of a rivalry having existed between the two men 
 — much less a love- no motive more 
 
 ing to murder ever beat in human breast. 
 rke's partiality for Colonel Armstrong's eldest daughter 
 en no secret throughout the settlement. He himself, 
 ishly, in his cups. II scandal-mongers 
 
 acquainted with that. But Clancy, ot higher tone, if not 
 more secretive habit, has kept his love-affair to himself; 
 influenced by the additional reason of its being clandes- 
 tine. 
 
 Jng up as company to his afflicted 
 parent, have no knowledge of the tender relations that ex- 
 isted between him and Helen . any more than of 
 being the cause of that disaster for which the widow 
 now weeps. 
 
 f alone knows of them ; but, in the first moment 
 of her ■•. completely prostrated by it, she has not 
 
 yet communicated aught of this to the sympathetic cars 
 around her. It is a family secret, too sacred for their 
 •hv : and, with some last lingering pride of superior 
 birth, she keeps it to herself. The time has not come for 
 disclosing it. 
 
 But it soon will — she knows that. All must needs be told. 
 For, after the first throes of the overwhelming calamity, in 
 which her thoughts alone dwelt on the slain son, they turned 
 
7" 
 
 THE DEATH" SHOT. 
 
 towards liim suspected as the shiver. In her ease with some. 
 thing stronger than suspicion — indeed almost belief, based 
 on her foreknowledge of the circumstances ; these not only 
 accounting for (he crime, but pointing to the man who must 
 have committed it. 
 
 A 3 she lies upon her couch, with tears streaming down her 
 cheeks, and sighs heaved from the very bottom of her breast 
 — as she listens to the kind voices vainly essaying to console 
 her — site herself says not a word. Her sorrow is too deep, 
 absorbing, to find expression in speech. But in her 
 thoughts are two men — before her distracted fancy two 
 — one of a murdered man, the other his murderer — the first 
 her own son, the second that of Ephraim Darke. 
 
 Notwithstanding ignorance of all these circumstances, 
 the thoughts of her sympathizing neighbours — those in 
 council outside — dwell upon Dick Darke ; while his name is 
 continuously upon their tongues. His unaccountable conduct 
 during the day — as also the strange behaviour of the hound 
 — is now called up, and commented upon. 
 
 Why should the dog have made such demonstration ? 
 Why bark at him above all the others — selecting him out 
 of the crowd — so resolutely and angrily assailing him ? 
 
 His own explanation, given at the time, appeared lame and 
 unsatisfactory. 
 
 It looks lamer now, as they sit smoking their pipes, more 
 coolly and closely considering it. 
 
 While they are thus occupied, the wicket gate, in front of 
 the cottage, is heard turning upon its hinges, and two men 
 are seen entering the enclosure. 
 
 As these draw near to the porch, where a tallow dip dimly 
 burns, its light is reflected from the features of Simeon 
 Woodley and Edward Hey wood. 
 
 The hunters are both well known to all upon the ground ; 
 and welcomed, as men likely to make a little less irksome that 
 melancholy midnight watch. 
 
 If the new-comers cannot contribute cheerfulness, they may 
 something else, as predicted by the expression observed upon 
 their faces, at stepping into the porch. Their demeanour 
 shows them possessed of some knowledge pertinent to the 
 subject under discussion, as also important. 
 
 Going close to the candle, and summoning the rest around, 
 Woodley draws from the ample pocket of his large, loose coat 
 a bit of wood, bearing resemblance to a pine-apple, or turnip 
 roughly peeled. 
 
"to the sheriff!" 71 
 
 Holding it to the light, he says : " Come hyar, fellurs ! fix 
 yar eyes on this." 
 
 All do as desired. 
 
 " Kin any o' ye tell what it air ? " the hunter asks. 
 
 " A bit of tree timber, I take it," answers one. 
 
 " Looks like a chunk carved out of a cypress knee," adds 
 a second. 
 
 " It ought," assents Sime, " since that's jest what it air ; 
 an' this child air he who curved it out. Ye kin see thar's a 
 hole in the skin-front ; which any greenhorn may toll's been 
 made by a bullet : an' he'd be still greener in the horn as 
 kedn't obsarve a tinge o' red roun' thet hole, the which air 
 nothin' more nor less than blood. Now, boys ! the bullet's 
 yit inside the wud ; for me an' Heywood here tuk care not to 
 extract it till the proper time shed come." 
 
 " It's come now ; let's hev it out ! " exclaims Heywood ; the 
 others endorsing the demand. 
 
 " Thet ye shall. Now, fellurs ; take partikler notice o' 
 what sort o' egg hez been hatchin' in this nest o' cypress 
 knee." 
 
 While speaking, Sime draws his large-bladed knife from 
 its sheath ; and, resting the piece of wood on the porch bench, 
 splits it open. When cleft, it discloses a thing of rounded 
 form and metallic lustre, dull leaden — a gun-bullet, as all 
 expected. 
 
 There is not any blood upon it, this having been brushed off 
 in its passage through the fibrous texture of the wood. But 
 it still preserves its spherical shape, perfect as when it 
 issued from the barrel of the gun that discharged, or the mould 
 that made it. 
 
 Soon as seeing it they all cry out, "A bullet!" several 
 adding, 
 
 " The ball of a smooth-bore." 
 
 Then one asks, suggestingly : 
 
 " Who ia there in this neighbourhood that'sgot a shooting- 
 iron of such sort ?" 
 
 The question is instantly answered by another, though not 
 satisfactorily. 
 
 ''- Plenty of smooth-bores about, though nobody as I knows 
 of hunts with them." 
 
 A third speaks more to the point, saying : — 
 " Yes ; there's one does." 
 
 " Name him ! " is the demand of many voices. 
 "Dick Darke I" 
 
'- THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 The Is confirmed by several others, in succession 
 
 i 
 
 \ ■ lause a I he proceedings — a 
 
 lull ominous, not i>t' further spe : bion. 
 
 During its continuance, Wood pi< f lead 
 
 the two cleft 
 ■ returns the 
 chunk to his p 
 
 • ' ■ . < i . to conclave to 
 
 :' illow him as i ■' ion. 
 
 Which they, do, drawing off out of the porch, and taking 
 stand upon grass plot below at some paces distant from the 
 dwi 11 
 
 ads close together, th • for a while, sotto 
 
 voce. 
 
 N so I iw, bul that a titl . the terror of all malefactors, 
 I 
 1 also a name; the same, which, throughout all the 
 upon their lips, bandied about, spoken of 
 with ■ b. and brows contracted. 
 
 Net all of those, who watch with the widow are admitted to 
 
 this muttering- council. Simon Wbddley, who presides over 
 
 it, ha forexcluding some. Only men take par: 
 
 can be lied on for an emergency, such as that the 
 
 ifo i him. 
 
 Their conference closed, four of them, as if by agreement 
 
 with the others, separate from the group, glide out through 
 
 the wicket gate, and on to their horses left tied to the road- 
 
 side rail fence. 
 
 " Unhitching " these, they climb silently into their saddles, 
 as silently slip away ; only some muttered words passing 
 between them, as they ride along the road. 
 
 Among these may be heard the name of a man, conjoined 
 to a speech, under the circumstances significant : — 
 '' Let's straight to the SKerifjFV 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 1HE "BELLE OF NATCHEZ.' 
 
 jfHILE search is still being made for the body of 
 the murdered man, and he suspected of the crime 
 is threatened with a prison cell, she, the innocent 
 cause of it, is being borne far away from the scene 
 of its committal. 
 
 The steamboat, carrying Colonel Armstrong and his belong- 
 ings, having left port punctually at the hour advertised, has 
 forsaken the " Father of Waters," entered the Red River of 
 Louisiana, and now, on the second day after, is cleaving the 
 current of this ochre-tinted stream, some fifty miles from its 
 mouth. 
 
 The boat is the " Belle of Xatchez." Singular coincidence 
 of name ; since one aboard bears also the distinctive sob- 
 riquet. 
 
 Oft have the young " bloods " of th^ " City of the Bluffs," 
 while quaffing their sherry cobblers, or champagne, toasted 
 Helen Armstrong, with this appellation added. 
 
 Taking quality into account, she has a better right to it 
 than the boat. For this, notwithstanding the proud title 
 bestowed upon it, is but a sorry craft ; a little "stern-wheel" 
 steamer, such as, in those early days, were oft seen ploughing 
 the bosom of the mighty Mississippi, more often threading the 
 intricate and shallower channels of its tributaries. A single 
 set of paddles, placed where the rudder acts in other vessels, 
 and looking veiy much like an old-fashioned mill-wheel, sup- 
 plies the impulsive power — at best giving but poor speed. 
 
 Nevertheless, a sort of craft with correct excuse, and fair 
 raison d'etre; as all know, who navigate narrow rivers, and 
 their still narrower reaches, with trees from each side out- 
 stretching, as is the case with many of the streams of 
 Louisiana. 
 
 Not that the noble Red River can be thus classified ; nor 
 in any sense spoken of as a narrow stream. Broad, and 
 deep enough, for the biggest boats to navigate to Natchi- 
 toches — the butt of Colonel Armstrong's journey by water. 
 
 Why the broken planter has taken passage on the little 
 
 6 
 
7-1 TIIE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 n-wheelor " is due to two distinct causes. It suite. I 
 him as to time, and also i 
 
 On the Mississippi, and its tributaries, a passage in "crack" 
 boats is costly, in proportion to their character for "crack- 
 ness." The " Belle of Natchez," being without reputation of 
 tliis kind, carries her passengers at a reasonable rate. 
 
 But, indeed, something beyond ideas of opportune time, or 
 economy, influenced Colonel Armstrong in self cting her. 
 The same thought which hurried him away from his old home 
 
 under the shadows of night, has talari him aboard a third- 
 rate river steamboat. Travelling thus obscurely, he ho] 
 shun encounter with men of his own class; to escape not 
 only observation, bn< the sympathy he shrinks from. 
 
 In this hope he is disappointed, and on both horns of his 
 fancied, not to say ridiculous, dilemma. For it so chai 
 that the "bully" boat, which was to leave Natchez for 
 Natchitoches on the same day with the " Belle," has bursi one 
 of her boilers. Asa consequence, the smaller steamer has start) d 
 on her trip, loaded down to the water-line with freight, her 
 state-rooms and cabins crowded with passengers — ma 
 these the best, bluest blood of Mississippi and Louisiana. 
 
 Whatever of chagrin this contretemps has caused Colonel 
 Armstrong — and, it may be, the older of his daughters — to the 
 younger it gives gladness. For among the supernum 
 forced to take passage in the stern-wheel steamer, is a man 
 she has met before. Not only met, but danced with ; and 
 not only danced but been delighted with; so much, thai 
 souvenirs of that night, with its saltaiive enjoyment, have 
 since oft occupied her thoughts, thrilling her with sweetest 
 reminiscence. 
 
 He, who has produced this pleasant impression, is a ; 
 pi, niter, by name Luis Dupre. A Louisianian by ' 
 
 Tore a " Creole." And without any taint of the African; 
 else he would not be a Creole pur sang. 
 
 The English reader seems to need undeceiving about this, 
 constantly, repeatedly. In the Creole, simply so called, there 
 is no admixture of negro blood. 
 
 Not a drop of it iu the veins of Luis Dupre ; else Jessie 
 Armstrong could not have danced with him at a Natchez 
 ball ; nor would her father, fallen as he is, permit her to keep 
 company with him on a Red River steamboat. 
 
 In this case, there is no condescension on the part of the 
 cx-Mississippian planter. He of Louisiana is his equal in 
 social rank, and now his superior in point of wealth, by hun- 
 
THE " EELI.E OF NATCHEZ." 75 
 
 dreds, thousands. For Luis Dupre is one of tlie largest land- 
 owners along the line of Red River plantations, while liis 
 slaves number several hundred field hands, and house domes- 
 tics ; the able-bodied of both, without enumerating the aged, 
 the imbecile, and piccaninnies, more costly than profitable. 
 
 If, in the presence of such a prosperous man, Colonel 
 Armstrong reflects painfully upon his own reduced state, it 
 is different with his daughter Jessie. 
 
 Into her ear Luis Dupre has whispered sweet words — a 
 speech telling her, that not only are his lands, houses, and 
 slaves at her disposal, but along with them his heart and hand. 
 
 It is but repeating what he said on the night of the 
 Natchez ball; his impulsive Creole nature having then in- 
 fluenced him to speak as he felt. 
 
 Now, on the gliding steamboat, he reiterates the pro- 
 posal, more earnestly pressing for an answer. 
 
 And he gets it in the affirmative. Before the " Belle of 
 Natchez " has reached fifty miles from the Red River's 
 mouth, Luis Dupre and Jessie Armstrong have mutually 
 confessed affection, clasped hands, let lips meet, and tongues 
 swear, never more to live asunder. That journey commenced 
 upon the Mississippi is to continue throughout life. 
 
 Ih their case, there is no fear of aught arising to hinder 
 the consummation of their hopes ; no stern parent to stand 
 in the way of their life's happiness. By the death of both 
 father and mother, Luis Dupre has long since been emanci- 
 pated from parental authority, and is as much his own master 
 as he is of his many slaves. 
 
 On the other side, Jessie Armstrong is left free to her choice ; 
 because she has chosen well. Her father has given ready 
 consent ; or at all events said enough to ensure his doing so. 
 ****** 
 
 The huge " high-pressure " steam craft which ply upon 
 the western rivers of America bear but a very slight 
 resemblance to the black, long, low -hulled leviathans 
 that plough the briny waste of ocean. The steamboat 
 of the Mississippi more resembles a house, two stories in 
 height, and, not unfrequently, something of a third — abode 
 of mates and pilots. Rounded off at stern, the structure, 
 of oblong oval shape, is universally painted chalk white ; the 
 second, or cabin story, having on each lace a row of case- 
 ment windows, with Venetian shutters, of emerald green. 
 These also serve as outside doors to the state-rooms — each 
 having its own. Inside ones, opposite them, give admission 
 
7G THE MAI II SCOT. 
 
 to the m&in cabin, or "saloon;" which extends longitudi- 
 nally nearly the whole length of the vessel. Figured glass 
 foliling-doors cut it into three compartments; the ladies' 
 cabin aft, the dining saloon amidships, with a third divi- 
 sion forward, containing clerk's office and " bar," tho last 
 devoted to male passengers for smoking, drinking, and, 
 too often, gambling. A gangway, some three feet in 
 width, runs along the outside !■', i . forming a balcony to 
 the windows of the state-rooms. It is Furnished with a 
 balustrade, called "guard-rail," to prevent careless passengers 
 from stepping overboard. A projection of the roof, ycleped 
 " hurricane deck," serves as an awning to this continuous 
 terrace, shading it from the sun. 
 
 Two immense twin chimneys — "funnels" as called — 
 tower above all, pouring forth a continuous volume of 
 whitish wood-smoke; while a smaller cylinder — the " scape- 
 pipe" — intermittently vomits a vapour yet whiter, the Bteam; 
 at each emission with a hoarse belching bark, that can be 
 heard reverberating for leagues along the river. 
 
 Seen from the bank, as it passes, the Mississippi steam- 
 boat looks like a large hotel, or mansion of many windows, 
 sot adrift and moving majestically — " walking the water like 
 
 a thing of life," as it has been poetically described. S 
 
 of the larger ones, taking into account their splendid inte- 
 rior decoration, and, along with it their sumptuous table 
 fare, may well merit the name oft bestowed upon them, of 
 " floating palaces." 
 
 Only in point of size, some inferiority in splendour, and 
 having a stern-wheel instead of side-paddles, does the 
 " Belle of Natchez " differ from other boats seen upon the 
 same waters. As them, she has her large central saloon, with 
 ladies' cabin astern; the flanking rows of state-rooms; the 
 casements with green jalousies ; the gangway and guard-rail ; 
 the twin funnels, pouring forth their fleecy cloud, and tie 
 scape-pipe, coughing in regular repetition. 
 
 In the evening hour, after the day has cooled down, the 
 balcony outside the state-room windows is a pleasant place 
 to s'.nid, saunter, or sit in. More especially that portion of 
 it contiguous to the stern, and exclusively devoted to lady 
 pas angers — with only such of the male sex admitted as can 
 claim relationship, or liens of a like intimate i 
 
 On this evening — the first after leaving port— the poo;. 
 of the little steamer is so occupied by several individu ■' : 
 who stand gazing at the scene that passes like a pan 
 
THE " BELLE OF NATCHEZ." 77 
 
 before their eyes. The hot southern sun has disappeared 
 behind the dark belt of cypress forest, which forms, far and 
 near, the horizon line of Louisiana ; while the soft evening 
 breeze, laden with the mixed perfumes of the liquid ambar, 
 and magnolia grandiflora, is wafted around them, like incense 
 scattered from a censer. 
 
 Notwithstanding its delights, and loveliness, Nature dors 
 not lung detain the saunterers outside. Within is a spell moi e 
 powerful, and to many of them more attractive. It is after din- 
 ner hour ; the cabin tables have been cleared, and its lamps lit. 
 Under the sheen of brilliant chandeliers the passengers are 
 drawing together in groups, and coteries ; some to converse, 
 others to play ecarie or vingt-un ; here and there a solitary 
 individual burying himself in a book ; or a pair, almost as 
 unsocial, engaging in the selfish duality of chess. 
 
 Three alone linger outside ; and of these only two appear 
 to do so with enjoyment. They are some paces apart from the 
 third, who is now left to herself: for it is a woman. Not th;it 
 they are unacquainted with her, or in any way wishing to 
 be churlish. But, simply, because neither can spare word or 
 thought for any one, save their two sweet selves. 
 
 It scarce needs telling who is the couple thus mutunll}- 
 engrossed. An easy guess gives Jessie Armstrong and Luis 
 Dupre. The young Creole's handsome features, black eyes, 
 brunette complexion, and dark curly hair have made havoc 
 with the heart of Armstrong's youngest daughter ; while, 
 en revanche, her contrasting colours of red, blue, and gold 
 have held their own in the amorous encounter. Tl. 
 in love with one another to their finger tips. 
 
 As they stand conversing in soft whispers, the eyes of the 
 third individual are turned towards them. This only at 
 intervals, and with nought of jealous}' in the glance. For it 
 is Jessie's own sister who gives it. Whatever of that burn 
 in Helen's breast, not these, nor by them, has its torch been 
 kindled. The love that late occupied her heart has been 
 plucked therefrom, leaving it lacerated, and lorn. It was 
 the one love of her life, and now crushed out, ran neve- 
 be rekindled. If she have a thought about her sister's new- 
 sprung happiness, it is only to measure it against her 
 misery — to contrast its light of joy, with the shadow surr 
 ing herself. 
 
 But for a short moment, and with transient glanc , 
 she regard them. Aside from any sentiment of - 
 happy communion calls up a reminiscence too painful to Lo 
 
78 TUB fEATH SHOT. 
 
 dwelt upon. She remembers how she herself stood talking 
 in thai same way, with one she cannot, must not, know more. 
 To escape recalling the painful souvenir, she turns her eyes 
 from the love episode, and lowers them to look upon the 
 river. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 SAVED BY A SISTER. 
 
 |HE boat is slowly forging its course up stream, its 
 wheel in constant revolution, churning the ocbrc- 
 eoloured water into foam. This, floating behind, 
 dances and simmers upon the surface, forming a 
 wake-way of white tinted with red. In Helen Armstrong's 
 eyes it has the appearance of blood-froth — such being the hue 
 of her thoughts. 
 
 Contemplating it for a time, not pleasantly, and then, 
 turning round, she perceives that she is alone. The lovers 
 have stepped inside a state-room, or the ladies' cabin, or 
 perhaps gone on to the general saloon, to take part in tho 
 sports of the evening. She sees the lights shimmering 
 through the latticed windows, and can hear the hum of 
 voices, all merry. She has no desire to join in that merri- 
 ment, though many may be wishing her. Inside she would 
 assuredly become the centre of an admiring circle ; be 
 addressed in courtly speeches, with phrases of soft flattery. 
 She is aware of this, and keeps away from it. Strange woman! 
 In her present mood the speeches would but weary, the 
 flattery fash her. She prefers solitude ; likes better the noise 
 made by the ever-turning wheel. In the tumult of the water 
 there is consonance with that agitating her own bosom. 
 
 Night is now down ; darkness has descended upon forest 
 and river, holding both in its black embrace. Along with it 
 a kindred feeling creeps over her — a thought darker than 
 night, more sombre than forest shadows. It is that which 
 oft prompts to annihilation; a memory of tho past, which, 
 making the future unendurable, calls for life to come to an end. 
 The man to whom she has given her heart — its firstlings, as 
 its fulness — a heart from which there can be no second 
 gleanings, and she knows it — he has made light of tho 
 
SAVED BY A SISTEE. 
 
 offering. A sacrifice grand, as complete ; glowing with all the 
 interests of her life. The life, too, of one rarely endowed ; 
 a woman of proud spirit, queenly and commanding, beyond 
 all beautiful. 
 
 She does not think thus of herself, as, leaning over the 
 guard-rail, with eyes mechanically bent upon the wheel, she 
 watches it whipping the water into spray. Her thoughts are 
 not of lofty pride, but low humiliation. Spurned by him 
 at whose feet she has flung herself, so fondly, so rashly — 
 ave, recklessly — surrendering even that which woman deems 
 most dear, and holds back to the ultimate moment of rendi- 
 tion — the word which speaks it ! 
 
 To Charles Clancy she has spoken it. True, only in 
 writing ; but still in terms unmistakeable, and with nothing 
 reserved. And how has he treated them ? No response — 
 not even denial ! Only contemptuous silence, worse than out- 
 spoken scorn ! 
 
 No wonder her breast is filled with chagrin, and her brow 
 burning with shame ! 
 
 Both may be ended in an instant. A step over the low 
 rail — a plunge into the red rolling river — a momentary 
 struggle amidst its seething waters — not to preserve life, but 
 destroy it — this, and all will be over ! Sadness, jealousy, 
 the pangs of disappointed love — these baleful passions, and 
 all others alike, can be soothed, and set at rest, by one little 
 effort — a leap into oblivion ! 
 
 Her nerves are fast becoming strung to the taking it. 
 The past seems all dark, the future yet darker. For her, 
 life has lost its fascinations, while death is divested of its 
 terrors. 
 
 Suicide in one so young, so fair, so incomparably lovely ; 
 one capable of charming others, no longer to be charmed 
 herself ! A thing fearful to reflect upon. 
 
 And yet is she contemplating it ! 
 
 She stands close to the rail, wavering, irresolute. It is 
 no lingering love of life which causes her to hesitate. Nor 
 yet fear of death, even in the horrid form, she cannot fail to 
 see before her, spring she but over that slight railing. 
 
 The moon has arisen, and now courses across the blue 
 canopy of 6ky, in full effulgence, her beams falling bright 
 upon the bosom of the river. At intervals the boat, keeping 
 the deeper channel, is forced close to either bank. Then, 
 as the surging eddies set the floating but stationary logs in 
 motion, the huge saurian asleep on them can be heard giving 
 
80 THE DEATII SHOT. 
 
 a grunt of anger for the rude arousing, and pitching over 
 intu the current with dull sillies plash. 
 
 She sees, and hears all this. It should shake her nerves, 
 and cause shivering throughout her frame. 
 
 It does neither. The despair of life has deadened She 
 dread of death — even of boing devoured by an nlliir.it or t 
 
 Fortunately, at this moment, a gentle hand is laid on her 
 eh 'iilder, and a soft voice sounds in her ear. Thev are the 
 hand and voice of her sister. 
 
 Jessie, coming out of her state-room, has glided 
 silently up. She sees Helen prcji I, sad, and can 
 
 somewhat divine the cause. But she little suspects, how 
 near things have been to a fatal climax, and dreams not 
 of the diversion her coming has caused. 
 
 " Sister ! " she says, in soothing tone, her arms extended 
 caressingly, " why do you stay out here ? The night is 
 chilly; and they say the atmosphere of this Red River 
 country is full of miasma, with fevers and ague to shake 
 the comb out of one's hair ! Come with me inside ! There's 
 pleasant people in the saloon, and we're going to have 
 a round game at cards — vingt-un, or something of the sort. 
 Come ! " 
 
 Helen turns round trembling at the toueh, as if she felt 
 herself a criminal, and it was the sheriff's hand laid upon 
 her shoulder ! 
 
 Jessie notices the strange, strong emotion. She could 
 not fail to do so. Attributing it to its remotest cause, long 
 since coufided to her, she says : — 
 
 " Be a woman, Helen ! Be true to yourself, as I know 
 you will; and don't think of him any more. There's a new 
 world, a new life, opening to both of us. Forget the sor- 
 rows of the old, as I shall. Pluck Charles Clancy from your 
 heart, and fling every memory, every thought of him, to the 
 winds! I say again, be a woman — be yourself! Bury the 
 past, and think only of the future — of our father!" 
 
 The last words act like a galvanic shock, at the same time 
 soothing as balm. For in the heart of Helen Armstrong 
 they touch a tender chord — that of filial affection. 
 
 And it vibrates true to the touch. Flinging her arms 
 around Jessie's neck, she cries : — 
 
 " Sister ; you have saved me ! " 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 SEIZED BY Si'feCTRAL ARMS. 
 
 jjISTER, you have saved me ! " 
 
 On giving utterance to the ill-understood 
 speech, Helen Armstrong imprints a kiss upon 
 her sister's cheek, at the same time bedewing 
 it with her tears. For she is now weeping — convulsively 
 sobbing. 
 
 Returning the kiss, Jessie looks not a little perplexed. 
 She can neither comprehend the meaning of the words, nor 
 the strange tone of their utterance. Equally is she at a 
 loss to account for the trembling throughout her sister's 
 frame, continued while their bosoms stay in contact. 
 
 Helen gives her no time to ask questions. 
 
 li Go in I" she says, spinning the other round, and pushing 
 her towards the door of the state-room. Then, attuning her 
 voice to cheerfulness, she adds : — 
 
 " In, and set the game of vingt-un going. I'll join you 
 by the time you've got the cards shuffled." 
 
 Jessie, glad to see her sister in spirits unusually gleeful, 
 makes no protest, but glides towards the cabin door. 
 
 Soon as her back is turned, Helen once more faces round 
 to the river, again taking stand by the guard-rail. The 
 whet! still goes round, its paddles beating the water into 
 bubbles, and casting the crimson-white spray afar over the 
 surface of the stream. 
 
 But now, she has no thought of flinging herself into the 
 southing swirl, though she means to do so with something 
 else. 
 
 " Before the game of vingt-un begins," she says in soli- 
 loquy, " I've got a pack of cards to be dealt out here — among 
 them a knave." 
 
 While speaking, she draws forth a bundle of letters — evi- 
 dently old ones — tied in a bit of blue ribbon. One after 
 another, she drags them free of the fastening — just as if deal- 
 ing out cards. Each, as it conies clear, is rent right across 
 the middle, and tossed disdainfully into the stream. 
 
 At the bottom of the packet, after the letters have been all 
 
)-2 THE DEATH SnOT. 
 
 disposed of, is something seeming different. A piece of card- 
 board — a portrait — in short, a carte de visile. It is the like- 
 ness of Charles Clancy, given her on one of those days when 
 he flung himself affectionately at her feet. 
 
 She does not tear it in twain, as she has the letters ; though 
 at first this is nearest her intent. Some thought restraining 
 her, she holds it up in the moon's light, her eyes for a time rest- 
 ing on, and closely scanning it. Painful memories, winters 
 of them, pass through her soul, shown upon her countenance, 
 while she makes scrutiny of the features so indelibly graven 
 upon her heart. She is looking her last upon them — not with 
 a wish to remember, but the hope to forget — of being able to 
 erase that image of him long loved, wildly worshipped, from 
 the tablets of her memory, at once and for ever. 
 
 Who can tell what passed through her mind at that im- 
 pending moment ? Who could describe her heart's desolation ? 
 Certainly, no writer of romance. 
 
 Whatever resolve she has arrived at, for a while she appears 
 to hesitate about executing it. 
 
 Then, like an echo heard amidst the rippling waves, return 
 to her ear the words late spoken by her sister — 
 
 " Let us think only of the future — of our father." 
 
 The thought decides her; and, stepping out to the ex- 
 tremest limit the guard-rail allows, she flings the photograph 
 upon the paddles of the revolving wheel, as she does so, 
 saying— 
 
 " Away, image of one once loved — picture of a man who 
 has proved false ! Be crushed, and broken, as he has broken 
 my heart ! " 
 
 The sigh that escapes her, on letting drop the bit of card- 
 board, more resembles a subdued scream — a stifled cry of 
 anguish, such as could only come from what she has just 
 spoken of — a broken heart. 
 
 As she turns to re-enter the cabin, she appears ill-prepared 
 for taking part, or pleasure, in a game of cards. 
 
 And she takes not either. That round of vingt-un is never 
 to be played — at least not with her as one of the players. 
 
 Still half distraught with the agony through which her 
 soul has passed — the traces of which she fancies must be 
 observable on her face — before making appearance in the bril- 
 liantly-lighted saloon, she passes around the corner of the 
 ladies' cabin, intending to enter her own state-room by the 
 outside door. 
 
 It is but to spend a moment before her mirror, there to 
 
SEIZED BY SPECTRAL ARMS. 83 
 
 arrange her dress, the plaiting of her hair — perhaps the 
 expression of her face — all things that to men may appear 
 trivial, but to women important — even in the hour of sadness 
 and despair. No blame to them for "this. It is but an 
 instinct — the primary care of their lives — the secret spring of 
 their power. 
 
 In repairing to her toilette, Helen Armstrong is but follow- 
 ing the example of her sex. 
 
 She does not follow it far — not even so far as to get to her 
 looking-glass, or even inside her state-room. Before entering 
 it, she makes stop by the door, and tarries with face turned 
 towards the river's bank. 
 
 The boat, tacking across stream, has sheered close in 
 shore ; so close that the tall forest trees shadow her track — 
 the tips of their branches almost touching the hurricane-deck. 
 They are cypresses, festooned with grey-beard moss, that 
 hangs down like the drapery of a death-bed. She sees one 
 blighted, stretching forth bare limbs, blanched white by the 
 weather, desiccated and jointed like the arms of a skeleton. 
 
 'Tis a ghostly sight, and causes her weird thoughts, as under 
 the clear moonbeams the steamer sweeps past the place. 
 
 It is a relief to her, when the boat, gliding on, gets back 
 into darkness. 
 
 Only momentary ; for there under the shadow of the 
 cypresses, lit np by the flash of the fire-flies, she sees, or 
 fancies it, a face ! It is that of a man — him latest in her 
 thoughts — Charles Clancy ! 
 
 It is among the trees high up, on a level with the hurri- 
 cane-deck. 
 
 Of course it can be but a fancy ? Clancy could not be there, 
 either in the trees, or on the earth. She knows it is but a 
 deception of her senses — an illusive vision — such as occur to 
 clairvoyantes, at times deceiving themselves. 
 
 Illusion or not, Helen Armstrong has no time to reflect 
 upon it. Ere the face of her false lover fades from view, a pair 
 of arms, black, sinewy, and stiff, seem reachiug towards her ! 
 
 More than seem; it is a reality. Before she can stir 
 from the spot, or make effort to avoid them, she feels herself 
 roughly grasped around the waist, and lifted aloft iuto tho 
 air! 
 
, : -—^- Li — ; i. 
 
 cnArTER xxn. 
 
 0P AND DOWN. 
 
 fHATEYER has lifted Helen Armstrong aloft, for n 
 time holds her suspended. Only for a few seconds, 
 during which she sees the hoat pass on beneath, 
 and her Bister rush out to the stern rail, sending 
 forth a scream responsive to her own. 
 
 Before she can repeat the piercing cry, tho thing grasping 
 her relaxes its hold, letting her go altogether, and she feels 
 herself falling, as from a great height. Tho sensation of 
 giddiness is succeeded by a shock, which almost deprives bi e 
 of consciousness. It is but the fall, broken by a plunge into 
 water. Then there is a drumming in her ears, a choking in 
 the throat ; in short, the sensation that precedes drowning. 
 
 Notwithstanding her late suicidal thoughts, the instinctive 
 aversion to death is stronger than her weariness of life, ami 
 instinctively does she strive to avert it. 
 
 No longer crying out ; she cannot ; her throat is filled with 
 the water of the turbid stream. It stifles, as if a noose were 
 being drawn around her neck, tighter and tighter. She can 
 neither speak nor shout, only plunge and struggle. 
 
 Fortunately, while falling, the skirt of her dress, spreading 
 as a parachute, lessened the velocity of the descent. This 
 still extended, hinders her from sinking. As she knows not 
 how to swim, it will not sustain her long ; itself becoming 
 Weighted with the water. 
 
 Her wild shriek, with that of her sister responding — the 
 latter still continued in terrified repetition — has summoned 
 the passengers from the saloon, a crowd collecting on the 
 stern-guards. 
 
 " Some one overboard ! " is the cry sent all over the vessel. 
 
 It roaches the ear of tho pilot; who instantly rings the 
 stop-bell, causing the paddles to suspend revolution, and 
 bringing the boat to an almost instantaneous stop. The 
 strong current, against which they are contending, makes the 
 movement easy of execution. 
 
 The shout of, " some one overboard ! " is quickly followed 
 by another of more particular significance. " It's a lady ! " 
 
UP AND DOWN. 
 
 85 
 
 This announcement intensifies the feeling of regret and 
 alarm. Nowhere in the world more likely to do so, than 
 among the chivalric spirits sure to be passengers on a Missis- 
 sippian steamboat. Half a dozen voices are heard simul- 
 taneously asking, not " who is the lady ? " but " where ? " 
 while severrj are seen pulling off their coats, as if preparing 
 to take to the water. 
 
 Foremost among them is the young Creole, Dupre. He 
 knows who the lady is. Another lady has met him frantically, 
 exclaiming — 
 
 " "Tis Helen ! She has fallen, or leaped overboard." 
 
 The ambiguity of expression appears strange ; indeed in- 
 comprehensible, to Dupre, as to others who overhear it. 
 They attributed it to incoherence, arising from, the shock of 
 the unexpected catastrophe. 
 
 This is its cause, only partially : there is something be- 
 sides. 
 
 Confused, half-frenzied, Jessie continues to cry out : 
 
 "My sister! Save her! save her!" 
 
 " We'll try; show us where she is," respond several. 
 
 " Yonder — there — under that tree. She was in its branches 
 above, then dropped down upon the water. I heard the 
 plunge, but did not see her after. She has gone to the bot- 
 tom. Merciful heavens ! O Helen ! where are you? " 
 
 The people are puzzled by these incoherent speeches — both 
 the passengers above, and the boatmen on the under-deck. 
 They stand as if spell-bound. 
 
 Fortunately, one of the former has retained presence of 
 mind, and along with it coolness. It is the young planter, 
 Dupre. He stays not for the end of her speech, but spring- 
 ing over the guards, swims towards the spot pointed out. 
 
 "Brave fellow!" is the thought of Jessie Armstrong, 
 admiration for her lover almost making her forget her sister's 
 peril. 
 
 She stands, as every one else upon the steamer, watching 
 with earnest eyes. Hers are more ; they are flashing with 
 feverish excitement, with glances of anxiety — at times the fixed 
 gaze of fear. 
 
 No wonder at its being so. The moon has sunk to 
 the level of the tree-tops, and the bosom of the river 
 is in dark shadow ; darker by the bank where the boat is now 
 drifting. But little chance to distinguish an object in .tho 
 water — less for one swimming upon its surface. And tho 
 river is deep, its current rapid, the " reach " they are in, full 
 
8G TITE DEATn SHOT. 
 
 of dangerous eddies. In addition, it is a spot infested, as all 
 know — the favourite haunt of that hideous reptile the alli- 
 gator, with tin- equally-dreaded gar-fish -the shark of the 
 South-western rivers. All these things are in Jessie A rm- 
 st roup's thoughts. 
 
 Amidst these clangers are the two dearest to her on earth ; 
 her sist r, her lover. Not strange that her apprehension is 
 almo I an agony ! 
 
 Meanwhile the steamer's boat has been manned, and set 
 loose as quickly as could be done. It is rowed towards the 
 spot, where the swimmerwas last seen; and all eyes are strained 
 upon it — all ears listening to catch any word of cheer. 
 
 Nil Long have they to listen. From the shadowed surface 
 conies the shout, " Saved! " 
 
 Then, a rough boatman's voice, saying: 
 
 '' All right ! We've got 'em both. Throw us a rope." 
 
 It is thrown by ready hands, after which is heard the com- 
 mand, " Haul in !" 
 
 A light, held high upon the steamer, flashes its beams 
 down into the boat. Lying along its thwarts can be per- 
 ceived a female form, in a dress once white, now discoloured 
 and dripping. Her head is held up by a man, whose scant 
 garments show similarly stained. 
 
 It is Helen Armstrong, supported by Dupre. 
 
 She appears lifeless, and the first sight of her draws anxi- 
 ous exclamations from those standing on the steamer. Her 
 sister gives out an agonized cry ; while her father trembles 
 on taking her into his arms, and totters as he carries her 
 to her state-room — believing he bears but a corpse ! 
 
 but no! She breathes ; her pulse beats; her lips move in 
 low murmur ; her bosom's swell shows sign of returning 
 animation. 
 
 By good fortune there chances to be a medical man 
 among the passengers ; who, after administering restoratives, 
 pronounces her out of danger. 
 
 The announcement causes universal joy on board the boat 
 — crew aid passengers alike sharing it. 
 
 "With one alone remains a thought to sadden. It is Jessio: 
 her heart is sore with the suspicion, that her sister has 
 attempted suicide ! 
 
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 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE SLEEP OF TUE ASSASSIN. 
 
 j|N the night after killing Clancy, Richard Darke does 
 not sleep soundly — indeed scarce at all. 
 
 His wakefulness is not due to remorse; there is 
 no such sentiment ia his soul. It comes from two 
 otlier causes, in themselves totally, diametrically distinct ; 
 for the one is fear, the other love. 
 
 "While dwelling on the crime he has committed, he only 
 dreads its consequences to himself; but, reflecting on what 
 led him to commit it, his dread eives place to dire jealousy ; 
 nstead of repentance, spite holds possession of his heart, 
 tie less bitter. tli;.t the man and woman who made him 
 jv ;.!ons can never meet more. For, at that hour, he knows 
 Charles Clancy to be lying dead in the dank swamp; while, 
 ere dawn of the following day, Helen Armstrong will be 
 starting upon a journey which must take her away from the 
 place, far, and for ever. 
 
 The only consolation he draws from her departure is, that 
 she, too, will be reflecting spitefully and bitterly as himself. 
 Because of Clancy not having kept his appointment with her ; 
 deeming the failure due to the falsehood by himself fabri- 
 cated — the story of the Creole girl. 
 
 Withal, it affords him but scant solace. She will be alike 
 
 Irom him, and he may never behold her again. Her 
 
 j will never belong to his rival ; but neither can it be 
 
 en though chance might take him to Texas, or by 
 
 i he should proceed thither. To what end should he ? 
 
 re now can he build castles in the air, basing them on 
 
 the power of creditor over debtor. That bubble has burst, 
 
 leaving him only the reflection, how illusory it has been. 
 
 Although, for his n Parious purpose, it has proved weak as a 
 
 spider's web, it is not likely Colonel Armstrong will ever 
 
 again submit himself to be so ensnared. Broken men become 
 
 cautious, and shun taki:.cr credit a second time. 
 
 1 yet Richard Darke docs not comprehend this. 
 Blinded by passion, he cannot see any impossibility, and 
 
 7 
 
88 Tnn death siiot. 
 
 already thoughts of futuro proceedings begin to flit vaguely 
 through his mind. They an; too distant to I"' dwell 
 now. For this night ho has enough to occupy heai 
 brain — keeping both on the rack and stretch, so tense! . 
 render prolonged sleep impossible. Only for a few sccon 
 a time docs he know the sweet onconscioui Lumber; 
 
 then, suddenly starting awake, to be again the prey of ga 
 r. flections. 
 
 Turn to which side he will, rest his head on the pill 
 he may, two sounds seem ever ringing in his ear — one, a 
 woman's vi ice, that speaks the denying word, "Never!" — 
 the other, a dog's bark, which seems persistently to say, " I 
 demand vengeance for my murdered master!" 
 
 If, in the first night after his nefarious deed, fears and 
 jealous fancies chase one another through (he ass: ssin's soul, 
 on the second it is different. Jealousy has no longer a 
 share in his thoughts, fear having full possession of them. 
 And no trifling tear of some far-off danger, depending on 
 chances and contingencies, but one real and near, seeming 
 almost certain. The day's doings have gone all against him. 
 The behaviour of Clancy's hound has not only directed sus- 
 picion towards him, but given evidence, almost conclusive, of 
 his guilt; as though the barking of the dumb brute were 
 words of truthful testimony, spoken in a witness-box! 
 
 The affair cannot, will not, be allowed to rest thus. The 
 suspicions of the searchers will take a more definite shape, 
 ending in accusation, if not in the actual deed of his arrest. 
 He feels convinced of this. 
 
 Therefore, on this second night, it is no common appre- 
 hension which keeps him awake, but one of the intensest 
 kind, akin to stark terror. For, added to tho fear of his fellow- 
 man, there is something besides — a fear of God; or, rather 
 of the Devil. His soul is now disturbed by a dread of the 
 supernatural, lie saw Charles Clancy stretched dead, under 
 the cypress — was sure of it, before parting from the spot. 
 Returning to it, what beheld he? 
 
 To him, more than any other, is tho missing body a 
 mystery. It has been perplexing, troubling him, throughout 
 all the afternoon, even when his blood was up, and nerves 
 strung with excitement. Now, at night, in the dark, silent. 
 hours, as he dwells ponderingly upon it, it more than per- 
 plexes, more than troubles — it awes, horrifies him. 
 
 In vain he tries to compose himself, by shaping conjectures 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE ASSASSIN. 89 
 
 based on natural causes. Even these could not much benefit 
 hira ; for, whether Clancy be dead or still living — whether he 
 has walked away from the ground, or been carried from it a 
 corpse — to him, Darke, the danger will be almost equal. 
 
 Not quite. Better, of course, if Clancy be dead, for then 
 there will be but circumstantial evidence against, and, surely, 
 not sufficient to convict him? 
 
 Little suspects he, that in the same hour, while he is thus 
 distractedly cogitating, men are weighing evidence he knows 
 not of; or that, in another hour, they will be on the march 
 to make him their prisoner. 
 
 For all his ignorance of it, he has a presentiment of 
 danger, sprung from the consciousness of his crime. This, 
 and no sentiment of remorse, or repentance, wrings from him 
 the self-interrogation, several times repeated : — 
 
 " Why the devil did I do it ? " 
 
 He regrets the deed, not because giieving at its guilt, but 
 the position it has placed him in — one of dread danger, with 
 no advantage derived, nothing to compensate him for the 
 crime. No wonder at his asking, in the name of the Devil, 
 why he has done it ! 
 
 He is being punished for it now ; if not through remorse of 
 conscience, by coward craven fear. He feels what other 
 criminals have felt before — what, be it hoped, they will ever 
 feel — how hard it is to sleep the sleep of the assassin, or lio 
 awake on a murderer's bed. 
 
 On the last Richard Darke lies ; since this night he sleeps 
 not at all. From the hour of retiring to his chamber, till 
 morning's dawn comes creeping through the window, he has 
 never closed eye ; or, if so, not in the sweet oblivion of 
 slumber. 
 
 He is still turning upon his couch, chafing in fretful appre- 
 hension, when daylight breaks into his bedroom, and shows 
 its shine upon the floor. It is the soft blue light of a 
 southern morn, which usually enters accompanied by bird 
 music — the songs of the wild forest warblers mingling with 
 domestic voices not so melodious. Among these the harsh 
 " screek " of the guinea-fowl; the more sonorous call of the 
 turkey "gobbler;" the scream of the goose, always as in 
 agony ; the merrier cackle of the laying hen, with the still 
 more cheerful note of her lord — Chanticleer. 
 
 All these sounds hears Dick Darke, the agreeable as the 
 disagreeable. Both arc alike to him on this morning, tho 
 second alter the murder. 
 
90 
 
 Tin: death shot. 
 
 Par mo e unpleasant than the Inst are some r> 1 1 , . 
 which salute his ear, as he lies listening. Noises which, 
 breaking ant abruptly, at 01 ce put an end to the singing of 
 the forest birds, and the calling of the farm-yard fowls. 
 
 They are of two kinds; one, the clattering of horses' hoofs, 
 the other, the clack and clangour of men's voices. Evident ly 
 thcre are several, speaking at the same time, and all in like 
 tone — this of anger, of vengeance ! 
 
 At first they seem at some distance off, but evidently draw- 
 ing nigh. 
 
 Soon they are close up to the dwelling', their voices loudly 
 reverberating from its walls. 
 
 The assassin cannot any longer keep to his couch. Too 
 well knows he what the noise is, hi< gniltyhearl guessing it. 
 
 Springing to his feet, ho glides across the room, and 
 approaches the window — cautiously, because in fear. 
 
 His limbs tremble, as he draws the curtain and looks out. 
 Then almost refusing to support him: for, in the courtyard 
 he sees a half score of armed horsemen, and bears them 
 angrily discoursing. One at their head he knows to he Hie 
 Sheriff of the county; beside him his Deputy, am! behind :' 
 brace of constables. In rear of these, two men he bas I 
 to believe will be his most resolute accusers. 
 
 He has no time to discriminate ; for, soon as entering the 
 enclosure, the horsemen dismount, and make towards the 
 door of the dwelling. 
 
 In less than sixty seconds after, they knock against that of 
 his sleeping chamber, demanding admission. 
 
 No use denying them, as its occupant is well aware ; not 
 even to ask — 
 
 " Who's there ? " 
 
 Instead, he says, in accent tremulous — 
 
 " Come in." 
 
 Instantly after, he sees the door thrown open, and a form 
 filling up its outlines — the stalwart figure of a Mississippi 
 sheriff; who, as he stands upon the threshold, says, in firm 
 voice, with tone of legal authority : 
 
 " Richard Darke, 1 arrest you! " 
 
 " For what ? " mechanically demands the culprit, shivering 
 in his shirt. 
 
 "For the murder of dories Clancy ! " 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE COON-HTOTER CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN. 
 
 JIN' the night preceding Richard Darke's arrest, another 
 man, not many rods distant, lies awake, or, at least, 
 loses more than half his customary measure of 
 sleep. 
 
 This is the coon-hunter. In his case the disturbing cause 
 is conscience ; though his crime is comparatively a light one, 
 and should scarce rob him of his rest. It would not, were ho 
 a hardened sinner ; but Blue Bill is the very reverse ; and 
 though, at times, cruel to " eoony," he is, in the main, 
 merciful, his breast overflowing with the milk of humau 
 kindness. 
 
 On the night succeeding his spoilt coon-chase, he has slept 
 sound enough, his mind being unburdened by the confession 
 to Phoebe. Besides, he had then no certain knowledge that 
 a murder had been committed, or of any one being even 
 killed. He only knew there were shots, and angry words, 
 resembling a fight between two men ; one his young 
 master; the other, as he supposed, Charles Clancy. True, 
 the former, rushing past in such headlong pace, seemed to 
 prove that the affair had a tragical termination. 
 
 But of this, he, Blue Bill, could only have conjecture ; and, 
 hoping the denouement might not be so bad as at first deemed, 
 neither was he so alarmed as to let it interfere with his night's 
 slumbers. 
 
 In the morning, when, as usual, hoe in hand, he goes 
 abroad to his day's work, no one would suspect him of 
 being the depository of a secret so momentous. He was 
 always noted as the gayest of the working gang — his laugh, 
 the loudest, longest, and merriest, carried across the planta- 
 tion fields ; and on this particular day, it rings with its 
 wonted cheerfulness. 
 
 Only during the earlier hours. When, at mid-day, a report 
 reaches the place where the slaves are at work, that a man 
 has been murdered — this, Charles Clancy — the coon-hunter, 
 in common with the rest of the gang, throws down his hoe ; 
 
92 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 all uniting in a cry of Sympathetic sorrow. For all of them 
 know young "Massr Clancy ;" respecting, many of them 
 loving him. He has been accustomed to meet them with 
 i! looks, and accost them in kindly words. 
 
 The tidings produce a painful impression upon them ; and 
 from that moment, though their task has to be continued, 
 there is no more cheerfulness in the cotton Geld. Even 
 their conversation is hushed, or carried on in a subdued 
 tone; the hoes being alone heard, as their steel blades clink 
 against an occasional "donick." 
 
 But while his fellow-labourers arc silent through sorrow, 
 Blue Bill is speechless from another and different cause. 
 They only hear that young Massr Clancy lias been killed — 
 murdered, as the report says — while he knows how, when, 
 where, and by whom. The knowledge gives him double 
 uneasiness; for while sorrowing as much, perhaps more than 
 any, for Charles Clancy's death, he has fears for his own lifo, 
 with good reasons for having tliem. 
 
 If by any sinister cbance Massr Dick should get acquainted 
 with the fact of his having been witness to that rapid retreat 
 among the trees, he, Blue Bill, would be speedily put where 
 his tongue could never give testimony. 
 
 In full consciousness of his danger, he determines not to 
 commit himself by any voluntary avowal of what he has seen 
 and heard ; but to bury the secret in his own breast, as also 
 insist on its being so interred within the bosom of his better 
 half. 
 
 This day, Phoebe is not in the field along with the working 
 gang ; which causes him some anxiety. The coon-hunter can 
 trust his wife's aifections, but is not so confident as to her 
 prudence. She may say something in the " quarter " to com- 
 promise him. A word — the slightest hint of what has hap- 
 pened — may lead to his being questioned, and confessed ; 
 ■with torture, if the truth be suspected. 
 
 No wonder that during the rest of the day Blue Bill wears 
 an air of abstraction, and hoes the tobacco plants with a care- 
 less hand, often chopping olf the leaves. Fortunately for 
 him, his fellow-workers are not in a mood to observe these 
 Vagaries, or make inquiry as to the cause. 
 
 He is rejoiced, when the boom of the evening bell summons 
 them back to the "big house." 
 
 Once more in the midst of bis pioaninnies, with Phoebe by 
 his side, be imparts to her a renewed caution, to " keep dark 
 on dat ere secrous subjeck." 
 
TUE COON-HUNTER CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN. 
 
 oa 
 
 At snpper, the two talk over the events of the day — 
 Phoebe beiug the narrator. She tells him of all that has hap- 
 pened — of the search, and such incidents connected with it 
 as have reached the plantation of the Darkes ; how both the 
 old and young master took part in it, since having returned 
 home. She adds, of her own observation, that Massr Dick 
 looked " berry scared-like, an white in de cheeks as a olo 
 she-possum." 
 
 " Dats jess de way he oughter look," is the husband's 
 response. 
 
 After which they Gnish their frugal meal, and once more 
 retire to rest. 
 
 But on this second night, the terrible secret shared by 
 them, keeps both from sleeping. Neither gets so much 
 as a wink. 
 
 As morning dawns, they are startled by strange noises in 
 the negro quarter. These are not the usual sounds consequent 
 on the uprising of their fellow-slaves— a chorus of voices, in 
 jest and jocund laughter. On the contrary, it is a din of seri- 
 ous tone, with cries that tell of calamity. 
 
 When the coon-hunter draws back his door, and looks 
 forth, he sees there i3 commotion outside ; and is soon told 
 its cause. One of his fellow-bondsmen, coming forward, 
 says : — 
 
 "" Massr Dick am arrested by de sheriff. Dey've tuk 'iii 
 for de murder ob Massr Charl Clancy." 
 
 The coon-hunter rushes out, and up to the big house. 
 
 He reaches it in time to see Richard Darke set upon a 
 horse, and conducted away from the place, with a man on 
 each side, guarding him. All know that he goes a prisoner. 
 
 With a sense of relief, Blue Bill hastens back to his own 
 domicile, where he communicates what has happened to tho 
 wife anxiously waiting. 
 
 " Phoebe, gal," he adds, in a congratulatory whisper, " dar 
 ain't no longer so much reezun for us to hab fear. I sco 
 Sime Woodley mong de men ; and dis nigger know dat 
 he'll gub me his purtecshun, whatsomever I do. So l'so 
 jess made up my mind to make a clean bress ob de hul ting, 
 and tell what J beern an see, besides deliverin' up boaf dat 
 letter an picter. What's yar view ob de matter? Peak 
 plain, and doan be noways mealy-moufed 'bout it." 
 
 " My views is den, for de tellin' ob do troof. Ole Eph 
 Darke may Hop: " s till dar ain't a bit o' skin left upon our 
 bare backs. I'll take my share ob de 'sponsibility, an a full 
 
94 
 
 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 half ob de floggin'. Yes, Bill, Fse willin' to do dat. J; 
 de troof be tole — do whole troof, an nuffin but do troof." 
 
 "Den it shall be did. Phoobc, you's a darlin'. Kiss mo, 
 ole gal. If need bo, -we'll boaf die togedder." 
 
 And their two black faces come in contact, as also their 
 bosoms; both beating with a humanity that might shame 
 whiter skins. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 AN UNCEREMONIOUS SEARCH. 
 
 j|RRESTED, Richard Darke is taken to jail. This 
 not in Natchez, but a place of less note ; the Court- 
 House town of the county, within the limits of 
 whicb lie the Darke and Armstrong plantations. 
 He is there consigned to the custody of Joe Harkness, jailer. 
 
 But few, who assisted at the arrest, accompany him to 
 the place of imprisonment ; only the Deputy, and the brace of 
 constables. 
 
 The sheriff himself, with the others, does not leave 
 Ephraim Darke's premises, till after having given them a 
 thorough examination, in quest of evidence against the 
 accused. 
 
 This duty done, without regard to the sensibilities of the 
 owner, who follows them from room to room, now childishly 
 crying — now frantically cursing. 
 
 Alike disregarded are his tears and oaths. 
 
 The searchers have no sympathy for him in his hour of 
 affliction. Some even secretly rejoice at it. 
 
 Ephraim Darke is not a Southerner, pur sang ; and, though 
 without the slightest taint of abolitionism — indeed the very 
 opposite — he has always been unpopular in the neighbour- 
 hood; alike detested by planter and " poor white." Many of 
 both have been his debtors, and felt his iron hand over them, 
 just as Archibald Armstrong. 
 
 Besides, some of these now around his house were pre- 
 sent two days before upon Armstrong's plantation ; saw his 
 establishment broken up, his goods and chattels confiscated, 
 his home made desolate. 
 
AN CN'CEntMOXIOUS SEARCH. 95 
 
 Knowing by whom all this was done, with ill-coneea!ed 
 satisfaction, they now behold the arcana of Ephraim Darke's 
 dwelling exposed to public gaze ; himself humiliated, far 
 more than the man he made homeless. 
 
 "With no more ceremony than was shown in making the 
 arrest, do the sheriff and party explore the paternal mansion 
 of him arrested, rudely ransacking it from cellar to garret ; 
 the outbuildings as well, even to the grounds and garden. 
 
 Their search is but poorly rewarded. All they get, likely 
 to throw light on the matter of inquiry, is Richard Darke's 
 double-barrelled gun, with the clothes he wore on the day 
 fatal to Clancy. On these there is no blood ; but while they 
 are looking for it, something comes under their eyes, almost 
 equally significant of strife. 
 
 Through the coat-skirt is a hole, ragged, and recently 
 made. Several pronounce it a bullet-hole ; further declaring 
 the ball to have been discharged from a rifle. 
 
 For certain, a singular discovery ! 
 
 But like all the others that have been made, only serving 
 
 to perplex them. It is rather in favour of the accused; 
 
 g colour to the idea, that between him and Clancy there 
 
 has been a fight, with shots fired from both sides. The 
 
 question is, " has it been a fair one r : ' 
 
 To negative this, a bit of adjunct evidence is adduced, 
 which goes against the accused. The coat, with the per- 
 forated skirt, is not the one worn by him on the day before, 
 when out assisting in the search ; while it is that he had on, 
 the day preceding, when Clancy came not home. Ephraim 
 Darke's domestics, on being sternly interrogated, and aside, 
 disclose this fact; unaware how greatly their master may 
 desire them to keep it concealed. 
 
 Still, it is not much. A man might have many reasons for 
 changing his coat, especially for the dress of two different 
 days. It would be nothing, but for the conjoint circumstance 
 of the shot through the skirt. This makes it significant. 
 
 Another item of intelligence, of still more suspicious 
 nature, is got out of the domestics, whose stern questioners 
 give them no chance to prevaricate. Indeed, terrified, they 
 do not try. 
 
 Their young "Massr Dick" had on a different pair of 
 1 the day lie went out hunting, from those worn by him, 
 
 when. ■ went searching. 
 
 The latter are in the hands of the sheriff, but the former 
 are missing — cannot be found anywhere, in or about the house ! 
 
JHj the death siiot. 
 
 All search for them proves idle. And not strange it should ; 
 since one is in the side-pocket of Sime Woodley's surtout, 
 the other having a like lodgment in that of Ned Heywood. 
 The two hunters, "prospecting" apart, found the bo 
 thickly coated with mud, concealed under a brash pile, at the 
 bottom of the peach orchard. Even the Bheriff does not know 
 what bulges out the coat-skirts of the two backwoodsmen. 
 
 Nor is he told there or then. Sime has an object in keeping 
 th il secret to himself and his companion ; he will only reveal 
 it, when the time comes to make it more available. 
 
 The affair of the arrest and subsequent action over, the 
 sheriff and his party retire from the plantation of Ephraim 
 Darke, leaving its owner in a state of frenzied bewilder- 
 ment. 
 
 j hey go direct to Mrs. Clancy's cottage ; not to stay there, 
 but as a starting point, to resume the search for the body of 
 her son, adjourned since yestereve. 
 
 They do not tell her of Dick Darke's arrest. She is inside 
 her chamber — on her couch — so prostrated by the calamity 
 already known to her, they fear referring to it. 
 
 The doctor in attendance tells them, that any further reve- 
 lation concerning the sad event may prove fatal to her. 
 
 Again her neighbours, now in greater number, go off to 
 the woods, some afoot, others on horseback. A3 on the day 
 preceding, they divide into different parties, and scatter in 
 diverse directions. Though not till after all have revisited 
 the ensanguined spot under the cypress, and renewed their 
 scrutiny of the stains. Darker than on the day before, they 
 now look more like ink than blood ! 
 
 The cypress knee, out of which Woodley and Heywood 
 " g ou o e( l " ^o smooth-bore bullet, is also examined, its posi- 
 tion noted. Attempts are made to draw inferences there- 
 from, though with but indifferent success. True, it tells a 
 tale ; and, judging by the blood around the bullet-hole, 
 which all of them have seen, a tragic one, though it cannot 
 of itself give the interpretation. 
 
 A few linger around the place, now tracked and trodden 
 hard by their going and coming feet. The larger number 
 proceeds upon the search, in scattered parties of six or eight 
 each, carrying it for as many miles around. 
 
 They pole and drag the creek near by, as others at a greater 
 distance; penetrate the swamp as far as possible, or likely 
 that a dead body might be carried for concealment. In its 
 dim recesses they discover no body, living or dead, no traeo 
 
TELL-TALE THACKS. 07 
 
 of human being, nought save the solitude-loving heron, the 
 snake-bird, and scaly alligator. 
 
 On this second day's quest they observe nothing new, 
 either to throw additional light on tho commission, of the 
 crime, or assist them in recovering the corpse. 
 
 It is but an unsatisfactory report to take back to the 
 mother of the missing man. Perhaps better for her she 
 should never receive it? 
 
 And she never does. Before it can reach her car, this is 
 beyond hearing sound. The thunder of heaven could not 
 awake Mrs. Clancy from the sleep into which she has fallen. 
 For it is no momentary unconsciousness, but the cold insen- 
 sible slumber of Death. 
 
 The long-endured agony of ill fortune, the more racent 
 one of widowhood, and, now, this new bereavement of a lost, 
 only son — these accumulated trials have proved too much for 
 her woman's strength, of late fast failing. 
 
 When, at evening hour, the searchers, on their return, 
 approach the desolated dwelling, they hear sounds within 
 that speak of some terrible disaster. 
 
 On the night before their ears were saluted by the same,- 
 though in tones somewhat different. Then tho widow's 
 voice was lifted in lamentation ; now it is not heard at all. 
 
 Whatever of mystery there may be is soon removed. A 
 woman, stepping out upon the porch, and, raising her hand 
 in token of attention, says, in sad solemn voice, — 
 "Mrs. Clancy is dead!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 TELL-TALE TRACKS. 
 
 US. CLANCY is dead ! " 
 
 The simple, but solemn speech, makes an im- 
 pression on the assembled backwoodsmen difficult 
 to be described. All deem it a double-murder ; 
 her death caused by that of her son. The same blow has 
 killed both. 
 
 It makes them all the more eager to discover tho author of 
 this crime, by its consequenco twofold ; and now, more than 
 ever, do their thoughts turn towards Dick Darke, and become 
 fixed upon him. 
 
98 
 
 TUE DEATH SIIOT. 
 
 As the announcement of Mrs. Clancy's death makes com- 
 pli te the i \ , ills of the day. one might suppose, that after this 
 climax, her neighbours, Batisfied nothing more could bo done, 
 would rot urn to their own homes. 
 
 This is not the custom in the backwoods of America, or 
 with any people whose hearts beat true to the better instincts 
 of humanity. It is only in Old-world countries, r 
 tyrannical rule, where these have been crushed out, thai 
 such selfishness can prevail. 
 
 Nothing of this around Natchez — not a spark of it in the 
 breasts of those collected about that cottage, in which lies the 
 corpse of a woman. 
 
 The widow will be waked by men ready to avenge her 
 wrongs. 
 
 If tr : ndlesE and forlorn while living, it is different now she 
 ! There is not a man among them but would give his 
 1 e, his gun, aye, a slice of his land, to restore her to life, 
 or tiring back that of her son. 
 
 her being now possible, they can only show their 
 sympathy by the punishment of him who has caused the 
 d nl ile desolation. 
 
 It still needs to know who. A.fter all, it may not | 
 man arrested and arraigned, though most think it is. But, 
 to be fully convinced, rorthi r evidence is wanted ; as also a 
 refill sifting of that already obtained. 
 
 As on the night before, a council is convened, the place 
 being the bit of green sward, that, lawn-like, xtends from 
 the cot ironl to the rail fence of the road. But now the 
 
 number taking part in it is different. Instead of a half score, 
 there is nearer a half hundred. The news of the second death 
 has been spreading meanwhile, and the added sympathy 
 causes the crowd to increase. 
 
 In its centre soon forms a ring, an open space, surrounded 
 
 by men, acknowledged as chief on such occasions. They 
 
 the points of the ease; state such incidents and 
 
 events as are known ; recall all circumstances that can be 
 
 remembered; and inquire into their connection wi h motives. 
 
 It is, in short, a, jury, standing, not sitting, on the trial of a 
 i niiial ease ; and, with still greater difference between them 
 t lie ordinary " twelve good men and true," in that, unlike 
 these, they are not mere dummies, with a strong inclination 
 pt the blandishments of the barrister, or give way to 
 the rulings of the judge, too often wrong. On tile contrary, 
 tain who, in themselves, combine the functions of all three — 
 
TELL-TALE TRACKS. 
 
 S)0 
 
 judge, jury, and counsel — with this triple power, inspired by 
 a corresponding determination to arrive at the truth. 
 
 In short it is the court of " Justice Lynch" in session. 
 Every circumstance which has a possible bearing on the 
 case, or can throw light into its dark ambiguity, is called up 
 and considered. The behaviour of the accused himself, 
 coupled with that of the hound, are the strongest points yet 
 appearing against him. Though not the only ones. The 
 bullet extracted from the cypress knee, has been tried in the 
 barrel of his gun, and found to fit exactly. About the other 
 ball, which made the hole through the skirt of his coat, no one 
 can say more than that it came out of a rifle. Every back- 
 woodsman among them can testify to this. 
 
 A minor point against the accused man is, his having 
 changed his clothes on the two succeeding days ; though one 
 stronger and more significant, is the fact that the boots, known 
 to have been worn by him on the former, are still missing 
 and cannot anywhere be found. 
 
 " Can't they, indeed ?" asks Sime Woodley, in response to 
 one, who has just expressed surprise at this. 
 
 The old hunter has been hitherto holding back ; not from 
 any want of will to assist the lynch jury in their investiga- 
 tion, but because, only lately arrived, he has scarce yet entered 
 into the spirit of their proceedings. 
 
 His grief, on getting the news of Mrs. Clancy's death, for a 
 time holds him in restraint. It is a fresh sorrow ; since, not 
 only had her son been long his friend, but in like manner 
 her husband and herself. 
 
 In loyal memory of this friendship, he has been making 
 every effort to bring the murderer to justice ; and one just 
 ended accounts for his late arrival at the cottage. As on the 
 day before, he and Heywood have remained behind the other 
 searchers ; staying in the woods till all these returned home. 
 Yesterday they were detained by an affair of bullets — to-day 
 it is loots. The same that are missing, and about which 
 questions have just been asked, the last by Sime Woodley 
 himself. 
 
 In answer to it he continues : — 
 
 " They not only kin be foun', but hev been. LTyar they 
 
 Saying this, tho hunter pulls a boot out of his pocket, 
 and holds it up before their eyes ; Heywood simultaneously 
 exposing another — its fellow ! 
 
 " That's the fut wear ye're in Barch o', I reck'n," pursues 
 
100 
 
 TI1E DEA1TI SnOT. 
 
 Wood'oy. " 'T all cevcnts it's a pair o' boots belongin' to 
 Dick Darke, an' war worn by him tho day afore yesterday. 
 What's mbrej they K ft thar marks clown on the swamp mud, 
 not a hundcrd mile from the spot whar poor Charley Clancy 
 hez got his death shot ; an' them tracks war made not a hun- 
 dred minnits from the time lie got it. Now boys! what d'ye 
 think o' the thing ?" 
 
 " Where did you get the boots ?" ask several, speaking at 
 the same time. 
 
 "No matter whar. Ye kin all .<ee we'vo got 'em. Time 
 ennf to tell o' the whar an' the wbarfor' when it kums to a 
 trial. Tho' lookin' in yar faces, fellurs, I shed say it's kim 
 to sometbin' o' that sort now." 
 
 " It has!" responds one of the jury, in a tone of emphatic 
 affirmation. 
 
 "In that case," pursues the hunter, "mo an' Ned Hoy- 
 wood arc ready to gio seen evidince as we've got. Both o' 
 us has spent good part o' this arternoon collectin' it ; an now 
 it's at the sarvice o' tho court o' Judgo Lynch, or any other." 
 
 " Well then, Woodley ! " says a planter of respectability, 
 who by tacit consent is representing the stern terrible judge 
 spoken of. " Suppose the Court to be in session. Tell us 
 all you know." 
 
 With alacrity Woodley responds to the appeal ; giving his 
 experience, along with it his suspicions and conjectures; not 
 simply as a witness, but more like a counsel in the case. It 
 needs not to say, he is against the accused, in his statement 
 of facts, as tho deductions ho draws from them. For the 
 hunter has long since decided within himself, as to who 
 killed Clancy. 
 
 Hey wood follows him in like manner, though with no new 
 matter. His testimony but corroborates that of his elder 
 confrere. 
 
 Taken together, or separately, it makes profound impres- 
 sion on the jurors of Judgo Lynch ; almost influencing thom 
 to pronounce an instant verdict, condemnatory of the accused. 
 
 If so, it will soon be followed by the senteuco ; this by 
 execution, short and quick, but sternly terrible ! 
 

 CHAPTER XXVII.; 
 
 ADDITIONAL EVIDENCE. 
 
 fHILE tlie Lynchers are still in deliberation, tlie 
 little clock on the mantel strikes twelve, midnight ; 
 of late, not oft a merry hour in the cottage of tlie 
 Clancys ; but this night more than ever sad. 
 
 Its striking seems the announcement of a crisis. For a 
 time it silences the voices of those conversing. 
 
 Scarce has the last stroke ceased to vibrate on the still mgbri 
 ah-, when, a voice is heard ; one that has not hitherto taken 
 part in the deliberations. It sounds as though coming up 
 from the road sate. 
 
 '• Mass Woodley in da? " are the words spoken interroga- 
 tively; the question addressed generally to the group gathered 
 in front of the house. 
 
 "Yes : he's here," simultaneously answer several. 
 
 " Kin I peak a wud wif you, Mass Woodley ? " again asks 
 the inquirer at the wicket. 
 
 " Sartinly," says the hunter, separating from the others, 
 and striding off towards the entrance. 
 
 " I reck'n I know that voice," ho adds, on drawing near 
 te. " It's Bine Bill, ain't it? " 
 
 " Hush, Mass Woodley ! For Goramity's sake doan 
 out ma name. Xot fo' all do worl let dem people hear it. 
 Eli day do, dis nigger am a dead man, shou." 
 
 "Darn it, Bill; what's the matter? Why d'ye talk so 
 mysteerous ? Is thar any thin' wrong ? Oh ! now I think 
 o't, you're out arter time. Never mind 'bout that ; I'll not 
 betray you. Say ; what bev ye kim for? " 
 
 " Foller me, Mass Woodley ; I tell yer all. I dascnt lay 
 hya, lees some ob dem folk see me. Les' go little way from 
 de house, into de wood groun' ober yonner ; den I tell you wba 
 fotch me out. Dis nigtyer hab someting say to you, someting 
 berry patickler. Yes, Mass Woodley, berry pat iekler. 'Tam 
 a matter ob life an def." 
 
 Sinie does not stay to hear more; but, lifting the latch, 
 
 Ifc 
 
102 
 
 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 quietly pushes open the gate, and passes out into the road. 
 Then following the negro, who flits like a shadow before him, 
 tho two are soon standing among some bushes that form a 
 strip of thicket ruanir.g along the roadside. 
 
 " Now, what air it 't " asks Woodiey of the coon-hunter, 
 •wit': v\ .''.11 1 lie is well acquainted— having often met him in his 
 midnight ramble:,. 
 
 " Mass Woodiey, you want know who kill Mass Charl 
 Clancy? " 
 
 " Why, Bill, that's the very thing we're all talkin' 'bout, 
 an' tryin' to find out. In coorse we want to know. But 
 who's to tell us ? " 
 
 " Dis nigger do dat." 
 
 "Air ye in airnest, Bill ? " 
 
 " So much in carness I ha'n't got no chance get sleep, till 
 I make clean bress ob de seecret. De ole ooman neider. No, 
 Mass Woodiey, Pbcebe she no let me ress till I do dat same. 
 She say it am de duty ob a Christyun man, an', as ye know, 
 we boaf b'long to de Methodies. Darfore, I now tell ye, de 
 man who kill Charl Clancy wa my own massr — de young un 
 —Dick." 
 
 " Bill! are you sure o' what ye say ? " 
 
 " So shoo I kin swa it as de troof, de whole troof, an' 
 nufiin but de troof." 
 
 " But what proof have ye ? " 
 
 "Proof! I moas seed it wif ma own eyes. If I didn't 
 see, I heerd it wif ma ears." 
 
 " By the 'tarnal ! this looks like clar evydince at last. 
 Tell me, Bill, o' all that you seed an' what you heern ? " 
 
 " Ta, Mass Woodiey, I tell you ebberyting ; all de sarkuni- 
 stanccs c'nected wif de case." 
 
 In ten minutes after, Simeon Woodiey is made acquainted 
 with everything the coon-hunter knows ; the latter having 
 given him full details of all that occurred on that occasion 
 when his coon-chase was brought to such an unsatisfactory 
 termination. 
 
 To the backwoodsman it brings no surprise. He has 
 tdrcady arrived at a fixed conclusion, and Bill's revelation is 
 in correspondence with it. 
 
 On hearing it, ho but says : — 
 
 " While runnin' off, yur master let fall a letter, did he ? 
 You picked it up, Bill ? Ye've got it ? " 
 
 " Ilya's dat eyedentikil dockyment." 
 
 The negro hands over the epistle, the photograph inside. 
 
ADDITIONAL EVIDENCE. 103 
 
 " AS fight, Bill ! I rcck'n tin's onghter make thing3 
 tol'ably elur. Now, what d'ye want mo to do for ynrself ? " 
 
 "Lor, Mass Woodley, you knows bess. I'se needn't tell 
 ye, dat ef ole Epb'ni Darke hear wba dis nigger's been, an' 
 gone, an' dud, de life ob Blue Bill wuldn't be wuth a ole 
 coon-skin — no ; not so much as a corn-shuck. I'se get de 
 cowhide ebbery hour ob de day, and de night too. I'se get 
 flog to def, sa'tin shoo." 
 
 "Yur right thar, I reck'n," rejoins the hunter; then con- 
 tinues, reflectingly, " Yes ; you'd be sarved putty saveer, if 
 they war to know on't. Wal, that mustn't be, and won't. 
 So much I kin promise ye, Bill. Yur evydince wouldn't 
 count for nuthin' in a law court, nohow. Tharfor, we won't 
 bring ye forrad ; so don't you be skeeart. I guess we shan't 
 wan't no more testymony, as thar ain't like to be any cross- 
 kwestenin' lawyers in this case. Now; d'you slip back to 
 yur quarters, and gi'e yurself no furrer consarn. I'll see you 
 don't git into any trouble. May I be d — d ef ye do ! " 
 
 With this emphatic promise, the old bear-hunter separates 
 from the less pretentions votary of the chase ; as he does so 
 giving the latter a squeeze of the hand, which tells him he 
 may go back in confidence to the negro- quarter, and sit, or 
 sleep, by the side of his Phoebe, without fear. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 " TO THE JAIL ! " 
 
 'ITH impatience Judge Lynch and his jurors await 
 the hunter's return. Before his leaving them, they 
 had well-nigh made up their minds to the verdict. 
 All know it will be " Guilty," given unanimously. 
 Woodley's temporary absence will not affect it. Neither 
 the longer time allowed them for deliberation. If this cause 
 change, it will not be to modify, but make more fixed their 
 determination. Still others keep coming up. Like wildfire 
 the news has spread that the mother of the murdered man 
 is herself stricken down. This, acting as a fresh stimulus to 
 sympathy, brings back such of the searchers as had gone 
 home ; many starting from beds to which they had betaken 
 themselves after the day's fatigue. 
 
104 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 It is past midnight, and the crowd collected around the 
 cottago is greater than ever. As one after another arrives 
 upon the ground they step across the threshold, enter the 
 chamber of death, and look upon the corpse, whose pale face 
 seems to make mute appeal to them for just iee. After gazing 
 on it for an instant, their anger with difficulty subdued in 
 the solemn presence of death, each comes out muttering a 
 resolve there shall be both justice and vengeance, many 
 Joudly vociferating it with the added emphasis of an oath. 
 
 It docs not need what Simeon Woodley lias in store to 
 incite them to action. Already are they sufficiently inflamed. 
 The furor of the mob, with its mutually maddening effect, 
 gradually growing upon them, permeating their spirits, has 
 n ached the culminating point. 
 
 Still do they preserve sufficient calmness to wait a little 
 longer, and hear what the hunter may have to say. They 
 take it, lie has been called from them on some matter con- 
 nected with the subject under consideration. At such a time 
 who would dare interrupt their deliberations for any trivial 
 purpose ? Although none of them has recognized Blue Bill's 
 roil v, thry know it to have been that of a negro. This, 
 however, is no season why he should not have made some 
 communication likely to throw new light on the affair. So, 
 on Woodley's return, once more gathering around him, they 
 demand to hear what it is. 
 
 He tells all that has been imparted to him ; but without 
 making known the name of his informant, or in any way 
 compromising the brave fellow with a black skin, who has 
 risked life itself by making disclosure of the truth. 
 
 To him the old hunter refers in a slight but significant 
 1 aoxner. Comprehending, no one presses for more minute 
 espj anal ion. 
 
 "He as says all that," "Woodley continues, after stating the 
 circumstances communieaird by the coon-hunter, '" has guv 
 me the letter dropped by Dick Darke ; which, as I've tolt 
 ye, ho picked up. Here air the thing itself. Preehaps it may 
 let some new light into the matter ; though I guess you'll all 
 agues wi' me, it's clar enough a'ready." 
 
 They all do agree. A dozen voices have declared, are still 
 il I'laring that. One now dies out — 
 
 •• Whal need to talk any mniv ? Charley Clancy's been 
 killed — he's been murdered. An' Dick Darke's the man that 
 did it !" 
 
 It is not from any lack of convincing evidence, but rather 
 
" TO THE JAIL ! " 105 
 
 a feeling of curiosity, that prompts them to call for the 
 reading of the letter, which the hunter now holds conspicu- 
 ously in his hand. Its contents may have no bearing upon 
 the case. Still it can be no harm to know what they are. 
 
 " You read it, Henry Spence ! You're a scholart, an' I 
 ain't," says Woodley, handing the letter over to a young 
 fellow of learned look — the schoolmaster of the settlement. 
 
 Spence, stepping close up to the porch — into which some 
 one has carried a candle — and holding the letter before the 
 light, first reads the superscription, which, as he informs them, 
 is in a lady's handwriting. 
 
 " To Charles C7racy," it is. 
 
 " Charles Clancy !" 
 
 Half a score voices pronounce the name, all in a similar 
 tone — that of surprise. One interrogates, — 
 
 " Was that letter dropped by Dick Darke ?" 
 
 "It was," responds Woodley, to whom the question is 
 addressed. 
 
 " Have patience, boys ! " puts in the planter, who represents 
 Justice Lynch ; " don't interrupt till we hear what's in it." 
 
 They take the hint, and remain silent. 
 
 But when the envelope is laid open, and a photograph 
 drawn out, showing the portrait of a young lady, recognized 
 by all as a likeness of Helen Armstrong, there is a fresh 
 outburst of exclamations which betoken increased surprise ; 
 this stronger still, after Spence reads out the inscript upon 
 the picture : 
 
 "Helen Armstrong — foe him she loves." 
 
 The letter is addressed to Charles Clancy ; to him the 
 photograph must have been sent ! A love aflair between 
 Miss Armstrong and the man who has been murdered ! A 
 new revelation to all — startling, as pertinent to the case. 
 
 "Go on, Spence! Give us the contents of the letter!" 
 demands an impatient voice. 
 
 " Yes, give them ! " adds another. " I reckon we're on 
 the right track now." 
 
 The epistle is taken out of the envelope. The school- 
 master, unfolding it, reads aloud : — 
 
 "Dear Charles, — 
 
 " When we last met under the magnolia, you asked me 
 a question. I told you I would answer it in writing. I now 
 keep my promise, and you will find the answer underneath 
 
IOC THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 my own very imperfect image, which I herewith send in- 
 closed. Papa has finally fixed the day of our departure from 
 the old home. On Tuesday next wc are to set out in search 
 of a new one. Will it ever be as dear as that we are lca\ ing 
 behind ? The answer will depend upon — need I say whom r 
 After reading what I have written upon the carte, surely yi i 
 can guess. There, I have confessed all — all woman can, 
 could, or should. In six little words I have made over to 
 you my heart. Accept them as its surrender ! 
 
 "And now, Charles, to speak of things prosaic, as in tin's 
 hard world we are too oft constrained to do. On Tuesday 
 morning — at a very early hour, I believe — a boat will leave 
 Natchez, bound up the Red River. Upon it we travel, as far 
 as Natchitoches. There to remain for some time, while papa 
 is completing preparations for our farther transport into Texas. 
 I am not certain what part of the ' Lone Star ' State he will 
 select for our future home. Ho speaks of a place upon some 
 branch of the Colorado River, said to be a beautiful country ; 
 which, you, having been out there, will know all about. In 
 any case, we are to remain for a time, a month or more, in 
 Nachitoches ; and there, Carlos mio, I need not tell you, 
 there is a post-office for receiving letters, as also for deliver- 
 ing them. Mind, I say for delivering them! Before wc 
 leave for the far frontier, where there may be 'neither post- 
 office nor post, I shall write you full particulars about our 
 intended ' location ' — with directions how to reach it. Need 
 I be very minute? Or can I promise myself, that your 
 wonderful skill as a ' tracker,' of which we've heard, will 
 enable you to discover it ? They say Love is blind. I hope, 
 yours will not bo so : else you may fail in finding the way to 
 your sweetheart in the wilderness. 
 
 " How I go on talking, or rather writing, things I intended 
 to say to you at our next meeting under the magnolia — our 
 magnolia! Sad thought this, tagged to a pleasant expecta- 
 tion : for it must be our last interview under the dear old 
 tree. Our last anywhere, until we come together again in 
 Texas — perhaps on some prairie where there are no trees. 
 Well ; we shall then meet, I hope, never more to part ; and 
 in the open daylight, with no need either of night, or tree 
 shadows to conceal us. I'm sure father, humbled as he now 
 is, will no longer object. Dear Charles, I don't think he 
 would have done so at any time, but for his reverses. They 
 made him think of — never mind what. I shall tell you all 
 under the magnolia. 
 
" TO THE JAIL ! " 107 
 
 "And now, master mine — tins makes you so— be punctual ! 
 Monday night, and ten o'clock — the old hour. Remember 
 that the morning after, I shall be gone — long before the vrild 
 ■wood songsters are singing their ' reveille ' to awake you. 
 Jule will drop this into our tree post-office this evening — ■ 
 Saturday. As you've told me you go there every day, you'll 
 be sure of getting it in time ; and once more I may listen to* 
 your flattery, as when you quoted the words of the old song, 
 making me promise to come, saying you would ' show the 
 night flowers their queen.' 
 
 " All ! Charles, how easy to keep that promise ! How sweefc 
 the flattery was, is, and ever will be, to yours, 
 
 "Helen Armstrong." 
 
 " And that letter was found on Dick Darke?" questions a 
 voice, as soon as the reading has come to an end. 
 
 " It war dropped by him," answers Woodley ; " and tharfor 
 ye may say it war found on him." 
 
 " You're sure of that, Simeon Woodley ?" 
 
 " Wal, a man can't be sure o' a thing unless he sees it. 
 I didn't see it myself wi' my own eyes. For all that, I've 
 had proof clar enough to convince me ; an' I'm reddy to stan' 
 at the back o' it." 
 
 " D n the letter ! " exclaims one of tho impatient ones, 
 
 who has already spoken in similar strain ; " the picture, too ! 
 Don't mistake me, boys. I ain't referrin' eyther to the 
 young lady as wrote it, nor him she wrote to. I only mean 
 that neither letter nor picture are needed to prove what 
 we're all wantin' to know, an' do know. They arn't nor 
 warn't reequired. To my mind, from the fust go off, nothin' 
 ked be clarer than that Charley Clancy has been killed, 
 'cepting as to who killed him — murdered him, if ye will ; for 
 that's what's been done. Is there a man on the ground who 
 can't call out the murderer ? " 
 
 The interrogatory is answered by a unanimous negative, 
 followed by the name, " Dick Darke." 
 
 And along with the answer commences a movement 
 throughout the crowd. A scattering with threats heard— 
 some muttered, some spoken aloud — while men are observed 
 looking to their guns, and striding towards their horses ; as 
 they do so, saying sternly, — 
 
 " To the jail ! " 
 
 r 
 
108 THE DEATH ?nOT. 
 
 In ton minutes sifter both men and horses are in motion 
 moving along the road between Clancy's cottage and the 
 county town. They form a phalanx, if not regular in lino 
 ol march, terribly imposing in aspect. 
 
 Conld Richard Darke, from inside the cell where he is 
 confined, but sec that approaching cavalcade, heat the con- 
 versation "f th'>>c who compose it, and witness their angry 
 gesticulations, he would shake in his shoes, with trembling 
 worse than any ague that ever followed fever. 
 
 CHAPTEB XXIX. 
 
 A SCHEME Of COLONIZATION. 
 
 BOUT two hundred miles from the mouth of Red 
 RiVer — the Red of Louisiana — 'Stands the town of 
 Natchitoches. The name is Indian, and pronounced 
 as if written " Nak-e-tosh." 
 Though never a populous place, it is one of peculiar in- 
 terest, historically and cthnologically. Dating from t ho 
 earliest days of French and Spanish colonization, on the 
 Lower Mississippi, it has at different periods been in pese s- 
 .sion of both these nations; finally falling to the United 
 States, at the transfer of the Louisiana territory by Napoleon 
 Bonaparte. Hence, around its history is woven much of 
 romantic interest ; while from the same cause its population, 
 composed of many various nationalities, with their distinctive 
 physical types and idiosyncracies of custom, offers to the eye 
 of the stranger a pictnresqueness unknown to northern towns. 
 Placed on a projecting bluff of the river's bank, its painted 
 wooden houses, of French Creole fashion, with " piazzas" and 
 high-pitched roofs, its trottoirs brick-paved, and shaded by 
 trees of sub-tropical foliage — among them the odoriferous 
 magnolia, and melia aeedaraeh, or " Pride of China," — these, 
 in places, completely arcading the street — Natchitoches has 
 the orthodox aspect of a rus in urbe, or urts in rure, which- 
 ever way you wish it. 
 
 Its porticoes, entwined with parasites, here and there show 
 stretches of trellis, along which meander the cord-like ten- 
 drils of bignonias, aristolochias, and orchids, the flowers 
 of which, drooping over windows and doorwa3'S, shut out the 
 
A SCHEME OF COLOJrtZATION. 109 
 
 too garish sunlight, while filling the air with fragrance. 
 Amon? these whirr imy hamming birds, buzz humble bees 
 almost as big, while butterflies bigger than either lazily flout 
 and flap about on soft, silent wing. 
 
 Such sights greet you at every turning as you make pro- 
 menade through the streets of Natchitoches. 
 
 And there are others equally gratifying. Within these 
 same trellised verandahs, you may observe young girls of 
 graceful mien, elegantly apparelled, lounging on cane rocking- 
 chairs, or perhaps peering coyly through the half-closed 
 jalousies, their eyes invariably dark brown or coal black, the 
 marble forehead above surmounted with a chevelure in hue 
 resembling the plumage of the raven. For most of these 
 demoiselles are descended from the old colonists of the two 
 Latinic races ; not a few with some admixture of African, or 
 Indian. The flaxen hair, blue eyes, and blonde complexion 
 of the Northland are only exceptional appearances in the town 
 of Natchitoches. 
 
 Meet these same young ladies in the street, it is the custom, 
 and eomme U favt, to take off your hat, and make a bow. 
 Every man who claims to be a gentleman does this deference ; 
 while every woman, with a white skin, expects it. On which- 
 ever side the privilege may be supposed to lie, it is certainly 
 denied to none. The humblest shop clerk or artisan — even 
 the dray-driver — may thus make obeisance to the proudest 
 and daintiest damsel who treads the trottoirs of Natchitoches. 
 It gives no right of converse, nor the slightest claim to 
 acquaintanceship. A mere formality of politeness ; and to 
 presume carrying it further would not only be deemed a rude- 
 ness, but instantly, perhaps very seriously, resented. 
 
 Such is the polished town to which the Belle of Natchez 
 has brought Colonel Armstrong, with his belongings, and 
 from which he intends taking final departure for Texas. The 
 "Lone Star State'' lies a little beyond — the Sabine River 
 forming the boundary line. But from earliest time of Texan 
 settlement on the north-eastern side, Natchitoches has been 
 the place of ultimate outlit and departure. 
 
 Here the cx-jlississippian planter has made halt, and 
 purposes to remain for a much longer time than originally 
 intended. For a far grander scheme of migration, than 
 that he started out with, is now in his mind. Burn upon the 
 Belle of Natchez, it has been gradually developing itself 
 during the remainder of the voyage, and is now complete — at 
 least as to general design. 
 
110 THE DEATH SI10T. 
 
 It lias not originated with Archibald Armstrong himself 
 but one, whom he is soon to call son-in-law. The young 
 Creole, Dupre, entranced with love, has nevertheless not per- 
 mitted its delirium to destroy all ideas of other kind. Bather 
 has it re-inspired him with one already conceived, but which, 
 for some time, has been in abeyance. He, too, has been casting 
 thoughts towards Texas, with a view to migrating thither. 
 Of laic travelling in Europe — more particularly in France — 
 with some of whose noblest families ho holds relationship, ho 
 has there been smitten with a grand idea, dictated by a spirit 
 of ambition. In Louisiana he is only a planter among plan- 
 ters, and though a rich one, is still not satisfied, either with 
 the number of his negroes, or the area of his acres. In 
 Texas, where land is comparatively low priced, ho has con- 
 ceived a project of colonization, on an extended scale — in 
 short, the founding a sort of Transatlantic seigneurie. For 
 some months has this ambitious dream been brooding in his 
 brain ; and now, meeting the Mississippian planter aboard the 
 boat, and learning the latter's intentions, this, and the more 
 tender liens late established between them, have determined 
 Louis Dupre to make his dream a reality, and become one of 
 the migrating party. He will sell his Louisiana houses and 
 lands, but not his slaves. These can be taken to Texas. 
 
 Scarce necessary to say, that, on thus declaring himself, ho 
 becomes the real chief of the proposed settlement. Whether 
 showing conspicuously in front, or remaining obscurely in the 
 rear, the capitalist controls all ; and Dupre is this. 
 
 Still, though virtually the controlling spirit, apparently the 
 power remains in the hands of Colonel Armstrong. The 
 young Creole wishes it to appear so. He has no jealous}- of 
 him, who is soon to be his second father. Besides, there is 
 another and substantial reason why Colonel Armstrong 
 should assume the chieftainship of the purposed expedition. 
 Though reduced in circumstances, the ex-Mississippian planter 
 is held in high respect. His character commands it ; while 
 his name, known throughout all the South-west, will be sure 
 to draw around, and rally under his standard, some of thoso 
 strong stalwart men of the hackwoods, equally apt with axe 
 and rifle, without whom no settlement on the far frontier of 
 Texas would stand a chance of either security, or success. 
 
 For it is to the far frontier they purpose going, where land 
 can be got at government prices, and where they intend to 
 purchase it not by the acre, but in square miles — in leagues. 
 
 Such is Dupre's design, easy of execution with the capital 
 
A SCHEME OF COLONIZATION. Ill 
 
 be can command after disposing of Lis Red River planta- 
 tion. 
 
 And within a week after his arrival in Natchitoches, he has 
 disposed of it ; signed the deed of delivery, and received the 
 money. An immense sum, notwithstanding the sacrifice of a 
 sale requiring quick despatch. On the transfer being com- 
 pleted, the Creole holds in hand a cash capital of §200,000; 
 in those days sufficient not only for the purchase of a large 
 tract of territory, but enough to make the dream of a seigno- 
 rial estate appear a possible reality. 
 
 Not much of the future is he reflecting upon now. If, at 
 times, he cast a chance thought towards it, it may be to 
 picture to himself how his blonde beauty will look as lady 
 suzeraine — chatelaine of the castle to be erected in Texas. 
 
 In his fancy, no doubt, he figures her as the handsomest 
 creature that ever carried keys at her belt. 
 
 If these fancies of the future are sweet, the facts of the 
 present are even more so. During their sojourn in Natchi- 
 toches the life of Louis Dupre and Jessie Armstrong is almost 
 a continuous chapter of amorous converse and dalliance ; left 
 hands mutually clasped, right ones around waists, or playing 
 with curls and tresses ; lips at intervals meeting in a touch 
 that intoxicates the soul — the delicious drunkenness of love, 
 from which no one need ever wish to get sober. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 NEWS FROM NATCHEZ. 
 
 jlHILE thus pleasantly pass the days with Colonel 
 Armstrong's younger daughter, to the elder they 
 are drear and dark. No love lights up the path of 
 her life, no sun shines upon it ; nothing save shadow 
 and clouds. 
 
 More than a week has elapsed since their arrival in Natchi- 
 toches, and for much of this time has she been left alone. 
 Love, reputed a generous passion, is of all the most selfish. 
 Kind to its own chosen, to others it can be cruel ; often is, 
 when the open exhibition of its fervid zeal recalls the cold 
 neglect, it may be, making their misery. 
 
 Not that Jessie Armstrong is insensible to the sufferings of 
 
112 
 
 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 her sister. On the contrary, she feels for — all that sister can — 
 on occasions tries to comfort her, by words such as she has 
 already spoken, beseeching her to forget — to pluck the poison, 
 from out her heart. 
 
 Easy to counsel thus, for one in whose heart there is no 
 poison ; instead a honeyed sweetness, almost seraphic. She, 
 who this enjoys can ill understand the opposite ; and, Jessie, 
 benighted with her own bliss, gives ] egs thought to the uuhap- 
 piness of Helen. Even less than sho might, were it aura 
 known to her. For the proud elder sister keeps her sorrow 
 to herself, eschewing sympathy, and scarce ever recurring to 
 the past. On her side the younger rarely refers to it» Sho 
 knows it would cause pain. Though onco a reference to it 
 has given pleasure to herself; when Helen explained toller 
 the mystery of that midnight plnnge into the river. This, 
 shortly after its occurrence; soon as she herself came to a 
 clear comprehension of it. It was no mystery after all. The 
 face seen among the cypress tops was but the fancy of an 
 overwrought brain ; while tho spectral arms were the forking 
 tines of a branch, which, catching upon tho boat, in robound 
 had caught Helen Armstrong, first raising her aloft, then 
 letting her drop out of their innocent, but withal dangerous, 
 embrace. 
 
 An explanation more pleasing to Jessie than sho eared to 
 let Helen know; since it gave tho assurance that her sister 
 had no thought of self-destruction. She is further comforted 
 by the reflection, that Helen has no need to repine, and the 
 hope it may -not be for long. Some other and truer lover 
 will replace the lost false one, and she will soon forget his 
 falsehood. So reasons tho happy heart. Indeed, judging by 
 what she sees, Jessie Armstrong may well come to this con- 
 clusion. Already around her sister circle now suitors ; a host 
 seeking her hand. Among them the best blood of which the 
 neighbourhood can boast. There are planters, lawyers, mem- 
 bers of the State Assembly — one of the General Congress — and 
 military men, young officers stationed at Fort Jcssup, higher 
 up the river ; who, forsaking the lonely post, occasionally 
 come down on a day's furlough to enjoy the delights of town 
 life, and clip a little into its dissipations. 
 
 Before Helen Armstrong has been two weeks in Natchi- 
 toches she becomes, what for over two years she has been in, 
 Natchez — its Lelle. The " bloods" toast her at the drinking 
 bar, and talk of her over the billiard taMe. 
 
 Some of them too much for their safety, since already two 
 
NEWS FKOM. NATCHEZ. 113 
 
 or three duels have occurred on hex account — fortunately 
 without fatal termination. 
 
 Not that she has given any of them cause to stand forth as 
 her champion ; for not one can boast of having been favoured 
 even with a smile. On the contrary, she has met their 
 approaches if not frowningly, at hast with denying indiffer- 
 ence. All suspect there is un vcr — rongeur — a worm oating 
 at her heart ; that she suffers from a passion of the past. 
 This does not dismay her Natchitoches adorers, nor hinder 
 them from continuing their adoration. On the contrary it 
 deepens it ; her indifference only attracting them, her very 
 coldness setting their hot southern hearts ailame, maddening 
 them all the more. 
 
 She is not unconscious of the admiration thus excited. If 
 she were, she would not be woman. But also, because being 
 a true woman, she has no care for, and does not accept it. 
 Instead of ofc showing herself in society to receive homage 
 and hear flattering speeches, she stays almost constantly within 
 her chamber — a little sitting-room in the hotel, appropriated 
 to herself and sister. 
 
 For reasons already known, she- is often deprived of her 
 sister's company ; having to content herself with that of her 
 mulatto maid. 
 
 A companion who can well sympathise ; for Jule, like her- 
 self, has a canker at the heart. The " yellow girl " on leaving 
 Mississippi State has also left a lover behind. True, not one 
 who has proved false — far from it. But one who every day, 
 every hour of his life, is in danger of losing it. Jupe she 
 supposes to be still safe, within the recesses of the cj-press 
 swamp, but caunot tell how long his security may continue. 
 If taken, she may never see him more, and can only think of 
 his receiving some terrible chastisement. But she is sustained 
 by the reflection, that her Jupiter is a brave fellow, and crafty 
 as courageous ; by the hope he will yet get away from that 
 horrid hiding place, and rejoin her, in a land where the dogs 
 of Dick Darke can no more scent or assail him. Whatever 
 may be the fate of the fugitive, she is sure of his devotion to 
 herself; and this hinders i r from despairing. 
 
 She is almost as much a.armed about her young mistress, 
 whom she sees grieving, day by day evidently sinking under 
 some secret sorrow. 
 
 To her it is not much of a secret. She more than guesses 
 at the cause ; in truth, knows it, as it is known to that 
 mistress herself. For the wench can read ; and made the 
 
114 TIIE DEATII SHOT. 
 
 messenger of that correspondence carried on clandestinely, 
 strange, if, herself a woman, she should not surmise many 
 things beyond what could be gleaned from the superscription 
 on the exchanged epistles. 
 
 She has surmised ; but, like her mistress, something wide 
 away from the reality. No wonder at her being surprised at 
 what she sees in a Natchez newspaper — brought to the hotel 
 from a boat just arrived at Natchitoches — something concern- 
 ing Charles Clancy, very different from that suspected of him. 
 She stays not to consider what impression it may produce on 
 the mind of the young lady. Unpleasant no doubt ; but a 
 woman's instinct whispers the maid, it will not be worse than 
 the agony her mistress is now enduring. 
 
 Entering the chamber, where the latter is alone, she places 
 the paper in her hands, saying : " Missy Helen, here's a 
 newspaper from Natchez, brought by a boat just arrived. 
 There's something in it, I think, will be news to you — sad too." 
 
 Helen Armstrong stretches forth her hand, and takes hold 
 of the sheet. Her fingers tremble, closing upon it; her 
 whole frame, as she searches through its columns. 
 
 At the same time her eyes glow, burn, almost blaze, with 
 a wild unnatural light — an expression telling of jealousy 
 roused, rekindled, in a last spurt of desperation. Among the 
 marriage notices she expects to see that of Charles Clancy 
 with a Creole girl, w T hose name is unknown to her. It will 
 be the latest chapter, climax and culminating point, of his 
 perfidy! 
 
 Who could describe the sudden revulsion of thought ; 
 what pen depict the horror that sweeps through her soul ; or 
 pencil portray the expression of her countenance, as, with 
 eyes glaring aghast, she rests them on a large type heading, 
 in which is the name "CHARLES CLANCY ?" 
 
 For, the paragraph underneath tells not of his marriage, 
 but his murder I 
 
 Not the climax of his perfidy, as expected, but of her suffer- 
 ing. Her bosom late burning with indignant jealousy, is now 
 the prey of a very different passion. 
 
 Letting the paper fall to the floor, she sinks back into her 
 chair, her heart audibly beating — threatening to beat no 
 more. 
 

4C_ <♦*„ 4^ 4^ *_ 4c_^ 4» 
 
 ^ 4 
 
 
 ■ .".- -• .".- v- . v ' • 
 
 - 
 
 ^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 HPBCTRBS IN THE STREET. 
 
 fOLOXEL ARMSTROXG is staying at the " Planters' 
 House," the chief hotel in the town of Natchitoches. 
 Not a very grand establishment., nevertheless. Com- 
 pared with such a princely hostelry as the "Jbafflg- 
 hara" of London, it would be as a peasant's hnt to a palace. 
 Withal, in every way comfortable ; and what it may lack in 
 architectural style is made up in natural adornment ; a fine 
 trees surrounding- and o'ershading it. 
 A hotel of the true Southern States type : weather-board 
 .• i el k-:-whitc, with green Venetian shutters to 
 udows ; a raised verandah — the "piazza" — running all 
 around it ; a portion of this usually occupied by gentlemen iu 
 white linen eoa.Ha, >ky-hlue " cottonade " pants, and Panama 
 hats, who drink mint-juleps all day lone; while another por- 
 tion, furnished with eane rocking-chairs, presents a certain 
 i oxc'.usiveness, which tells of its being tabooed to the 
 sterner sex, or more particularly meant for ladies. 
 
 A pleasant snuggery this, giving a good view of the shock 
 while its privacy is secured by a trellis, which extends Be- 
 en the supporting pillars, clustered with Virginia creepers 
 and other plants trained to such service. A row of grand 
 - .: i long the brick banquette in front, their 
 
 us leaves effectually fending off the sun ; while 
 at the ladies' end two large Persian lilacs, rivalling the indi- 
 genou- • in the beautv of their leaves and the 
 
 fragrance of their flowers, waft delicious odours into the 
 windows of the chambers adjacent, ever open. 
 
 ( (range trees grow contiguous, and so close to the verandah 
 • ■ leaning over may pluck either their ripe golden 
 globes, or white wax-like bleSBOKM in all stages of - 
 sion ; these beautiful evergreens bearing fruit and flower at 
 the same time. 
 
 A pleasant place at all hours this open air boudoir; and 
 none more enjoyable than at night, just after sunset. For 
 
 9 
 
116 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 then the hot atmosphere has cooled down, and the soft 
 southern breeze coining up from the bosom of the river, stirs 
 the leaves of the lilacs into gentle rustling, and shakes their 
 flower-spikes, scattering sweet incense around. Then the 
 light from street lamps and house windows, gleaming through 
 the foliage, mingles with that of the fire-flies crossing and 
 scintillating like sparks in a pyrotechnic display. Then the 
 tree-crickets have commenced their continuous trill, a sound 
 by no means disagreeable ; if it were, there is compensat i< u 
 in the song of the mockbird, that, perched upon the top of 
 some tall tree, makes tho night cheerful with its ever- 
 changing notes. Sometimes there are other sounds in this 
 shady retreat, still more congenial to the cars of those who 
 hear them. Oft is it tenanted by dark-eyed demoiselles, and 
 their Creole cavaliers, who converse in the low whisperings of 
 love, to them far sweeter than song of thrush, or note of 
 nightingale — words, speaking the surrender of a heart, with 
 others signifying its acceptance. 
 
 To-night there is nothing of this within the vinc-trellised 
 verandah; for only two individuals occupy it, both ladies. 
 By tho light from street-lamps and open casements, from 
 moon-beams shining through the lilac leaves, from fire-flics 
 hovering and shooting about, it can be seen that both are 
 young, and both beautiful. Of two different types, dark and 
 fair: for they are the two daughters of Archibald Armstrong. 
 
 As said, they are alone, nor man nor woman near. There 
 have been others of both sexes, but all have gone inside ; most 
 to retire for the night, now getting late. 
 
 Colonel Armstrong is not in the hotel, nor Dupre. Both 
 are abroad on the business of their colonizing scheme. About 
 this everything has been arranged, even to selection of the 
 place. A Texan land speculator, who holds a large " grant " 
 upon the San Saba river, opportunely chances to be in Natchi- 
 toches at the time. It is a tract of territory surrounding, and 
 formerly belonging to, an old mission by the monks, long ago 
 abandoned. Dupre has purchased it ; and all now remaining 
 to be done is to complete the make-up of the migrating party, 
 and start off to take possession. 
 
 Busied with these preparations, the young Creole, and his 
 future father-in-law, are out to a later hour than usual, which 
 accounts for the ladies being left alone. Otherwise, one, at 
 least, would not be long left to herself. If within the hotel, 
 Dupre would certainly be by the side of his Jessie. 
 
 The girls ai-e together, standing by the baluster rail, with 
 
SPECTRES IN THE STREET. 117 
 
 eyes bent upon the street. They have been conversing, but 
 have ceased. As usual, the younger has been trying to cheer 
 the elder, still sad, though now from a far different cause. 
 The pain at her heart is no longer that of jealousy, but pure 
 grief, with an admixture of remorse. The Natchez newspaper 
 has caused this change; what she read there, clearing Clancy 
 of all treason, leaving herself guilty for having suspected him. 
 
 But, oh ! such an eclaircissement ! Obtained at the expense 
 of a life dear to her as her own — dearer now she knows he is 
 dead ! 
 
 The newspaper has furnished but a meagre account of the 
 murder. It bears date but two days subsequent ; and must 
 have been issued subsequent to Mrs. Clancy's death, as it 
 speaks of this event having occurred. 
 
 It would be out at an early hour that same morning. 
 
 In epitome its account is ; that a man is missing, supposed 
 to be murdered ; by name, Charles Clancy. That search is 
 being made for his body, not yet found. That the son of a 
 well-known planter, Ephraim Darke, himself called Richard, 
 has been arrested on suspicion, and lodged in the countyjail ; 
 and, just as the paper is going to press, it has received the 
 additional intelligence, that the mother of the murdered man 
 has succumbed to the shock, and followed her unfortunate 
 sen to the " bourne from which no traveller returns." 
 
 The report is in the flowery phraseology usually indulged 
 in by the south-western journals. It is accompanied by com- 
 ments and conjectures as to the motive of the crime. Among 
 these Helen Armstrong has read her own name, with the con- 
 tents of that letter addressed to Clancy, but proved to have been 
 in the possession of Darke. Though given only in epitome — 
 for the editor confesses not to have seen the epistle, but only 
 had account of it from him who furnished the report — still 
 to Helen Armstrong is the thing painfully compromising. 
 All the world will now know the relations that existed be- 
 tween her and Charles Clancy. What would she care were 
 he alive ? And what need she, now he is dead ? 
 
 She does not care — no. It is not this that afflicts her. 
 Could she but bring him to life again, she would laugh the 
 world to scorn, brave the frowns of her father, to prove her- 
 self a true woman by becoming the wife of him her heart 
 had chosen for a husband. 
 
 " It cannot be ; he is dead — gone — lost for ever ! " 
 
 So run her reflections, as she stands in silence by her 
 sister's side, their conversation for the time suspended. 
 
118 the Pi:.\Tn snoT. ^ 
 
 Oppressed by their painfolness, she retires a step, and sinks 
 down into one of the chairs ; uol toi c pe the bitter thu 
 
 — for she cannot — but to brood on them alone, 
 
 Jessie remains with hands rested on the rail, gazing down 
 into the street. She is looking for her Luis, 'who should 
 now snon be returning to the hotel. 
 
 People arc passing, some in leisurely promenade, others in 
 hurried stop, telling of early habits, and a desire to get 
 home. 
 
 One catching her ere, pauses her to tremble ; one for whom 
 she has a feeling of fear, or rather repulsion. A man of lai 
 
 <■ is seen loitering under the shadow of a tree, and 
 looking at her, as though he would devour her. Even in bis 
 figure there is an expression of sinister and slouching bru- 
 tality. Still more on his face, visible by the lighi of a Lamp 
 which beams over the entrance door of the hotel. The 
 V'Ihil: n'irl dues not slay to scrutinize it; but shrinking back, 
 by the side of her sister. 
 
 '■What's the matter, Jess?"" asks Helen, observing her 
 frayed aspect, and in turn becoming the supporter. " You've 
 seen something to vex you ? something of — Luis ? " 
 
 "No— no, Helen. .Not him." 
 
 "Who then?" 
 
 '• Oh, sister ! A man fearful to look at. A greal 
 Fellow, ugly enough 1 i fright a any one. I've mei lit m seve- 
 ral times when out walking, and every time it's made me 
 shudder." 
 
 l; Has he been rude to you ? " 
 
 "Not exactly rude, though something like it. lie stares 
 at me in a strange way. And such horrid eyes ! They're 
 hollow, gowlish like an .,1 [*d half a mind to teU 
 
 father, or Luis, about it ; but 1 knew Luis v. d, and 
 
 want to kill the big brute. I saw him just now, standing on 
 the side-walk close by. No doubt he's there still." 
 
 '• Let me have a ' e alligator i ; 
 
 The fearless elder si si . d from very despair, steps 
 
 out to the rail, and leaning over, looks along the street 
 
 She sees men passing ; but no one who answers to the de- 
 scription given. 
 
 Tnei under a tree, but not in the place 
 
 of which Jessie has spokenj he is on the opposite side of the 
 street. Neither is he a man of large size 3 ! r short 
 
 and slight. He is in shadow, how* ', and ho cannot bo 
 sure of 
 
SPECTRES IN THE STEEET. ._ 110 
 
 At (lie moment lie moves off; and his gait attracts licr 
 attention: then his figure : and, finally, his fece, aa the last 
 comes trader the lamp-light. The}- attract and fix it. send- 
 ing a cold shiver through her frame. 
 
 Ir was a fancy her thinking she saw Charles Clancy among 
 
 the tree tops. Is it a like delusion, that now shows her his 
 
 -in in flic streets of Natchitoches ? No ; it cannot 1 ! 
 
 It is a reality ; assuredly the man moving off is Richard 
 
 Darke I 
 
 She has it on her fcongne to cry " murderer!" and p 
 " hue and cry ; " but cannot. She feels paralysed, fascinated, ; 
 and stands speechless, not stirring, scarce breathing. 
 
 Thus, till the assassin is out of sight. 
 
 Then she totters back to the side of her sister, to tell in 
 trembling accents, how she, too, has been frayed by a spectre 
 in the street ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE "CHOCTAW C H I E T." 
 
 [OU'LL excuse me, stranger, for interrnptin' you 
 in the readin' o' your newspaper. I like to see 
 men in the way o' aequirin' knowledgi Bat 
 we're all of us here goin' to licker up. V 
 .yon join r 
 
 The invitation, brusquely, if not uncourteously, exr 
 comes from a man of middle age, in height at ]< 
 three, without reckoning the thick soles of his bull-skin I 
 — the tops of which rise several inches above the knee. A 
 <ge, rawboned, and of rough exterior, wearing a rid 
 I coat; his trousers tacked into thi 
 with ;. ' buckled around his waist, under the coat, 
 
 but over the haft of a bowie-knife, alongside whi 
 the butt of a Colt's revolving pistol. In correspondence 
 v itb hi- clothing and equipment, he shows a cut-throat coun- 
 ical .m' the Stale Penitentiary ; check- Mooted as 
 from ea ace in drink ; eyes watery and some- 
 
 what bloodshot ; lips thick and sensual ; with a nose set 
 obliquely, looking as ii r 
 
 i is of a yellow isl day colour, 
 
1*20 THE M : M Hi r. 
 
 lighter in tint nnnn the eyebrows. There is none either on 
 liis lips or jaws, nor yet upon his thick hog-like tii 
 which looks as if some day it may need something stiffer 
 than a beard to protect it from the hemp of the hangman. 
 
 He, to whom the invitation has been extended, is of qu 
 n different appearance. In age a little over half that of the 
 individual who has addressed him; complexion dark and 
 cadaverous; the cheeks hollow and haggard, as from sleep- 
 less anxiety; the upper lip showing two elongated bluish 
 blotches — the stub of moustaches recently removed — the eyes 
 coal black, with sinister glances sent in suspicious furtiveness 
 from under abroad hat-brim pulled low down over the brow ; 
 the figure fairly shaped, but with garments coarse and clumsily 
 fitting, too ample both for body and limbs, as if intended to 
 Conceal rather than show them to advantage. 
 
 A practised detective, after scanning this individual, taking 
 note of his habiliments, with the hat and his manner of wear- 
 ing it, would pronounce him a person dressed in disguise — 
 this, for some good reason, adopted. A suspicion of the kind 
 appears to be in the mind of the rough Hercules, who has 
 invited him to " liquor up ; " though he is no detective. 
 
 " Thank you," rejoins the young fellow, lowering the news- 
 paper to his knee, and raising the rim of his hat, as little as 
 possible ; " I've just had a drain. I hope you'll excuse me." 
 
 " D — d if we do ! Not this time, stranger. The rule o' 
 this tavern is, that all in its bar takes a ' smile ' thegither — 
 leastwise on first mcetin'. So, say what's the name o' yer 
 tipple." 
 
 " Oh ! in that case I'm agreeable," assents the newspaper 
 reader, laying aside his reluctance, and along with it the 
 paper — at the same time rising to his feet. Then, stepping up 
 to the bar, he adds, in a tone of apparent frankness : — 
 
 " Phil Quantrell ain't the man to back out where there's 
 glasses going. But, gentlemen ; as I'm the stranger in this 
 crowd, I hope you'll let me pay for the drinks." 
 
 The men thus addressed as " gentlemen" are seven or eight 
 in number; not one of whom, from outward seeming, could 
 lav claim to the epithet. So far as this goes, they are all of 
 a sort with the brutal-looking bully in the blanket-coat who 
 commenced the conversation. Did Phil Quantrell address 
 them as "blackguards," he would be much nearer the mark. 
 Villainous scoundrels they appear, every one of them, though 
 of different degrees, judging by their countenances, and with 
 like variety in their costumes. 
 
TIIE " CHOCTAW CHIEF." 
 
 121 
 
 "No — no!" respond several, determined to show them- 
 selves gentlemen in generosity. " No stranger can stand 
 treat here. You must drink with us, Mr. Quantrell." 
 
 " This score's mine," proclaims the first spokesman, in an 
 authoritative voice. " After that anybody as likes may stand 
 treat. Come, Johnny ! trot out the stuff. Brandy smash for 
 me." 
 
 The bar-keeper thus appealed to — as repulsive-looking as 
 any of the party upon whom he is called to wait — with that 
 dexterity peculiar to his craft, soon furnishes the counter with 
 bottles and decanters containing several sorts of liquors. 
 After which he arranges a row of tumblers alongside, corres- 
 ponding to the number of those designing to drink. 
 
 And soon they are all drinking ; each the mixture most 
 agreeable to his palate. 
 
 It is a scene of every-day occurence, every hour, almost 
 every minute, in a hotel bar-room of the Southern United 
 States ; the only peculiarity in this case being, that the Nat- 
 chitoches tavern in which it takes place is very different 
 from the ordinary village inn, or roadside hotel. It stands 
 upon the outskirts of the town, in a suburb known as the 
 " Indian quarter ; " sometimes also called " Spanish town" — 
 both names having reference to the fact, that some queer little 
 shanties around are inhabited by pure-blooded Indians and 
 half-breeds, with poor whites of Spanish extraction — these last 
 the degenerate descendants of heroic soldiers who originally 
 established the settlement. 
 
 The tavern itself, bearing an old weather-washed swing- 
 sign, on which is depicted an Indian in full war-paint, is 
 known as the " Choctaw Chief." And is kept by a man 
 supposed to be a Mexican, but who may be anything else ; 
 having for his barkeeper the afore-mentioned "Johnny," a 
 personage supposed to be an Irishman, though of like 
 dubious nationality as his employer. 
 
 The Choctaw Chief takes in travellers ; giving them bed, 
 board, and lodging, without asking them any questions, be- 
 yond a demand of payment before they have cither eaten or 
 slept under its roof. It usually has a goodly number, and of 
 a peculiar kind — strange both in aspect and manners — no one 
 knowing whence they come, or whither bent when taking 
 their departure. 
 
 As the house stands out of the ordinary path of town pro- 
 menaders, in an outskirt scarce ever visited by respectable 
 people, no one cares to inquire into the character of its guests, 
 
122 
 
 THE DEATH SH-'iT. 
 
 or aught else relating to it. To those rho ■ -"i ■ ------ - to >trav in 
 
 its direction, it is known as a sort of clu-.ip li< 1 t.-li-v, i ' i;< t 
 gives shelter to all sorts of odd customers — banters, trappers, 
 small Indian traders, returned from an expedition on the 
 prairies; along with these, snob travellers as an: without the 
 means to stop at the m ire preto afaVras rubs of the village:; or, 
 having the no >ns of fchi it- own, to pal ap 
 
 a'- the Choctaw Chief. 
 
 Such is the reputation of the hostelry, before whose drink- 
 ing bar stamis I'liil Qtian* rell — so oalfing liiiii-iL-l!'— witl 
 men to whose boon companionship In- lias been so Mice 
 niously introduced ; as declared by his introducer, according 
 to the custom of the establishment. 
 
 The lirst drinks swallowed, Quantrell calls for another 
 round; and then a third is ordered, by some one else, who 
 pays, or promises to pay for it. 
 
 A fourth ■ smile " is insisted upon by another some one who 
 announces himself ready to stand treat; all the ltqoor, up te 
 this time consumed, being either cheap brandy or " rot-gut " 
 •whisky. 
 
 Quantrell, now pleasantly convivial, and acting audi 
 generous impulse the drink hns produced, sings out " Cham- 
 pagne!" a -wine which the poorest tavern in the Southern 
 States, even the Choctaw Chief, cam plentifully supply. 
 
 After this the choice vintage of France, or its gooseberry 
 counterfeit, flows freely ; Johnny with -jl ■ liil al.-e-i-ity strip- 
 ping oil' the leaden capsules, twisting the wires; and It 
 pop the corks. For the stranger guest has taken a wallet 
 from his pocket, which all can perceive to be "chock full " of 
 gold "eagles," some reflecting upon, but saying nothing 
 about, the singular coin pa I his plethoric purse, and 
 
 the coarse coat out of whose pocket it is pulled. 
 
 After all, not much in this. Within the wooden walls of 
 the Choctaw Chief there have been seen many contrasts quite 
 as curious. Neither i s hybrid landlord, nor his barkeeper, 
 nor its ■ note — or, at all evi 
 
 make remarks upon — ei - where would 
 
 .stem singular. 
 
 Still, is there one among the roystoring crowd who does 
 note this; as also other i d . and sayings spot 
 Phil Quantrell in his cups. It is the Colossus who has intro- 
 duced him to the jovial company, and who still sticks to him 
 as chaperon. 
 
 Some of this man's associates, who : ailiar foot- 
 
the " cnocTAW chief. jgg 
 
 ing, called liim " Jim Borlasse ; " others, less free, address 
 liim as "Mister Borlasse j" while still others, at intervals, and 
 as if by a slip of tlie tongue, give him the title " Captain." 
 
 Jim, Mister, or Captain Borlasse — whichever designation 
 he deserve — throughout the whole debauch, keeps his blood- 
 shot eyes bent upon their new acquaintance, noting his every 
 movement. His ears, too, arc strained to catch every word 
 Quautrell utters, weighing its import. 
 
 For all he neither says nor does aught to tell of his being 
 thus attentive to the stranger — at first his guest, but now a 
 spendthrift host to himself and his party. 
 
 While the champagne is being freely quaffed, of course 
 there is much conversation, and on many subjects. But one 
 is special ; seeming more than all others to engross the atten- 
 tion of the roystercrs under the roof of the Choctaw Chief. 
 
 It is a murder that has been committed in the State of 
 Mississippi, near the town of Natchez; an account of which 
 has just appeared in the local journal of Natchitoches. The 
 paper is lying on the bar-room table; and all of them, who 
 can read, have already made themselves acquainted with the 
 particulars of the crime. Those, whose scholarship does not 
 extend so far, have learnt them at secondhand from their 
 lucated associates. 
 The murdered man is called Clancy — Charles Clancy — 
 while the murderer, or he under suspicion of being so, is 
 I Richard Darke, the son of Ephraiui Darke, a rich 
 4'pi planter. , 
 
 The paper gives further details : that the body of the 
 murdered man has not been found, before the time of its going 
 to press ; though the evidence collected leaves no doubt of a 
 foul deed having been done ; adding, that Darke, the man 
 ; of it, after being arrested and lodged in the county 
 jail, has managed to make his escape — this through conniv- 
 ance with his jailer, who has also disappeared from the place. 
 Just in time, pursues the report, to save the culprit's neck 
 from a rope, made ready for him by the executioners of ,1 a 
 
 b : a parly of whom had n the doors of the 
 
 prison, only to find it untenanted. The pa] I men- 
 
 the motive for the committal of the crime — at least as 
 
 tared; giving the name of a young lady, Miss Helen 
 
 , with her picture, found 
 
 upon the BUS perl; i i ; hat no 
 
 1 . T. T. — " Gone to 
 Texas" — a phrase of fr< | in the Southern Stairs, 
 
124 the death shot. 
 
 applied to fugitives from justice. Then follows the copy of a 
 uti.ition from the State authorities, offering a reward of 
 two thousand dollars for the apprehension of Richard Darke, 
 and live hundred for Joe Harkness — this being the name of 
 die conniving prison keeper. 
 
 While the murder is being canvassed and discussed by the 
 lon-vivants in the bar-room of the Choctaw Chief — a subject 
 that seems to have a strange fascination for them — Borlasse, 
 who has become elevated with the alcohol, though usually a 
 man of taciturn habit, breaks out with an asseveration, which 
 causes surprise to all, even his intimate associates. 
 
 " D — n the luck [" he vociferates, bringing his fist down 
 upon the counter till the decanters dance at the concussion ; 
 " I'd 'a given a hundred dollars to 'a been in the place o' that 
 fellow Darke, whoever he is!" 
 
 " Why ? " interrogate several of his confreres, in tones 
 that express the different degrees of their familiarity with 
 him questioned, "Why, Jim?" "Why, Mr. Borlasse?" 
 "Why, Captain?" 
 
 "Why ?" echoes the man of many titles, again striking the 
 counter, and causing decanters and glasses to jingle. " Why ? 
 Because that Clancy — that same Clancy — is the skunk that, 
 before a packed jury, half o' them yellar-bellied Mexikins, in 
 the town of Nacogdoches, swore I stealed a horse from him. 
 Not only swore it, but war believed ; an' got me — me, Jim 
 Borlasse — tied for twenty-four hours to a post, and whipped 
 into the bargain. Yes, boys, whipped ! An' by a d — d 
 Mexikin nigger, under the orders o' one o' their constables, 
 they call algazeels. I've got the mark o' them lashes on me 
 now, and can show them, if any o' ye hev a doubt about it. 
 I ain't 'shamed to show 'em to you fellows ; as ye've all got 
 something o' the same, I guess. But I'm burnin' mad to 
 think that Charley Clancy's escaped clear o' the vengeance 
 I'd sworn again him. I know'd he was comin' back to Texas, 
 him and his. That's what took him out thar, when I met him 
 at Nacogdoches. I've been waitin' and watchin' till he shed 
 stray this way. Now, it appears, somebody has spoilt my 
 plans — somebody o' the name Richard Darke. An', while I 
 envy this Dick Darke, I say d — n him for doin' it ! " 
 
 "D — n Dick Darke ! D — n him for doin' it!" rings out 
 the chorus of revellers, till the walls of the Choctaw Chief 
 re-echo their ribald blasphemy. 
 
 * # # # * 
 
 The drinking debauch is continued till a late hour, Quan- 
 
THE "CHOCTAW CHIEF." 125 
 
 trell paying shot for the whole party. Maudlin as most of 
 them have become, they still wonder that a man so shabbily 
 dressed can command so much cash and coin. Some of them 
 are not a little perplexed by it. 
 
 Borlasse is less so than any of his fellow-tipplers. He has 
 noted certain circumstances that give him a clue to the 
 explanation ; one, especially, which seems to make everything 
 clear. As the stranger, calling himself Phil Quantrell, stands 
 holding his glass in hand, hishandkerckief employed to wipe 
 the wine from his lips, and carelessly returned to his pocket, 
 slips out, and falls upon the floor. Borlasse stooping, picks it 
 up, but without restoring it to its owner. 
 
 Instead, he retires to one side ; and, unobserved, makes him- 
 self acquainted with a name embroidered on its corner. 
 
 When, at a later hour, the two sit together, drinking a last 
 good-night draught, Borlasse places his lips close to the 
 stranger's ear, saying in a wicked whisper, as if it were 
 Satan himself who spoke, — 
 
 " Tour name is not Philip Quantrell: 'tis Richard Darke!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE MURDEP. EE CNMASKED. 
 
 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 Eichard 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 mid- 
 night. The drinking "saloon" of the Choctaw Chief is 
 quite emptied of its guests. Even Johnny, the barkeeper, 
 has gone kitcheuwards to look after his supper. 
 
 There remains only Borlasse to bear witness to the effect 
 of his own speech ; which, though but whispered, has proved 
 so impressive. 
 
 The speaker, on his sido, shows no surprise. Throughout 
 
120 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 :ill 1 1 1<- eveniag be Has been taking tlie mcnsurc of his man, 
 a ii.l has arrived at a clear comprehension of the case. He BOW 
 knows lie is in tlie company of Charles Clancy'* a- 
 The disguise which Darke has adopted — the mere shaving 
 off moustaches ami dooaiag a dzees pi hamcrwotra "cot- 
 
 tanadet" — the common wear of the Louisiana Creoh — wilh 
 
 slouch had 10 conrespond, is too flimsy ami simple to di i 
 
 * 'a ptain .In: i 1 1 i !.. t, himself i istomed to travesties and 
 
 metamorphoses more ingenious. It is far from being the 
 first occasion lor him to moot a muruYn-r Seeing froxo 
 the scene of his crime - si'althilv, disgaisedly making way 
 towards that boundatry line, between the Unit* I 
 
 Texas — the limit, of executive justice. 
 
 "Come, Quaiitrell ! '' he says, raising his arm in a get 
 
 of i. is aranee. "don't waste the wine in that ridAk-el 
 fashion. Sou and me are alone, ami 1 pi ekia we umlerstaml 
 one another. If not, we soon will — the sooner by peer 
 puttin' on no nonsensical airs, but confessing tbt i ran.] ean- 
 did truth. First, then, answer me this qaestyan : Air yon, 
 or air ye not, Richard Darke? If ye air, don't he a 
 (o - ay so. No huinbuggcry ! Thar's no need for't. An' it 
 won't do for Jim Borlaese." 
 
 The stranger, trembling, hesitates to make reply. 
 
 Only for a moment. He sees it will he of do use d( n\ ing 
 his identity. The mail who has questioned him — oi 
 size and formidable aspect — notwithstanding the copious 
 
 draughts he has swallowed, appears > 1 as a tombstone 
 
 Stem as an Impii.-i'or. The bloodshot eyes, watery fchoog ;h 
 they be, look upon him with a leer that seems to say: " Tell 
 me a lie, and I'll 1 e your enemy.'' 
 
 At the same time those eyes speak of friendship ; s'ach a 
 may exist between two scoundrels eqtraily sti i pad 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, bi i 
 of its ropatS for harbouring such as he, sees he has reached 
 a haven of safety. 
 
 The volunteered confessions of Borlasse — the talc of bis 
 hostility to Clancy, and its cause — inspire him with confidence 
 about an} - revelations he may make in return. Beyond : 11 
 doubt his new aeipiaiutam <• stands in mud, deep as him 
 Without further hesitation, he says — "Ian/ Richard Darke.'' 
 
 " All right ! " is the rejoinder. " And now, Mr. Darke. I t 
 
THE MCBDEEEK UMIAShT.D. 127 
 
 me tell you, I like }'our manly way of answerin' the question 
 I've put ye. Same time, I may as well remark, 'twould 'a been 
 all one if ye'd sayed no! This child hain't been hidiii' 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 siiu'lar fix. First 
 day yon showed your face inside the Choctaw Chief I seed 
 thai- war something amiss ; tho', in course, I couldn't gie the 
 tiling a name, much less know 'twar that ugly word which 
 begins with a ML 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 coarse 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 ritr as you've got on, ivan't likely to be aspirin' to seeh 
 dainty damsels as them. You'll give in, yourself, it looked a 
 |T»eer; didn't it ': " 
 
 '■ I ct'n't know that it did," is the reply, pronounced dog- 
 gedlv, and in an assumed tone of devil-may-careishuess. 
 
 '• You don't ! Well, I thought so, up to the time o' get tin' 
 back to the tavern hvar — not many minims afore my meet in' 
 and askin' you to jineus in drinks. If you've any curiosity 
 to know what changed my mind, I'll tell ye." 
 
 '• What ? " asks Darke, scarcely reflecting on his words. 
 
 " That ere newspaper you war readin' when I gave you the 
 invite. I read it afore you did, and had ciphered out the 
 whole thin::. Puttin' six and six tliegither, I could easy make 
 the dozen. The same bein', that one of the yonng ladies 
 I is the Miss Helen Armstrong spoke of in 
 the paper ; and the man I observed watchin' her is Richard 
 Darke, who killed Charles Clancy — y urself! " 
 
 "I — I am — I won't — I don't deny it to you, Mr. Borlasse. 
 I am Richard Darke. I did kill Chaj ' Clai cy ; though I 
 j ing said I murdered him." 
 
 "Never mind that. Between frauds, 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 caH society, an' hunted from the settle- 
 ments, he's not like to lose the respect of them who's been 
 
128 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 sarved the same way. Your bein' Richard Darke an' bavin 
 killed Charles Clancy, in no ways makes you an enemy o 
 Jim Borlasse — except in your bavin' 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 seudin' 
 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 lias 
 inspired him, this reference to bis future brings up its dark- 
 ness, with its dangers ; and be pauses before making response. 
 
 Without waiting for it, bis questioner continues : 
 
 " If you've got no fixed plan of action, and will listen to 
 the advice of a friend, I'd advise you to become one o ?/*." 
 
 " One of you ! What does that mean, Mr. Borlasse ? " 
 
 " Well ; I can't tell you here," answers Borlasse, in a sub- 
 dued tone. " Desarted as this bar-room appear to be, it's got 
 ears for all that. I see that curse, Johnny, sneakin' about, 
 pretendiu' to be lookin' after bis supper. If be 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. / ain't goin' to beteiy 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 bavin' 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. 
 
E!L 
 
 £&»$>&; 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 " WILL YOU BE ONE OF US ? " 
 
 jlXCE 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, Quautrell, 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 ? " 
 
 " Tes, 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 nowhercs to the merry times we spend upon the 
 prairies out in Texas — for it's in Texas we live." 
 
 " May I ask, Mr. Borlasse, what business you follow?" 
 
 " Well ; when we're engaged in regular business, it's mostly 
 horse-catchin'. We rope wild horses, mustangs, as they're 
 called ; an' sometimes them that ain't jest so wild. We bring 
 'em into the settlements for sale. For which reason we pass 
 by the name of muslanr/crs. 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 iu 
 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, showirg surprise, 
 not unmixed with alarm. 
 
 " Glancing at ye ; strait custrut ; them same eyes as in- 
 
 10 
 
130 
 
 THE DEATH SIIOT. 
 
 spired yc to do that little Lit of shootin', wi' Charley Clancy 
 for a target." 
 " You think she saw me ? " asks the assassin, with in- 
 j uneasiness. 
 
 " Think ! I'm sure of it. More than saw — she recognized 
 ye. I could tell that from the way she shot back into tho 
 shadow. Did ye not notice it yourself? " 
 
 " No," rejoins Darke, the monosyllable issuing mechani- 
 cally from his lips, while a shiver runs through his frame. 
 
 His questioner, observing these signs, continues, — 
 
 "Take my advice, and come with us fellows to Texas. 
 Before you're long there, the Mexikin girls will make you 
 stop moping about Miss Armstrong. After the first fandango 
 you've been at, you won't care a straw for her. Believe me, 
 you'll soon forget her." 
 
 "Never !" exclaims Darke, in the fervour of his passion — 
 thwarted though it has been — forgetting the danger he is in. 
 
 "If that's your detarmination," returns Borlasse, "an' 
 you've made up your mind to keep that sweetheart in sight, 
 you won't be likely to live long. As sure as you're sittin' 
 thar, afore breakfast time to-morrow mornin' the town ot 
 Nakctosh '11 be too hot to hold ye." 
 
 Darke starts from his chair, as if it had become too hot. 
 
 " Keep cool, Quantrell ! " counsels the Texan. " No need 
 for ye to be scared at what I'm sayin'. Thar's no great 
 danger jest yet. There might be, if you were in that chair, 
 or this room, eight hours later. I won't be myself, not one. 
 Fur I may as well tell yc, 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. 
 
"will tou be one of rs?" 131 
 
 A word will be sufficient ; or, at most, a single speech. He 
 puts it thus — 
 
 " If you're determined to stick by the apron-strings o' Miss 
 Armstrong, you'll not do that by staying here in Naketosh. 
 Your best place, to be near her, will be along with me." 
 
 "How so, Mr. Borlasse?" questions Darke, his eyes open- 
 ing to a new light. " Why do you say that ? " 
 
 " Tou 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. 1 believe you ; and will be candid, 
 too, in sayin', no more is Jim Borlasse like to forget tho 
 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 samo 
 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, Thil Quantrell, or Dick Darke, as in confidence 1 
 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' tho danger of staying 
 behind ; not that he appears o' much account, anyway. 
 Still, among us mustangers, the more the merrier ; and, some- 
 times 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 saddlen 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, Quan- 
 trell, look sharp ; in twenty minutes, time, I expect to find 
 you an' Harkness in the saddle, where youll see ten o' us 
 others the same." 
 
 Saying this, the Teian strides out into the corridor, Darke 
 
132 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 preceding him. In the dimly-lighted passage they part eom- 
 |i:in\, Borlasse opening door after door of several bedrooms, 
 ranged on both sides of it; into each, speaking a WOrd, 
 v, (rich, tliongh only in whisper, seems to awake a sleeper as if 
 a cannon were discharged close to his ears. Then succet ds a 
 general shuffling, as of men hastily putting on coats and 
 boots, with an occasional grunt of discontent at slumber dis- 
 turbed ; but neither talking nor angry protest. Soon, one 
 after another, is seen issuing forth from bis sleeping apart- 
 ment, skulking along the corridor, out through the entrance 
 door at back, and on towards the stable. 
 
 PreBently, they fetch their horses forth, saddled and bridled. 
 Then, leaping upon their backs, ride silently off under the 
 shadow of the trees; Borlaj 3e at their head, Quantrell by his 
 side, Harkness among those behind. 
 
 Almost instantly tibey arc 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 barkeeper 
 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, — 
 
 "Bejapers! they intind clearin' that tellow Quantrell out. 
 He won't long be throublcd wid that shinin' stuff as seems 
 burnin' the bottom out av his pocket. I wudn't he Burr- 
 prized 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 shilling upon its shingled 
 roof peacefully and innocently, as flmueli 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'er- 
 topping the trees. Then is it surrounded fey angry men ; its 
 wooden walls re-echoing their demand for admittance. 
 
 They are the local authorities of the district; the sheriff of 
 Natchitoches with his posse of constables, and a crowd of 
 people accompanying. Among them are Colonel Armstrong 
 and the Creole, Dupre ; these instigating the movement; 
 indeed, directing it. 
 
 A.l' knew, from yesterday's newspaper, of the murder com- 
 
" WILL YOU BE ONE OF CS ? " 133 
 
 niitted 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 barkeeper 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 par- 
 ticularly given, because not so specially called for. In that 
 of Quantrell and Walsh, Colonel Armstrong, without diffi- 
 culty, identities 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 Bor- 
 lasse, 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 XXXV. 
 
 A GHOST GOING ITS ROUNDS. 
 
 T 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 interro- 
 gated, 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 
 
134 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 other circumstances attendant, there is testimony of a moral 
 nature, to many quite as convincing. 
 
 Alive he would long since have returned home, at thought 
 of what his mother must be suffering. He was just the man 
 to do that, as all who knew him are aware. Even wounded 
 and crippled, if able to crawl, it would be to the side of the 
 only woman at such a crisis he should care for. 
 
 Though it is now known that he cared for another, no one 
 entertains a thought of his having gone off after her. It 
 would not be in keeping with his character, any more than 
 with the incidents and events that have conspired to make 
 the mystery. Days pass, and it still remains one. 
 
 The sun rises and sets, without throwing any light upon it. 
 Conjecture can do nothing to clear it np ; 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 settle- 
 ment. 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 stirabout the place, with noise 
 corresponding, when the chattels were being disposed of by 
 public auction. Then the household gods of the decayed 
 Irish gentleman were knocked down to the highest bidder, 
 and scattered throughout the district. Rare books, pictures, 
 and other articles, telling of refined taste, with some slight 
 remnants of bijouterie, were carried off to log-cabins, there to 
 be esteemed in proportion to the prices paid for them. In 
 fine, the Clancy cottage, stripped of everything, has been left 
 untenanted. Lone as to the situation in which it stands, it is 
 yet lonelier in its desolation. Even the dog, that did such 
 service in pointing out the criminality of him who caused 
 all the ruin, no longer guards its enclosures, or cheers them 
 
A GHOST GOIXG ITS ROUNDS. 135 
 
 with liis 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, car- 
 ries it on through the hours of night ; so well counterfeiting 
 the notes of his fellow-songsters, one might fancy them awake 
 — still singing. 
 
 Not so melodious are other voices disturbing the stillness 
 of the Southern night. Quite the opposite are the croaking 
 of frogs, the screeching of owls, the jerking call of tree 
 crickets, and the bellowing of the alligator. Still, the 
 ear accustomed to such sounds is not jarred by them. They 
 are but the bass notes, needed to complete the symphony of 
 Nature's concert. 
 
 In the midst of this melange, — the hour, as already stated, 
 midnight — a man, or something bearing man's semblance, 
 is seen gliding along the edge of the cypress swamp, not far 
 from the place where Charles Clancy fell. 
 
 After skirting the mud-flat for a time, the figure — whether 
 ghost or human — turns face toward the tract of lighter wood- 
 land, 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 contem- 
 
136 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 plating it. That ho is aware of its being unoccupied is 
 evident, from the glance with whioh he regards it. 
 
 His familiarity with the place is equally evident. On en- 
 tering the cottage grounds, which he soon after does, through 
 some shrubbery at the back, ho takes the path leading up m 
 the house, without appearing to havo any doubt about its 
 being the right one. 
 
 For all this ho makes approach with caution, looking sus- 
 pii iously 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 IB empty; 
 has been stripped of its furniture, of everything. What 
 should any one be doing there ? 
 
 What is he doing there ? A question which would suggest 
 itself to one seeing him; with interest added on making note 
 of his movements. 
 
 There is no one to do either ; and he continues on to the 
 house, making for its back door, where there is a porch, as 
 also a covered way, leading to a log-cabin — the kitchen. 
 
 Even as within the porch, he tries the handle of the door ; 
 which at a touch goes open. There is no lock, or if there 
 was, it has not been thought worth while to turn the key in 
 it. There arc no burglars in the backwoods. If there were, 
 nothing in that house need tempt them. 
 
 Its nocturnal visitor enters under its roof. The ling 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 par- 
 ticular 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. 
 
A GHOST GOIXG ITS ROUNDS. 137 
 
 After surrendering himself some minutes to what appears 
 a very agony of grief, he turns out of the sleeping chamber ; 
 passes through the narrow hall-way ; and on into the porch: 
 Not now the back one, but that facing front — to the road. 
 
 On the other side of this is an open tract of ground, half 
 cleared, half woodland ; the former sterile, the latter scraggy. 
 It seems to belong to no one, as if not worth claiming, or 
 cultivating. It has been, in fact, an appanage of Colonel 
 Armstrong's estate, who had granted it to the public as the 
 site for a schoolhouse, and a common burying-ground — free to 
 all desiring to be instructed, or needing to be interred. The 
 schoolhouse has disappeared, but the cemetery is still there — 
 only distinguishable from the surrounding terrain by some 
 oblong elevations, having the well-known configuration of 
 graves. There are in all about a score of them ; some having 
 a plain headboard — 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 grayish, 
 with dates decayed, and names scarcely legible. But there is 
 one upon which the paint shows fresh aud 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 tnrf is almost con- 
 gealed into hoar frost, adding to its ghostly aspect. 
 
 The lettering upon the headboard 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 
 
138 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 night's dullness, he stretches his arms over tho cold turf, em- 
 bracing 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 I am hero ! 
 And you, dead ! No more to know — no more hear me ! 
 God!" 
 
 They are the words of ono 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 j-ou 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 maD 
 standing within six paces of the spot. 
 
 "Sime Woodlcy !" 
 
<s? 
 
 ' * -I* •** 4£_^ 4* «?t _ -^_ 4t^ -K~. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 "SHE IS TRUE — STILL TREE ! " 
 
 HE 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 super- 
 natural. 
 
 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 Nacog- 
 doches, 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 whipjied, 
 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. Return- 
 ing at a late hour, he must needs pass the cottage of tho 
 Clancys, his own humble domicile lying beyond. At sight 
 of the deserted dwelling a painful throb passed through his 
 
140 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 licarfc, as be recalled the sad fate of those who once occu- 
 pied it. 
 
 Making an effort to forget the gloomy record, he was riding 
 on, when a figure flitting across the road arrested his atteu- 
 tion. 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 mid- 
 night wanderer, whoso 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, bend- 
 ing forward as if to read the epitaph on its painted slab. 
 Soon alter 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, 
 Hinging himself upon it in sorrow or adoration ? 
 
 With a feeling far different froni 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 adju- 
 ration, and see a face ho never expected to look upon again. 
 Despite the features, pale and marked with emaciation, the 
 hollow cheeks, and sunken but glaring eyeballs, he recog- 
 nized 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 con- 
 gratulation. 
 
 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 of 
 chagrin, as if sorry at the encounter having occurred. His 
 words arc proof of it. 
 
" SHE IS TKUE — STILL TKUE ! " 141 
 
 " 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' yon 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. God ! look there ! Her grave — my 
 murderrd mother ! " 
 
 " That's true. It killed the poor lady, sure enough." 
 
 " Yes ; he killed her." 
 
 " I needn't ax who you refar to. I heerd you mention the 
 name as I got np. We all know that Dick Darke has done 
 whatever hez been done. We hed him put in prison, but the 
 skunk got away from ns, 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 sartinly 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 
 yon. Rather am I glad of it ; for I feel that I can depend 
 upon }"ou. Sime, will yon go with me to Texas P ' 
 
 "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 tho 
 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 w r ith open arms ; lovingly entwine them around 
 his neck. 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. 
 
112 
 
 TUE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 Thar' can be no doubt o' Miss Armstrong's being the inner- 
 cent cause of most o' what's been did. But as to her 
 licvin' a likin' for Dick Darke, or puttin' them soft white arms 
 o' hern willingly or lovingly aroun' his neck, thar you're clar 
 oft' the trail — a million miles oft' o' it. That ere gurl hates 
 the very sight o' the man, as Simc 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 1 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 doekyment, 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 
 clarcr light than what's unner this tree, or kin be got out o' 
 that 'ere moon. S'pose we adjern to my shanty. Thar wc 
 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'vo had a durned dodrotted deal both o' suffbrin' an' sor- 
 row. Be cheered ! Simc 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 cnwelope. 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 XXXVII. 
 
 THE HOME OF THE HUNTED SI..WB. 
 
 i BROUGHOUT 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 occu- 
 
 n Woodley meeting him by his mother's grave. 
 
 Not all put theu 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 ap- 
 proximating 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. 
 
 Ee is still but a young fellow, with face beardless; only tv. ■ 
 darkish Btreaks of down along the upper lip. But the absence 
 of virile sign upon his cheeks has full compensation in a thick 
 ing hi- crown, where the hair of Shem struggles 
 for supremacy with the wool of Ham, and so successfully, a ■ 
 to result in a profusion of curls of which Apollo might be 
 proud. The god of Beauty need m.t want a better form or 
 face; nor he of Strength a set of sinews tougher, or limb 
 more tersely knit. Young though he may lie, Jupe has per 
 • 1 feats of Herculean strength, requiring courage as well. 
 No wonder at his baying won Jule ! 
 
 A free fearless spirit he ; somewhat wild, though not hear'- 
 
 11 
 
144 THE DEATH 8H0T. 
 
 wicked; a good ilea] given tu nocturnal excursions to in 
 bouring plantations; hence the infliction of the lash, which 
 has final!] can ed bis absconding from that of Ephraim D 
 
 •v jovial fellow he has been — would be still — but for 
 the cloud of danger that bangs over him; dark as the den in 
 which he lias found a hiding place. This is in the very heart 
 and centre of the cypress swam]', as also in the heart and 
 hollow of a cypress tree. No dead log, but a living growing 
 trunk, which hi amis on a little eyot, not immediately sur- 
 rounded by water, but marsh and mud. There is 
 beyond, on every side, exti nding more than a mile, with trees 
 ling in and shadowing its stagnant surface. 
 
 On the little islet Nature has provided a home for the 
 hunted fugitive — an asylum where lie 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 approai i ■! 
 by water-craft, and is equally unapproachable by laud. Even 
 a dog could not make way through tin quagmire of mud, 
 stretching immediately around it to a distance of several hun- 
 dred yards. If one tried, it would soon he snapped up by the 
 great saurian, master of this darksome domain. .Still is there 
 . 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 oppn ssed 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 con- 
 structed 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, be 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, re- 
 solved to risk everything, life itself, rather than longer endure 
 the tyrannous treatment of the Darkes. 
 
THE HOME Of THE HUNTED SLAVE. 
 
 145 
 
 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 disposi 
 tiou, this has been irksome to him. Otherwise, he has com 
 forts 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 alli- 
 gator, aud make a meal off the tenderest part of its tail; this 
 yielding a steak which, if not equal to best beef, is at all 
 events eatable. 
 
 But Jupe has never been driven to diet on alligator meat, 
 too much of musky flavour. His usual fare is roast pork, 
 with now and then broiled ham and chicken; failing which, a 
 fricassee of 'coon or a barbecue of 'possum. No lack of bread 
 besides — maize bread — in its various bakings of " pone," " hce- 
 cake," and " dodger." Sometimes, too, he indulges in " Vir- 
 ginia 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- 1 Does Jupiter himself steal them 1 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 — 
 
mi. i>i Alii suoT. 
 
 exoept Phoebe. To her the little matter of commissariat has 
 arily been made known, 1 > \- rep iti 1 drafts on her meat- 
 safe, and calls upon her culinary skill. She has no jealous 
 suspicion a.s 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 XXXVIII. 
 
 AN EXCURSION BY OANOH. 
 
 jlN that day when Dick Darke way-laid Charles 
 Clancy, almost the same hour hi which the strife 
 is taking place between them, the fugitive slave 
 is standing by the side of his hollow tree, ou the 
 bit of dry land around its roots. 
 
 His air and bearing indicate intention not to stay there long. 
 Ever and anon he easts a glance upward, as if endeavouring 
 to make out the time of day. A thing not ea.sily 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 i v than usually anxious about it. Men- 
 tal, 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 realitioe. 
 
n uy i anoe. ' : 
 
 One of the last, and latest, is the intention of the Arm- 
 strongs to remove from the neighbourhood. He has already 
 
 . as also their destination. It might not so much 
 for the implied supposition that his sweett 
 heart will be going along with them. In fact, he feels sure of 
 it: an assurance that, so far from causing regret, rather gives 
 It promises a happier future for all. Jupe, 
 I thoughts about Texas. Net that the Lone Star 
 State is at all lam for such as he ; 1 ut upon its wild 
 
 border-land there may lie a chance for him to escape the 
 by alliance with the savage ! Even 
 this idea of a freedom far off, difficult of realization, and if 
 realized 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 
 her changed by them. His Jule will be going to 
 Texas, along with her master and young mistresses. In the 
 of rejoining her, he will go there Too -as soon as he cart 
 io n the swamp. 
 (In this evening he expects later news, with a more particular 
 about to be done. Blue Bill is to bring 
 them, and direct from Jule, whom the coon-hunter has pro- 
 mised Jupe has a hope of being able to see 
 her himself, previous to departure; and to arrange an inter- 
 view, through the intervention of his friend, is the matter now 
 o i his mind. No wonder, then, his scanning the sky, tr 
 t reflection, with glances that speak impatience. 
 At length, becoming satisfied it must be near night, he stalls 
 ..3' fr, i and makes way along the causeway furnished 
 liy 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 hist of them show- 
 ing above, is the wreck of a grand forest fgiant, with branch s 
 tindecayed, and still carrying the parasite of Spanish moss in 
 profusion. This hanging down in str tters over the 
 -urfaee 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 <■!' se 
 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 
 . l!o " dug o .t." 
 No surprise to the runaway slave seeing it there . no more 
 at its seeming to have been placed in concealment. It is bis 
 own property, by himself secreted. 
 
148 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 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. 
 
 Away for a while through thick Btanding trunks that re- 
 quire many tortuous turnings to avoid them. 
 
 At length a creek is reached, a bayou with scarce any cur- 
 rent ; along which the canoe-man continues his course, pro- 
 pelling the craft up Btream. lie lias made way for something 
 more than a mile, when a noise readies his car, causing him 
 to suspend stroke, with a suddeness 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. 1< aving 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. 
 
 Ceit airily a dog giving tongue — but in tone strange, unin 
 telligible. 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) chastized ! 
 
 After listening to it for some time — for it is nearly con- 
 tinuous — 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 1 ? There must, be something amiss to make it cry 
 out in that strain. Hope 'taint no mischance happened t 
 young masser, the best man about all these parts. < i l 
 wliat will, I'll go to the ground, an' see." 
 
 A few more strokes carries the canoe on to the place, wher 
 its owner has been accustomed to moor it, for meeting i : 
 Bill; and where on this evening, as on others, he has arrange i 
 his interview with the coon-hunter. A huge ycamoi t i 
 ing half on land, half in the water, with long 
 
AN EXCLUSION BY CANOE. 
 
 149 
 
 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 bauk 
 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 cautiou. 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 caa reach 
 another without being seen. 
 
 1 1 e 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. Xo man near — at 
 least none in sight. Xo 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. 
 I'm]- In- 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 
 :. after being struck by Darke's bullet, did not go 
 directly home. Tl er3 could be no home where its master was 
 not; and it knew lie would not be there. In the heart of the 
 faithful creature, while rel ction got the better of 
 
 its fears ; and once more turning, it trotted back to the scene 
 of tin- tragedy. 
 
160 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 This time not hindered from approaching the spot"; the 
 Ik' supposed him elf 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 
 douhl the animal believed, 'while tearing aside the moss with 
 claws and teeth, and afterwards with warm I 
 i old face. 
 
 Believing it still, as crouched beside the seeming corpse it 
 continues its plaintive lamentation, which yet perplexes the 
 runaway,. N\liile alarming him. 
 
 Not for long does he listen to it. There is no one in 
 therefore no i ue to be feared. Certainly not Charles Clancy. 
 nor his dog. With confidence thus restored, he I 
 place of concealment, and stri o the the 
 
 hound has couched itself. At Ids 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 tor.e, 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 
 hem. 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 ti be di ad 
 
 lie has nc other thought, than that he is standing beside a 
 corpse ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 18 IT A CORPSE I 
 
 JIURELY CHARL CLANCY !" exclaims the mulatto 
 as soon as setting eyes on the face. " Dead — 
 k'^gj5|a shot — murdered ! " 
 
 For a time he stands aghast, with arms up- 
 raised, and oyes staring wildly. 
 
 Then, as if struck by something in the appearance of the 
 corpse, he muttering])' interrogates: 
 " Is he sure gone dead ? " 
 
 To convince" himself he kneels down beside the body, having 
 •learod away the loose coverlet still partially shrouding it. 
 
IS IT A CORPSE \ 
 
 151 
 
 He sees the blood, and the wound from which it is yet 
 welling. He places his hand over the heart with a hope it 
 may still be beating. 
 
 Surely it is ! Or is he mistaken ? 
 
 The pulse should be a better test ; and he proceeds to feel it, 
 taking the smooth white wrist between his rough brown fingers. 
 
 " It beats ! I do believe it does!" are his words, spoken 
 hopefully. 
 
 For some time he retains his grasp of the wrist. To make 
 more sure, he tries the artery at different point3, with a touch 
 as tender, as if holding in his hand the life of an infant. 
 
 He becomes certain that the heart throbs ; that there is yet 
 breath in the body. 
 
 What next I What is he to do 1 
 
 Hasten to the settlement, and summon a doctor ? 
 
 He dares not do this : nor seek assistance of any kind. To 
 show himself to a white man would be to go back into hated 
 bondage — to the slavery from which he has so lately, 
 and at risk of life, escaped. It would be an act of grand 
 generosity — a self-sacrifice — more than man, more than 
 human being is capable of. Could a poor runaway slave be 
 expected to make it ? 
 
 Some sacrifice he intends making, as may be gathered from 
 t creel words : 
 
 " Breath in his body, or no breath, it won't do to leave it 
 lyiu' here. Poor young gen'leman ! The best of them all 
 about these parts. What would Miss Helen say if she see 
 him now? What will she say when she hear o' it ? I wonder 
 who's done it ? No, I don't — not a bit. There's only one 
 likely. From what Jule told me, I thought 't would come to 
 this, some day. Wish I could a been about to warn him. 
 Will, it's too Lite now. The Devil has got the upper hand, as 
 seem always the way. Ah I what '11 become o' Miss Arm- 
 strong? She loved him, sure as I love Jule, or Jule me." 
 
 For a time he stands considering what he ought to do. 
 The dread spectacle has driven out of his mind all thoughts of 
 his appointment with Blue Bell; just as what preceded hin- 
 dered the coon-huuter from keeping it with him. For the 
 latter, terrified, has taken departure from the dangerous place, 
 and is now hastening homeward. 
 
 Only for a short while does the mulatto remain hesitating. 
 His eyes are upon the form at his feet. He sees warm blood 
 still oozing from the wound, and knows, or hopes, Clancy is 
 not dead. Something must be done immediately. 
 
i- - THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 "Di 1 1 ' ] ■ ■. I "i urn -'nt , ahaat leai e him 
 
 here. The wolves would soon make bare hones of him. ai 
 carrion crows peck thai handsome face of his. They shant 
 either get at him. No. He's did me a kindness more'n i 
 it's my turn now. Slave, mulatto, nigger, as they call me, 
 I'll show them that under a coloured skin there can be grati- 
 tude, lis much as under a white one — may be more. Show 
 them! What am I talkiti' 'bout? There's nobody to see. 
 Good thing for me there isn't. But there might be, if I stand 
 shilly-shallying here. I musn't a minute longer." 
 
 Bracing himself for an effort, he opens his arms, and stoops 
 as to take up the body. Just then the hound, for some time 
 silent, again gives out its mournful monotone — continuing the 
 dirge the runaway had interrupted. 
 
 Suddenly he rises erect, and glances around, a new fear 
 showing upon his face. For he perceives a new danger in the 
 presence of the dog. 
 
 " What's to be done with it 1" he asks himself. " I daren't 
 take it along. 'Twould be sure some day make a noise, and 
 guide the nigger-hunters to my nest ] I mus'nt risk that. To 
 leave the dog here may be worse still. It'll sure follow me 
 toatin away its master, an' if it didn't take to the water an' swim 
 after 'twould know where the dug-out lay, an' might show them 
 the place. I shant make any tracks ; for all that they'd sus- 
 pect somethin' down the creek, an' come that way sarchin. 
 'Twont do take the dog — 'twont do to leave it — what will do 1" 
 
 The series of reflections, and questions, runs rapidly as 
 thought itself. And to the last, quick as thought, comes an 
 answer — a plan which promises a solution of the difficulty. 
 He thinks of killing the dog — cutting its throat with his 
 knife. 
 
 Only for an instant is the murderous intent in his mind. 
 In the next he changes it, saying: 
 
 "I can't do that — no; the poor brute so 'fectionate an' 
 faithful .' 'Twould be downright cruel. A'most the same as 
 murderin' a man. I wont do it." 
 
 Another pause spent in considering; another plan soon 
 suggesting itself. 
 
 "Ah!" he exclaims, with air showing satisfied, "I have it 
 now. That'll be just the thing." 
 
 The "thing" thus approved of, is to tie the hound to a tree, 
 and so leave it. 
 
 First to get hold of it. For this he turns towards the 
 animal, and commences coaxing it nearer. "Come up, ole 
 
is it a corps I 153 
 
 fella. You aint afeerd o' me. I'm Juj e, your master's friend, 
 ye know. There's a good dog! Come now: come!" 
 
 The deer-hound, not afraid, does not flee him]; and soon he 
 has his hands upon it. 
 
 Pulling a piece of cord out of his pocket, he continues to 
 apostrophise it, saying: 
 
 "Stand still, good dog! Steady, and let me slip this round 
 your neck. Dont be skeeart. I'm not goin' to hang you — 
 only to keep you quiet a bit." 
 
 The animal makes no resistance; but yields to the manipu- 
 lal 0.1, believing it to be by a friendly hand, and for its good. 
 
 In a trice the cord is knotted around its neck; aud the 
 nmla" to looks out for a tree to which he may attach it. 
 
 A thought now strikes him, another step calling for caution. 
 It will not do to let the dog see him go off, or know the 
 direction he takes; for some one will be sure to come in search 
 of Clancy, and set the hound loose. Still, time will likely 
 i la e; the scent will be cold, as far as the creek's edge, and 
 ca t be lifted. With the water beyond there will be no 
 . 
 
 Th3 runaway, glancing around, espies a palmetto brake; 
 these forming a sort of underwood in the cypress forest, their 
 fan-shaped leaves growing on stalks that rise directly out of 
 the earth to a height of three or four feet, covering the ground 
 with a cheuaux de /rise of deepest green, but hirsute and 
 spinous as hedgehogs. 
 
 Thj very place for his purpose. So mutters he to himself, 
 as he conducts the dog towards it. StUl thinking the same, 
 after he has tied the animal to a palmetto shank near the 
 middle of the brake, and there left it. He goes oif, regardless 
 of its convulsive struggles to set itself free, with accompany- 
 ing yelps, by which the betrayed quadruped seems to protest 
 against such unexpected, as ill-deserved, captivity. 
 
 Xot five minutes time has all this action occupied. In less 
 than five more a second chapter is complete, by the carrying 
 of Clancy's body — it may be his corpse — to the creek, and 
 laying it along the bottom of the cauoe. 
 
 Notwithstanding the weight of his burden, the mulatto, a 
 
 iinn of uncommon strength, takes care to make no footmarks 
 
 along the forest path, or at the point of embarkation. The 
 
 '-. thickly strewn with the leaves of the deciduous 
 
 );*, does not betray a trace, any more than if he were 
 
 : on thrashed straw. 
 
 Undoing the slip-knot of his painter, he shoves the canoe 
 
154 
 
 VHK OKA 111 
 
 clear of its entanglement among the roots of the tree. Then 
 plying his paddle, direct down stream, silently as 
 
 with look more troubled, and air intensely 
 solemnal. 'Tins continuing, while be again Bhoulders the 
 insensible form, and carries il along the causeway of logs, 
 until he lias laid i moss within the cavity of the 
 
 cypress -his own couch. Then, once tnon taking Clancy's 
 between his fingei ng his car opposite the 
 
 heart, he feels the pulse of the first, and listens for the beatings 
 of the last. 
 
 A ray of joy illuminates his countenance, as both respond 
 lination. It grows brighter, on perceiving a mus- 
 cular movement of the limbs, late rigid and seemingly inani- 
 mate, a light in the eyes looking like life; above all, 
 from the lips so long mute, Words low-murmured, but still 
 distinguishable ; telling him a tale, at the same time giving 
 its interpretation. That in this hour of his unconsciousness 
 Clancy should in his peech couple the names of Richard 
 
 Darke and Helen Armstrong is a fact Stn i rant. 
 
 he does the same for many days, in his delirious ravings; amid 
 which the mulatto, tenderly nursing him, gets the cl 
 most of what has happened. 
 
 Clearer when his patient, at length restored to consciousness, 
 confides everything to t ho faithful fellow who has so befriended 
 
 him. Every circumstance he ought to know . at the same ti 
 
 imparting secrecy. 
 
 This, so closely kept, that even Blue Bill, while liimselt 
 disclosing many an item of news exciting I ot, is 
 
 not entrusted with one the most interesting, and which would 
 have answered the questions on every tongue: "What has 
 become of Charles Clancy?" and "Where is his bodj !" 
 
 Clancy still in it, living and breathing, has his reasons for 
 keeping the fact concealed. He has succeeded in doinp 
 this night j till encountering Simeon Woodl 
 his mother's tomb. 
 
 And now on Woodley's own hearth, after all has been ex- 
 plained. Clancy once more returns to speak of the purpo 
 has but half communicated to the hunter. 
 
 "You say, Sime, I can depend upon you to stand 1>\ me '" 
 
 " Ye may stake yur life on that. Had you i v er reezun to 
 misdoubt me ? " 
 
 " No — never." 
 
 "But, Charley, ye hain't tolt me why ye appeared p bit 
 
13 IT A OORPflK'f I ■'■> 
 
 displeezed at meetin' me the night. Thai 
 
 tn me." 
 
 "There was nothing m Only that 1 didn'1 
 
 to meet, or be seen by, any one till ! should be strong enough 
 to earn out my purpose. It would, in all probability, be 
 
 defeated were the world to know I am still alive. That 
 1 shall expeet you to keep." 
 
 " You kin trust to me for that ; an' yur plans too. Don't 
 be afeerd to confide them to Sime Woodley. Mayhe he on 13 
 help ye to gettin' 'em ship shape." 
 
 Clancy is gratified at this offer of aid. For he knows that 
 in the backwoodsman he will find his best ally ; that besides 
 his friendship tested and proved, he is the very man 
 with him in the work he has cut out for himself— a purpose 
 which has engrossed his thoughts ever since consciousness 
 came back after his long dream of delirium. It is that so 
 solemnly proclaimed, as he stood in the cemetery, with no 
 thought of any one overhearing him. 
 
 He had then three distinct passions impelling him to the 
 stern threat — three reasons, any of them sufficient to ensure 
 his keeping it. First, his own wrongs. True the attempt at 
 assassinating him had failed ; still the criminality remained 
 the same. But the second had succeeded. His mother's 
 corpse was under the cold sod at his feet, her blood calling to 
 him for vengeance. And still another passion prompted him 
 to seek it — perhaps the darkest of all, jealousy in its direst 
 shape; the sting from a love promised but unbestowed. For 
 the coon-hunter had never told Jupe of Helen Armstrong's 
 letter. Perhaps, engrossed with other cares, he had forgotten 
 it; or, supposing the circumstance known to all, had not 
 thought it worth communicating. Clancy, therefore, up to 
 that hour, believed his sweetheart not only false to himself, 
 but having favoured his rival. 
 
 The bitter delusion, new removed, does not in any way alter 
 his determination. That is fixed beyond change, as he tells 
 Simeon Woodley while declaring it. He will proceed to 
 Texas in quest of the assassin — there kill him. 
 
 "The poor old place!" he says, pointing to th 
 he passes it on return to the swamp. "No more mine! 
 Empty everj Btick sold out of it, I've heard. Well, let 
 them go ! I go to Texas." 
 
 •■An' I with ye. To Texas, or anywhar, in a cause like 
 your'n, Clancy. Sime Woodley wouldn't desarve the name 0' 
 man. to hang back on a trail like that. Bui 1 in't ye 
 
lilt DEATH SHUT. 
 
 (Kink we'd tre more likely o' findin' the game i\ 
 Ef ye make it kn^wu thai you're (ill alive, then thar ain't 
 order done, an' Dick Parke '11 be sure to kum home 
 agin." 
 
 ■■ If he tame what could I do; Shoot him down like a dog, 
 e thought he had me? That would make nu a mui 
 with good chance of being hanged for it. In Texas it is 
 
 different. There, if I can meet him . But we onlj Lose 
 
 time in talking. You say, AY Hey, you'll go with mel" 
 
 "In course I've said it, and I'll do as I've sayed. There's 
 no backin' out in this child. Besides, I war jest thinkin' o' 
 a return to Texas, afore 1 seed you. An' t bar's another 11 
 long wi' us; that's young Ned Heywood, a friend o' 
 your'n most as much as myself. Ned's wantin' bad to steer 
 torsi the Lone Star State. So, thar'll be three o' us on the 
 trail o' Dick Darke." 
 
 " There will he four of us.'' 
 
 "Four! Who's the t'other, may i ax"?" 
 
 " A man I've sworn to take to Texas along with me. A 
 
 brave, noble man, though his skin be . lint never mind 
 
 now. I'll tell you all about it by-and-by. Meanwhile we 
 must get ready. There's not a mometrl to lose. A sing'e day 
 1. and I maybe too late to settle scores with Richard 
 Darke. There's some one else in danger from him " 
 
 Here Clancy's utterance becomes indistinct, as if his voice 
 were stifled by strong emotion. 
 
 "Some one else!" echoes Sinie, interrupting; " who mout 
 \ e mean. Clancy f ' 
 
 "Her." 
 
 " That air's Helen Armstrong. I don't see how she kin be 
 in any danger from Dick Darke. Thet ere gurl bev courage 
 enuf to take care o' herself, an' the spirit too. Besides, she'll 
 hev about her purtectors a plenty." 
 
 " There can be no safety against an assassin. Who should 
 know thai better than 1 1 Woodley, that man's wicked enough 
 ivthing." 
 
 " 'then, let's straight to Texas !" 
 
!y 
 
 
 ■ 
 
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 <» •'_' 
 
 ■: -: 
 
 4, Jf 
 
 
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 £* 
 
 ! * 
 
 <r 
 
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 ^ 
 
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 ^v 
 
 4- 
 
 f? 
 
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 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 1 ACROSS I1IK SABINE. 
 
 f;T the time when Texas was an independent Republic, 
 and not, as now, a State of the Federal Union, the 
 phrase, " Across the Sabine " was one of noted sig- 
 nification. 
 
 Its significance lay in the fact, that fugitives from States' 
 justice, once over the Sabine, felt themselves safe; extradition 
 lavs being somewhat loose in the letter, and more so in the 
 spirit, at any attempt made to carry them into execution. 
 
 As a consequence, the fleeing malefactor could breathe 
 freely- -even the murderer imagine the weight of guilt lifted 
 from off his soul — the moment his foot touched Texan soil. 
 
 On a morning of early spring — the season when settlers 
 most afl'ect migration to the Lone Star State — a party of 
 horsemen is seen crossing the boundary river, with faces 
 turned toward Texas. The place where they are making pas- 
 sage is not the usual emigrants' crossing — on the old Spanish 
 military road between Natchitoches and Nacogdoches,— but 
 several miles above, at a point where the stream is, at certain 
 seasons, fordable. From the Louisiana side this ford is ap- 
 proached thro i-h a tract of heavy timber, mostly pine forest, 
 along a trail little used by travellers, still less by those who 
 enter Texas with honest intent, or leave Louisiana with un- 
 blemished reputations. 
 
 That these horsemen belong not to either category can 
 be told at a glance. They have no waggons, nor other wheeled 
 vehicles, to ji\' them the semblance of emigrants; no baggage 
 to embarrass them on their march. Without it, they might 
 be explorers, land speculators, surveyors, or hunters. But no. 
 They have not tin' look of persons who pursue any of these 
 callings; no semblance of aught honest or honourable. In all 
 there are twelve of them; among them not a face but speaks 
 of the Penitentiary — not one which does not brighten up, and 
 show more cheerful, as (he hooves of their horses strike the 
 Texan bank of the Sabine. 
 
 1-2 
 
158 mi: DEATH SHOT. 
 
 While c,u tlic terrain of Louisiana, they have been riding 
 fast and hard — silent, ami with pent-up thoughts, as though 
 pursuers were after. Once on the Texan side all seem 
 
 relieved, as if i scious of having at length rea< hed a haven 
 
 of Bafetj 
 
 Then he who appeal's leader of the party, reining up bis 
 horse, breaks silence, saying — 
 
 "Boys! I reckon we may take a spell o' rest here. We're 
 now in Texas, whar freemen needn'i feel afeard. If thar's 
 been MVJ funis followin' us, I guess they'll take care to keep 
 on t'other side o' the river. Tharfor, let's dismount and have 
 a bit o' breakfast under the shadder o' these trees. After 
 we've done that, we can talk about what shed be our next 
 move. For my part, I feel sleepy as a 'possum. That ar 
 licker o' Naketosh allers knocks me up for a day or two. This 
 time, our young friend Quantrell here, lias given us a double 
 dose, the which I for one won't get over in a week." 
 
 It is Bcarcely necessary to say the speaker is Jim liorlasse, 
 and those spoken to his drinking companions in the Choctaw 
 Chief. 
 
 To a man, they all make affirmative response. Like him 
 self, they too are fatigued — dead done up by being all night 
 in the saddle, — to say nought about the debilitating effects of 
 their debauch, and riding rapidly with beard upon the 
 shoulder, under the apprehension that a sheriff and posse may 
 be coming on behind. For. during the period of their sojourn 
 in Natchitoches, nearly every one of them has committed some 
 crime that renders him amenable to the laws. 
 
 It may be wondered how such roughs could cany on and 
 escape observation, much more, punishment. But at the time 
 Natchitoches was a true frontier town, and almost every daj 
 witnessed the arrival and departure of characters "queer" as 
 to dress and discipline- the trappers and prairie traders. 
 Like the sailor in port, when paid off aud with full pockets — 
 making every effort to deplete them — so is the trapper during 
 his stay at a fort, or settlement. He does things that seem 
 odd, are odd, to the extreme of eccentricity. Among such the 
 late guests of the Choctaw Chief would not, and did not, 
 attract particular attention. Not much was said or thought 
 of them, till after they were gone; and then but by those who 
 had been victimised, resignedly abandoning claims aud losses 
 with the laconic remark, "The scoundrels have G. T. T." 
 
 It was supposed the assassin of Charles Clancy had gone 
 with them: but this, affecting the authorities more than the 
 
ACROSS THE SABINE. 
 
 159 
 
 general public, was left to the former to deal with; and in a 
 land of many like affairs, soon ceased to be spoken of. 
 
 Borlasse's visit to Natchitoches had not been for mere 
 pleasure. It was business that took him thither — te concoct 
 a scheme of villainy such as might be supposed unknown 
 among Anglo-Saxon people, aud practised only by those of 
 Latin! c descent, on the southern side of the Rio GVande. 
 
 But robbery is not confined to any race; and on the bor- 
 derland of Texas may be encountered brigandage as rife and 
 ruthless as among the mountains of the Sierra Morena, or the 
 defiles of the Appeuines. 
 
 That the Texan bandit has succeeded in arranging every- 
 thing to his satisfaction may be learnt from his hilarious 
 demeanour, with the speech now addressed to his associates: — 
 
 "Boys!" he says, calling them around after they have 
 finished eating, aud are ready to ride on, "We've got a 
 big thing before us — one that'll beathorse-ropiu' all to shucks. 
 Most o' ye, I reckin, know what I mean; 'ceptin', perhaps, our 
 friends here, who've just joined us." 
 
 The speaker looks towards Phil Quantrell alias Dick Darke, 
 and another, named Walsh, whom he knows to be Joe Hark- 
 ness, ex-jailer. 
 
 After glancing from one to the other, he continues — 
 
 "I'll take charge o' tellin' them in good time; an', I think, 
 can answer for their staudin' by us in the bizuess. Thar's 
 fifty thousand dollars, clar cash, at the bottom of it; besides 
 sundries in the trinket line. The question then is, whether 
 we'd best wait till this nice assortment of property gets con- 
 veyed to the place intended for its destination, or make a try 
 to pick it up on the way. What say ye, fellers] Let every 
 man speak his opinion; then I'll give mine." 
 
 "You're sure o' whar they're goin', capting?" asks one of 
 his following. "You know the place?" 
 
 "Bettcr'n I know the spot we're now camped on. Ye 
 needn't let that trouble ye. An' most all o' ye know it your- 
 selves. As good luck has it, 'taint over twenty mile from our 
 old stampin' groun' o' last year. Thar, if we let em' alone, 
 everythin' air sure to be lodged 'ithin less'n a month from 
 now. Thar, we'll find the specie, trinkets, an' other fixins 
 not forgetting the petticoats— sure as , . To Bom 
 
 o' ye ii may appear only a question o'time and patience. I'r 
 sorry to tell ye ' it may turn out' somethin' more." 
 
 "Why d'ye say that, capting 1 What's the use o' w 
 till thev get there 1" 
 
 aitiu' 
 
160 
 
 T1IK DEATH SHOT. 
 
 These questions arc put by several of the party. 
 "Boys I Jim Borlasse ain't no Jackass. I rcck'n you'll 
 acknowledge that?" 
 " We do." 
 
 " Well ; I'll answer what you've asked. I didn't leave 
 Naketosh, .spite the way we've been hurried off, till I'd fixed 
 the beanies o' this bizness. As I've told you, we'll find the 
 plunder out thar -safe as if we'd ourselves conveyed it. As 
 to our bein' patient and waitin' till it arrive, thar's somethin' 
 to be sa)'ed. It's jest a question whether we co>>f<l capter it 
 on the road. Thar's only twelve o'us, all counted — twelve good 
 and dependable men. it's true. But this emigratin' party ain't 
 o' the ordinary kind. Thar's a whole colony comin' out. We 
 ain't strong enough to attaek thar train — thai is, wi' a sartinty 
 o' succeedin'. We might, bavin' a run of good luck; but we 
 might get rubbed out, if that goed against us. The leader 
 o' the party hcz seen campaignin' times wi' General .' 
 He's got some o' Old Hickory's grit in him. and ain't likely to 
 sleep 'ithout keepin' one eye open. Besides, he's engaged a 
 big crowd to accompany him — some, as I know, that would 
 be ugly customers in a skrimmage. I tell ye, boys, there'd 
 be no chance for us to strike 'em on the way : ceptin' by a 
 night attack. Even then we might make a mess o't, and not 
 only lose the opportunity, bu*, like enough, get our necks into 
 the loop-eend o' a laryette. rharfor', to conclude, say I, let's 
 get on a head o' them ; an' gather some more o' our fellers as 
 we go further south. I know o' six now sport in' themselves 
 in San Antone. When we've enought thegither, then we can 
 grab the plunder. Fifty thousand dollars '11 give a tole'able 
 good divide in the money line ; besides in that crowd 6' 
 colonizers we'll find partners apiece, for sech, like our young 
 friend Quantrell, as air womanways inclined. I ain't much so 
 myself; still, now and then, I don't object to a hit o' dimity. 
 
 The coarse sally of the robber captain is responded to by a 
 peal of laughter, in which all join save Quantrell and Walsh. 
 These, though sufficiently incriminated, are not fully initiated 
 into the w.i\ -; of their new associates, lawless beyond concep- 
 tion. Besides, in Dick Darke's mind there lingers a spark o£ 
 purer passion — love, not yet quite converted to vengeful lust, 
 though it soon may be. 
 
 Without waiting any rejoinder from him, or caring for it, 
 IJorlasse continues addressing himself to the others — all old 
 " pals," who comprehend him. Some of them have ventured 
 to speak dissent to his plan, suggesting difficulties. 
 
\ri;i>> Tin -i.vBlNT.. 
 
 In answer he reiterates his arguments already advanced, 
 fdding : — 
 
 " I tell ye, just after they've got to the end o' thar journey, 
 will be our opportunity. Then they'll be full o' confidence 
 an' careless, thinkin' all danger past, an' feelin' secure as if in 
 the streets of Naketosh. 'Bout the time to attact em, if it 
 come to that, I'll be able to tell ye exact — to an hour, a min- 
 ute. You've all acknowledged Jim Borlasse an't the biggest 
 sort o' fool, hain't ye ? " 
 
 "Not much fool about you, eapting." 
 
 " Well, seein' as ye approve, I'll let ye into a bit o' a secret. 
 Long wi' thar migratin' lot there goes a man, who'll keep me 
 posted 'bout everything as turns up. Afore leavin' Naketosh, 
 1 tuk care to instruct him ; an', by good luck, he's got into a 
 place where he'll have the chance to do us good sarvice. So 
 trust to me, boys, an' don't trouble yourselves about the 
 affair further now. Are ye content to let it stand that way?" 
 
 " We are, capting. We'll rely upon you." 
 
 "Enough," is the rejoinder of their captain, who adds: — 
 '• That thing settled, we may as well start away from here. 
 I guess we're all sale enough now we're on the Texan side. 
 Still there may be one o' our number, who'd be better to get a 
 leetle further beyont the border line." 
 
 While speaking, he fixes his eyes upon Quantrell, who can 
 well comprehend the significance of his words. The robber 
 chief has no wish to torture, only to tic him to their associa- 
 tions by a b. >nd indissoluble. For he knows that in the rich 
 planter's son. now outlawed as himself, he will have an ally ol 
 no common kind — one who can at any time command money; 
 •send a bank cheque from farthest borderland, that will be 
 honoured in any frontier town. 
 
 No wonder that Borlasse, believing this, should be anxious 
 to have Richard Darke enrolled in hi^ robber band; the less 
 since ho already likes him for having killed Charles Clancy. 
 
 His next words are: 
 
 " Now, boys! let's into our saddles, and on to San Antone!" 
 
 And on to San Antonio they proceed; there to renew the 
 dissipation so abruptly broken off in Natchitoches, in taverns 
 having signs of Spano-Mexican nomenclature, and oharacter-> 
 quite as questionable as that of the Choctaw Chief. 
 
CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 A RliPENTANT SINNER. 
 
 ilEARLY three weeks after Borlasse and his brigands 
 crossed the Sabine, a second party is seen travelling 
 towards the same river through the forests of 
 Louisiana, with faces set fur the same fording-place. 
 
 In number they are but a third of that composing the band 
 of Borlasse; as there are only fo\ir of them. Three are on 
 horseback, the fourth bestriding a mule. 
 
 The three horsemen are white ; the mule-rider a mulatto. 
 
 The last is a little behind ; the distance, as also a certain 
 air of deference 1 — to say nothing of his coloured skin — proclaim- 
 ing him a servant, or slave. 
 
 Still further rearward, and seemingly careful to keep beyond 
 reach of the hybrid's heels, is a large dog — a deerhound. 
 
 The individuals of this second cavalcade will be easily 
 identified, as also the dog that accompanies it. The three 
 whites are Charles Clancy, Simeon Woodley, and Ned Hey- 
 wood ; he with the tawny complexion Jupiter; while the 
 hound is Clancy's — the same he had with him when shot down 
 by Richard Darke. 
 
 Strange they too should be travelling, as if under an appre- 
 hension of being pursued ! Yet seems it so, judging from the 
 rapid p ice at which they ride, and there anxious glances 
 occasionally cast behind. It is so ; though for very different 
 reasons from those that affected the freebooters. 
 
 None of the white men has reason to fear for himself — only 
 for the fugitive slave whom they are assisting to escape from 
 slavery. Partly on this account are they taking the route, 
 described as rarely travelled by honest men. But not alto- 
 gether. Another reason has influenced their selection of it. 
 While in Natchitoches they too have put up at the Choctaw 
 Chief; their plans requiring that privacy which an obscure 
 hostelry affords. To have been seen with Jupiter at the 
 Planter's House might have been for some Mississippian planter 
 to remember, and identify, him as the absconded slave of 
 Ephraim Darke. A contretemps less likely to occur at the 
 
A REPENTANT SINNER. 163 
 
 Choctaw Chief, and there stayed they. It would have been 
 Woodley' s choice anyhow; the hunter having frequently before 
 made this house his home ; there meeting many others of 
 his kind and calling. 
 
 On this occasion his sojourn in it has been short; only long 
 enough for him and his travelling companions to procure a 
 mount for their journey into Texas. And while thus occupied 
 rhey have learnt something, which determined them as to the 
 route they should take. Not the direct road for Nacogdoches 
 by which Colonel Armstrong and his emigrants have gone, 
 some ten days before ; but a trail taken by another party 
 that had been stiying at the Choctaw Chief, and left Nat- 
 chitoches at an earlier period — that they are now on. 
 
 Of this party Woodley has received information, sufficiently 
 minute for him to identify more than one of the personages 
 composing it. Johnny has given him the clue. For the 
 Hibernian innkeeper, with his national habit of wagging a free 
 tongue, has besides a sort of liking for Sime, as an antipathy 
 towards Sime's old enemy, Jim Borlasse. The consequence 
 of which has been a tale told in confidence to the hunter, about 
 the twelve men late sojourning at the Choctaw Chief, that 
 was kept back from the Sheriff on the morning after their de- 
 parture. The result being, that in choice of a route to Texas, 
 Woodley has chosen that by which they are now travelling. 
 For he knows — has told Clancy — that by it has gone Jim 
 Borlasse, and along with him Richard Darke. 
 
 The last is enough for Clancy. He is making towards Texas 
 with two distinct aims, the motives diametrically opposite. 
 One is to comfort the woman he loves, the other to kill the 
 man he hates. 
 
 For both he is eagerly impatient; but he has vowed that 
 the last shall be first — sworn it upon the grave of his mother. 
 ******* 
 
 Having reached the river, and crossed it, Claucy and his tra- 
 velling companions, just as Borlasse and his, seek relaxation 
 under the shade of the trees. Perhaps, not quite so easy in 
 their minds. For the murderer, on entering Texas, may feel 
 less anxiety than he who has with him a runaway slave ! 
 
 Still in that solitary place — on a path rarely trodden — there 
 is no great danger; and knowing this, they dismount and 
 make their bivouac snfM-s t&uci. The spot chosen is the same 
 as was occupied by Borlasse and his band. Near the bank of 
 the river is a spreading tree, underneath which a log affords 
 sitting accommodation for at le of men. Seated on 
 
! III. i'E.YTH SHUT. 
 
 this, Brooking his pipe, after a refection of corn bread and 
 bacon, Sime Wbodley unburdens himself of some secrets ho 
 1> until iii the Chootaw Chief, which up to this time he has 
 kept bock from the others. 
 
 " Boj jl" he begins, addressing himself to Clancy and Hey- 
 wood, the mulatto still keeping- respectfully apart. "We're 
 now on u Bpot, whar lcss'n two weeks agone, sot or stud, two 
 i.' the darndest Bcoundrels as iver made futmark on Texan 
 soil. You know one o' 'em, Xc 1 lleywood, but not the tother. 
 Charley Clancy hev akwaintanoe wi' both, an' a ugly reccoleck- 
 shun o' them inter the bargain." 
 
 The hunter pauses in his speech, takes a whiff or two from 
 his pipe, then resumes: — 
 
 "They've been hyar sure. From what the! fox, Johnny, 
 to't me, they must a tuk this trail. An' as they bed to make 
 quick tracks arter leavin' Naketosh, thoy'd be tired on gettin' 
 tins fur, an' good as sartin to lay up a bit. Look! thar's the 
 ashes o' tliar lire, whar 1 spose they cooked something'. Thar 
 hain't beeu a critter crossed the river since the big rain, else 
 we'd a seed tracks along the way. For they started jest 
 the day afore the rain; and that ere fire hez been put out by 
 it. Ye kin tell by them chunks showin' only half eonsoomed. 
 Vis, by the Eturnal ! Roun' the bleeze o' them sticks has sot 
 seven, eight, nine, or may be a dozen, o' the darndest CUtthn ats 
 as ever crossed the Sabine; an' that's sayiu' % goodish deal 
 Two o' them I kin swar tobein' bo; an' the rest may be counted 
 the same from their kumpny — that kumpny bein' Jim Bor- 
 lasse an' Dick Darke." 
 
 After thus delivering himself, the hunter remains apparently 
 reflecting, not on what he has said, but what they ought to do. 
 Clancy has been all the while silent, brooding with clouded 
 brow — only now and then showing a faint smile us the hound 
 comes up, and licks his outstretched hand. lleywood has 
 nothing to 6ay; while Jupiter is not expected to take any 
 part iu the conversation. 
 
 For a time they all seem under a spell of lethargy — the 
 lassitude of fatigue. They have ridden a long way, and 
 need rest. They might go to sleep alongside the log, but 
 none of them thinks of doing so, least of all Clancy. There is 
 that in his breast forbidding sleep, and he is but too glad 
 when Woodley's next words arouse him from the torpid repose 
 to which he has been yielding. Those are: — 
 
 "Now we've struck thar trail, what. boys, d'ye think we'd 
 best do?" 
 
\ KIl'KNTANT SIXXFX'. 160 
 
 Neither of the two replying, the hunter continues: — 
 
 "To the best of my opcenyun, our plan will be to put straight 
 on to whar Planter Armstrong intends settiu' up his sticks. I 
 know the place 'most as well as the public squar o' Natchez. 
 This chile intends jeinin' the ole kurnel, anyhow. As for you, 
 Charley Clancy, we know whar ye want to go, an' the game 
 ye intend trackin' up. Wal ; ef you'll put trust in what Sime 
 Woodley say, he sez this: ye'll find that game in the neighbour- 
 hood o' Helen Armstrong; — nigh to her as it dar 1 ventur'." 
 
 The final words have an inflammatory effect upon Clancy. 
 He springs up from the log, and strides over the ground, 
 with a wild look and strangely excited air. Ho seems im- 
 patient to be back in his saddle. 
 
 "In coorse," resumes Woodley, "we'll foller the trail o' 
 Rorlasse an' his lot. It air sure to lead to the same place. 
 What they're arter 'tain't eezy to tell. Some deviltry, for 
 sartin. They purtend to make thar livin' by ropin' wild 
 horses? I guess he gits more by takin' them as air tame; — 
 as you, Clancy, hev reczun to know. I hain't a doubt he'd do 
 wuss than that, ef opportunity offered. Thar'a been more'it. 
 one case o' highway robbery out thar in West Texas, on emi- 
 grant people goin' that way; an' I don't know a likelier than 
 Borlasse to a had hand in't. Ef Kurnel Armstrong's party 
 wan't so strong as 'tis, an' the kurnel hisself a old campayner, 
 I inout hev my fears for 'em. I reckin they're safe ennf. 
 Borlasse an' his fellurs won't dar tech them. Johnny sez thar 
 war but ten or twelve in all. Still, tho' they moutn't openly 
 attackt the waggon train, thar's jest a chance o' their hangiu' 
 on its skirts, an' stealin' somethin' from it. Ye heerd in 
 Naketosh o' a young Creole planter, by name Dupray, who's 
 g'xd wi' Armstrong, an's tuk a big count o' dollars along. 
 Jest the bait to temp Jim Borlasse; an' as for Dick Darke, 
 thar'- si methin' else to temp him. So " 
 
 "W 1 1 Hey!" exclaims Clancy, without waiting for the hunter 
 toe include; "w\- must be nil from here. Fur Cud's sake let 
 us go '." 
 
 His comrades, divining the cause of Clancy's impatience, 
 make no attempt to restrain him. They have rested and 
 sufficiently refreshed themselves. There is no reason for their 
 remaining any lunger on the ground. 
 
 Rising simultaneously, each unhitches his horse, and stands 
 by the stirrup, taking in the slack of his reins. 
 
 Before they can spring into their saddles, tho deer-hound 
 darts off from their midst— as ho does so giving out a growl. 
 
1 00 
 
 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 The stroke of a hoof tells them of some one approaching, 
 nnd the next moment a horseman is seen through the trees. 
 
 Apparently undaunted, he comes on towards their camp 
 ground ; but when near enough to have fair view of their faces, 
 he suddenly reins up, and Bhows signs of a desire to retreat. 
 
 If this be his intention, it is too late. 
 
 Before he can wrench round his horse a rifle is levelled, its 
 barrel bearing upon his body; while a voice sounds threaten- 
 ingly in his ears, in clear tone, pronouncing the words, — 
 
 " Keep yur ground, Joe Harkness ! Don't attempt re- 
 trectin'. If ye do, I'll send a bullet through ye, sure as my 
 name's Sime Woudley." 
 
 The threat is sufficient. Barkness — for it is he — ceases 
 tugging upon his rein, and permits his horse to stand still. 
 
 Then, at a second command from Woodley, accompanied by 
 a similar menace, he urges the animal into action, and moves 
 on towards their bivouac. 
 
 In less than nixty seconds after, he is in their midst, dis- 
 mounted and down upon his knees, piteously appealing to 
 them to spare his life. 
 
 The ex-jailor's story is soon told, and that without any re- 
 servation. The man who has connived at Richard Darke's 
 i cape, and made money by the connivance, is now more than 
 repentant for his dereliction of duty. For he has not only 
 been bullied by Borlasse's band, but stripped of his ill-gotten 
 gains. Still more, beaten, and otherwise so roughly handled 
 that he has been long trying to get quit of their company. 
 Having stolen away from their camp — while the robbers 
 were asleep — he is now returning along the trail they had 
 taken into Texas, on his way bark to the States, with not 
 much left him, except a very sorry horse and a sorrowing 
 heirt. 
 
 His captors soon discover that, with his sorrow, there is an 
 admixture of spite against his late associates. Against 
 Darke in particular, who has proved ungrateful for the great 
 service done him. 
 
 All this does Harkness communicate to them, and some- 
 thing besides. 
 
 Something that sets Clancy well-nigh crazed, and makes 
 almost as much impression upon his fellow-travellers. 
 
 After hearing it they bound instantly to their saddles, and 
 Bpur away from the spot; Harkness, as commanded, following 
 at then- horses' heels. This he does without daring to disobey; 
 
THK PRAIRIE CARAVAN. Hx 
 
 trotting after, in company with the dog, seemingly less cur 
 than himself. 
 
 They have no fear of his falling back. WoocDoy'a rifle, 
 whose barrel has been already borne upon him, can be again 
 
 brought to the level in an instant of time. 
 
 The thought holds him secure, as if a trail-rope attached 
 him to the tail of the hunter's horse. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE PRAIRIE CARAVAN. 
 
 JK'TURK in imagination meadows, on which scythe 
 of mower has never cul sward, nor haymaker set 
 foot : meadows loaded with such luxuriance of vege- 
 8251 tatiou — lush, tall grass — that tons of hay might be 
 
 garnered off a single acre; meadows of such extent, that in 
 speaking of them you ma} - not use the word acres, but miles, 
 even this but faintly conveying the idea of their immensity: 
 in fancy summon up such a -scene, and you will have before 
 you what is a reality in Texas, 
 
 In seeming these plains have no boundary save the sky — no 
 limit nearer than the horizon. And since to the eye of the 
 traveller this keeps continually changing, he may well believe 
 them without limit at all, and fancy himself moving in the 
 midst of a green sea, boundless as ocean itself, his horse the 
 boat on which he lias embarked. 
 
 In places this extended surface presents a somewhat mono- 
 tonous aspect, though it is not so everywhere. Here and 
 there it is pleasantly interspersed with trees, some standing 
 solitary, but mostly in groves, copses, or belts; these looking, 
 for all the world, like islands in the ocean. So perfect is the 
 resemblance, that this very name has been given them, by 
 men of Norman and Saxon race ; whose ancestors, after cross- 
 ing the Atlantic, carried into the colonics many ideas of the 
 mariner, with much of his nomenclature. To them the 
 isolated groves are "islands:" larger tracts of timber, seen 
 afar, "land;" narrow spaces between, "straits;" and indenta- 
 tions along their edges "bayB." 
 
 To carry the analogy further, the herds of buffalo, with 
 bodies half buried in the tall grass, maybe likened to "schools" 
 
Mil; Dh.VllI SHOT. 
 
 of whales; tho wild horses to porpoises at play ; the doer to 
 dolphins; and the fleet antelopes to flying fish. 
 
 Completing the figure, we have the vultures that soar 
 above, performing the part of predatory Bea-gulls; the eagle 
 representing the rarer frigate bird, or albatross. 
 
 In the midst of this verdant expanse, less than :t cpiarter of 
 a century ago, man was rarely met; still more rarely civili/ed 
 man; and rarer yet his dwelling-place. If at times a human 
 being appeared among the prairie groves, he was not there as 
 a sojourner — only a traveller, passing from place to place. 
 The herds of cattle, with shaggy frontlets and humped 
 shoulders — the droves of horses, long-tailed ami with lull 
 flowing manes — the proud antlered stags, and pi • n .-horned 
 antelopes, were not, his. He had no control over them. The 
 turf he trod was free to them for picture. ;c to him for passage; 
 arid, as he made way through their midst, his presence scarce 
 affrighted them. He ami his might boast of being "war's 
 arbiter's," and lords of the great ocean. They were not lords 
 of that emerald sea stretching between the Sabine River and 
 the llio Grande. Civilized man had as yet bul shown himself 
 n| ■••'.. its shores. 
 
 Since then he has entered upon, and scratched a portion ol 
 its surface; though not much, compared with its immensity. 
 There are still grand expanses of I he Texan prairie unfurrowed 
 by the ploughshare of the colonist- almost untrodden by the 
 foot of the explorer. Even at this hour, the traveller may 
 journey for days on grass-grown plains, amidst groves of 
 timber, without seeing tower, steeple, or so much as a chimney 
 rising above the tree-tops, if he perceive a solitary smoke, 
 curling skyward, he knows that it is over the camp-fire of 
 some one like himself — a wayfarer. 
 
 And it may be above the bivouac of those he would do well 
 to shun. For upon the green surface of the prairie, as upon 
 the blue expanse of the ocean, all men met with are not 
 honest. There be land sharks as well as water-sharks — 
 prairie-pirates as corsairs of the sea. 
 
 No spectacle more picturesque, nor yet more pleasing, than 
 that of an emigrant caravan en route over the plains. The 
 huge waggons — " prairie ships," as oft, and not inaptly, 
 named with their white canvass tilts, typifying spread sails, 
 aligned and moving along one after the other, like a corpx 
 (Ear met oh march by columns; a group of horsemen ahead, 
 representing its vanguard; others on the flanks, and still 
 
THE PRAIRIE CARAVAN. 1G9 
 
 smother party riding behind, to look after strays and stragglers. 
 the rear-guard. Usually a herd of cattle along — steers for the 
 plough, young bullocks to supply beef for consumption on the 
 journey, milch kine to give c imfort to the children and colour 
 to the tea and coffee — among them an old bull or two, to 
 propagate the species on reaching the projected settlement, 
 Not unfrequently a drove of pigs, or flock of sheep, with 
 coops containing ducks, geese, turkeys, Guinea fowl — perhaps 
 a screaming peacock, hut certainly Chanticleer and his harem. 
 
 A train of Texan settlers has its peculiarities, though now 
 not so marked as in the times of which we write. Then a 
 noted feature was the negro — his status a slave. He would be 
 seen afoot, toiling on at the tails of the waggons, not in silence 
 or despondingly, as if the march were a forced oue. Fo tsorc 
 he might be, in his cheap "brogans" of Penitentiary fabric, 
 and sore aweary of the way, but never sad. On the contrary, 
 ever hilarious, exchanging jests with his fellow-pedestrians, 
 or a word with Dinah in the wagon, jibing the teamsters, 
 mocking the mule-drivers, sending his cachinations in sonor- 
 ous ring along the moving line; himself far more mirthful 
 than his master — more enjoying the march. 
 
 Strange it is, but true, that a lifetime of bondage does not 
 Stifle merriment in the heart of the Ethiopian. Grace of God to 
 the sons of Ham — merciful compensation for mercies endured 
 by them from the day < 'anaan was cursed, as it were a doom 
 from the dawning •■('creation! 
 
 Just such a train as described is that commanded by 
 Colonel Armstrong, en rovit towards Western Texas. Starting 
 from Natchitoches some twenty days ago, it has reached the 
 Colorado river, crossed it, and is now wending its way towards 
 the San Saba, a tributary of the former stream. 
 
 It is one of the largest caravans that lias yet passed over 
 the prairies of Texas, counting between twenty and thirty 
 "Conestoga" wagons, with several "carrioles" and vehicles of 
 v;ui id kind. Full fifty horsemen ride in its front, on its flank, 
 and rear; while five times the number of pedestrians, men with 
 black or yellow skins, keep pace with it. A proportionate 
 number of women and children are carried in the ws 
 their dusky faces peeping out from under the tilts, in contrast 
 with the colour of the rain-bleached canvass; while other 
 women and children of white complexion ride in the* vehicles 
 with springs. 
 
 In one of the latter — a barouche "I' the American build — 
 travel two young ladies, distinguished by particular attentions. 
 
170 
 
 1 i 111 Mini. 
 
 Half a dozen horsemen hover around their carriage, acting 
 as its escort, each apparently anxious to exchange words with 
 them. With one they can talk, jest, laugh, chatter as much as 
 ii .■■■. like; but the other repels them. For the soul of the 
 former is full of joy; that of the latter steeped in Badness. 
 
 Superfluous to say. they are Jessie and Helen Armstrong'. 
 And needless to tell why the one is gay, the other grave. 
 Since we last saw them in the hotel of Natchitoches, no change 
 has taken place in their hearts or their hopes. The younger 
 of the two, Jessie, is still an expectant bride, certain Boon to 
 be a wife: and with this certainty rejoices in the future. 
 Helen, with no such expectation, no wish for it, feeling as one- 
 widowed, grieves over the past. The former sees her lover by 
 her Bide living and loving, constantly, caressingly; the lattteV 
 can but think of hers as something afar off — a dream — a 
 dread vision — a cold corpse — herself the cause of it! 
 
 Colonel Armstrong's eldest daughter is indeed sad — a prey 
 to repining. Her heart, after receiving so many shocks, has 
 almost succumbed to that the supremeat, most painful suffer- 
 ing that can afflict humanity — the malady of melancholia. 
 The word conveys but a faint idea of the suffering itself. 
 Only they who have known it — fortunately but few — can com- 
 prehend the terror, the wan, wasting misery, endured by thosi 
 whose nerves have given way under some terrible stroke of 
 misfortune. 'Tis the story of a broken heart. 
 
 Byron has told us " the heart may break and brokenly live 
 on." In this her hour of unhappiness, Helen Armstrong would 
 not and could not believe him. It may seem strange that 
 Jessie is still only a bride to be. But no. She remembers the 
 promise made to her father — to share with him a home in 
 Texas, however humble it might be. All the same, now that 
 she knows it will be splendid; knowing, too, it is to he shared 
 by another — her Louis. He is still but her fiancee; but his 
 troth is plighted, his truthfulness beyond suspicion. They are 
 all but man and wife; which they will be soon as the new- 
 home is reached. 
 
 The goal of their journey is to be the culminating point of 
 Jessie's joy — the climax of her life's happiness. 
 
 — -~-^s^ws^^- — 
 

 , ^ , 
 
 CHAPTER xliii. 
 
 PRE IIANP OF GOD. 
 
 jlCAE.CE any stream of South-Western Texas but runs 
 between bluffs. There is a valley or "bottom- 
 land," only a little elevated above the water's 
 surface, and often submerged during inundations, 
 — beyond this the bluffs. The valley may be a mile or more 
 in width, in some places ten, a r others contracted, till the 
 opposing cliffs are scarce a pistol-shot apart. And of these 
 there are frequently two or three tiers, or terraces, receding 
 backward from the river, the crest of the last and outmost 
 being but the edge of an upland plain, which is often sterile 
 and treeless. Any timber upon it is stunted, and of those 
 species to which a dry soil is congenial. Mezqite, juniper, and 
 ••black-jack'' oaks grow in groves or spinnies; while standing 
 apart may be observed the arborescent jucca — the "dragon- 
 tree" of the Western world, towering above an underwood 
 unlike any other, composed of cactacece in all the varieties of 
 cereus. cactus, and echinocactus. Altogether unlike is the 
 bottom-laud bordering upon the river. There the vegetation 
 is lush and luxuriant, showing a growth of large forest timber 
 — the trees set thickly, and matted with many parasites, that 
 look like cables coiling around and keeping them together. 
 These timbered tracts are not continuous, but show stretches 
 of open between, — here little glades filled with flowers, there 
 grand meadows overgrown with grass — so tall that the horse- 
 man riding through it has his shoulders swept by the spikes, 
 which shed their pollen upon his coat. 
 
 Just such a bottom-land is that of the San Saba, near 
 the river's mouth; where, after meandering many a score of 
 miles from its source in the Llano Estacado, it espouses the 
 Colorado — gliding softly, like a shy bride, into the embrace of 
 the larger and stronger-flowing stream. 
 
 For a moment departing from the field of romance, and 
 treading upon the domain of history — or it maybe but legend 
 — a word about this Colorado river mav interest the reader. 
 
 13 
 
17 2 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 Possibly, probably, almost for certain, there is no province 
 in all Spanish America without its "Rio Colorado." The 
 geographer could count some scores of rivers so named — point 
 them out on any map. They are seen in every latitude, 
 trending in all directions, from the great Colorado of caiiori 
 celebrity in the north to another far south, which cuts a d( I p 
 groove through the plains of Patagonia. All these streams 
 have been so designated from the hue of their waters — muddy, 
 with ; pronounced tinge of red : this from the ochrcous earth 
 through wliii h the} 7 have coursed, holding it in suspension. 
 
 In the Texan Colorado there is nothing of this ; on the con- 
 trary, it is a clear water stream. A circumstance that may 
 seem strange, till the explanation be given — which is, that 
 the name is a misnomer. In other words, the Texan river now 
 bearing the designation Colorado is not that so called by the 
 Spaniards, but their Rio Brazos; while the present Brazos is 
 their Itio Colorado — a true red-tinted stream. The exchange 
 of names is due to an error of the American mapmakers, 
 unaoquainted with the Spanish tongue. Giving the Colorado 
 its true name of Brazos, or more correctly "Brazos de Dios" 
 ("The Arms of God"), the origin of this singular title tor a 
 stream presents us with a history, or Legend, alike singular. 
 
 As all know, Texas was first colonized by Spaniards, or 
 Spanish Mexicans, on what might lie termed the "militanl 
 mi -ionary system.'' Monks were sent into the province, 
 cross in hand, with soldiers at their back, bearing the sword. 
 Establishments were formed in different parts of the country: 
 San Antonio de Bejaz being the ecclesiastical centre, as also 
 the political capital. Around these the aborigines were col- 
 lected, and after a fashion converted to Christianity. With 
 the christianizing process, however, there were other motive- 
 mixed up, having very little to do either with morality or 
 religion. Comfortable subsistence, with the accumulation of 
 wealth by the missionaries themselves, was in most instances 
 the lure which attracted them to Texas, tempting them to 
 risk their lives in the so-called conversion of the heathen. 
 
 The mission-houses were in the monasterial style, man)' of 
 them on a grand scale — mansions in fact, with roomy refec- 
 tories, and kitchens to correspond ; snug sitting and sleeping 
 chambers ; well-paved courts and spacious gardens attached. 
 Outside the main building, sometimes forming part of it, was 
 a church, or capilla; near by the presidio, or barrack for their 
 military protectors; and beyond, the rancheria, or village of 
 huts, the homes of the new-made neophytes. 
 
THE HAND OF GOD. 173 
 
 No great difficulty had the fathers in thus handsomely 
 housing themselves. The converts did all the work, willingly, 
 for the sake and in the name of the "Holy Faith," into which 
 they had been recently inducted. Nor did their toil end with 
 the erection of the mission buildings. It was only transferred 
 to a more layical kind; to the herding of cattle, and tillage of 
 the surrounding land ; this continued throughout their whole 
 lives — not for their own benefit, but to enrich those idle and 
 lazy friars, in many cases men of the most profligate character. 
 It was, in fact, a system of slavery, based upon and sustained 
 by religious fanaticism. The result as might be expected — 
 failure and far worse. Instead of civilising the aborigines of 
 America, it has but brutalised them the more — by eradicating 
 from their hearts whatever of savage virtue they had, and im- 
 planting in its place a debasing bigotry and superstition. 
 
 Most American writers, who speak of these missionary 
 establishments, have formed an erroneous estimate of them. 
 And, what is worse, have given it to the world. Many of 
 these writers are, or were, officers in the United States army, 
 deputed to explore the wild territories in which the missions 
 existed. Having received their education in Roman Catholic 
 seminaries, they have been inducted into taking a too lenient 
 view of the doings of the "old Spanish padres;" hence their 
 testimony so favourable to the system. 
 
 The facts are all against them ; these showing it a scheme 
 of villeinage, more oppressive than the European serfdom of the 
 Middle Ages. The issue is sufficient proof of this. For it 
 was falling to pieces, long before the Anglo-Saxon race entered 
 into possession of the territory where it once flourished. The 
 missions are now in a state of decadence, their buildings fast 
 falling into decay ; while the red man, disgusted at the at- 
 t< napt to enslave, under the clock of christianising him, his 
 returned to his idolatry, as to his savage life. 
 
 Several of these misiones were established on the San Saba 
 river; one of which for a considerable period enjoyed a prosper- 
 ous existence, and numbered among its neophytes many In- 
 dians of the Lipan and Comanche tribes. 
 
 But the tyranny of their monkish teachers by exactions of 
 tenths and almost continuous toil— themselves living in 
 luxurious ease, and without much regard to that continence 
 they inculcated — at length provoked the suffering serfs to re- 
 volt. In which they were aided by those Indians who had 
 remained unconverted, and still heretically roamed around the 
 environs. The consequence was : that, on a certain day when 
 
174 
 
 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 the huuters of the mieian were abroad, and the soldiers of tlie 
 presidio alike absent on some expedition, a band of the out- 
 side idolaters, in league with the discontented converts, 
 entered the mission building, with arms concealed under their 
 ample cloaks of buffalo skin. After prowling about for a 
 while in an insolent manner, they at length, at a given signal 
 from their chief, attacked the proselytising padres, with those 
 who adhered to them ; tomahawked and scalped all who came 
 in their way. 
 
 Only one monk escaped — a man of great repute in those 
 early times of Texas. Stealing <>tf at the commencement of 
 the maasacn . he succeeded in making his way down the valley 
 of the San Saba, to its confluence with the Colorado. Bui to 
 reach an asylum of safety it was necessary for him to cross the 
 latter stream; iu which unfortunately there was a freshet, its 
 current so swollen that neither man nor horse could ford it. 
 
 The padre stood upon its bank, looking coveteously acrosB, 
 and listening in terror to the sounds behind; these being the 
 war-cries of the pursuing Comanches. 
 
 For a moment the monk believed himself lost. But just 
 then the arm of God was stretched forth to save him. This 
 done in a fashion somewhat difficult to give credence to. 
 though easy enough for believers in Holy Faith. It was a 
 mere miracle; not stranger, or more apocryphal, than we hear 
 of at this day in France, Spain, or Italy. The only singularity 
 about the Texan tale is the fact of its not being original ; for 
 it is a pure piracy from Sacred Writ — that passage of it whirl 
 relates to the crossing of the Red Sea by Moses and his 
 Israelites. 
 
 The Spanish monk stood on the river's bank, his eyes fixed 
 despairingly on its deep rapid-running current, which he knew 
 he could not cross without danger of being drowned. Just at 
 this crisis he saw the waters separate ; the current suddenly 
 stayed, and the pebbly bed showing dry as a shingle ! 
 
 Tucking his gown under his girdle, he struck into the 
 channel; and, no doubt, making good time — though the 
 legend does not speak of this — he succeeded in planting his 
 sandalled feet, dry shod, on the opposite shore ! 
 
 So far the Texan story closely corresponds with the Mosaic. 
 Beyond, the incidents as related, ore slightly different. 
 Pharaoh's following host was overwhelmed by the dosing 
 waters. The pursuing Comanches did not so much as enter 
 the charmed stream; which, with channel filled up, as before, 
 was running rapidly on. They were found next morning' 
 
D ON Illi. CLIFFS 
 
 , q t lie bank where they had arrived in pursuit, all dead, all 
 a at full stretch along the sward, their heads turned iii 
 the same direction, like trees struck down by a tornado ! 
 
 Only the Omnipotent could have done this. Xo mortal 
 hand could make such a coup. Hence the name which the 
 Spaniards bestowed upon the present Colorado, Bra ' Dii 
 — -the "Hand of God." Hence also the history, or rather 
 fable, intended to awe the minds of the rebellious reds! 
 and restore them to Christanity, or serfdom. 
 
 Which it did not ; since from that day thi is of San 
 
 Saba remained abandoned, running into ruin. 
 
 It is to one of these forsaken establishments Colonel Arm- 
 strong is conducting his colony ; his future son-in-law haying 
 purchased the large tract of territory at I a< lied to it. 
 
 To that spot, where more than a century ago the monks 
 made halt, with cross borne conspicuously in one hand, and 
 sword carried surreptitiously in the other, there is now ap- 
 I roaching a new invasion — that of ase and rifle — n< 
 ostentatiously paraded, but neither insidiously concealed. 
 
 CHAPTER XL1V. 
 
 A cLOUD ON Till CLIFFS. 
 
 fFTER a long toilsome journey through Eastern Texas, 
 the emigrant train has readied the San Saba, and 
 is working its way up stream. Slowly, for the 
 bottom-land is iu some places heai ly timbered, and 
 the road requires clearing for the waggons. 
 
 The caravan has entered the valley on the left, or northern. 
 bank of the river, while its point of destination is the south- 
 ern ; but a few miles above its confluence with the Colorado 
 is a ford, by which the right side may be reached at low 
 water. Luckily it is now at its lowest, and the svagg a- ar< 
 got across without accident, or any great difficulty. 
 
 Ouce on the southern side, there is nothing to obstruct or 
 further delay them. Some ten miles above is the abandoned 
 mission-house, which they expect to reach that day, before 
 going down of the sun. 
 
 With perhaps one exception, the emigrants are all happy, 
 most of them in exuberant spirits. They are nearing a new 
 
THE HK.WII SHOT. 
 
 home, having long ago lefl the old one behind; left aK" a 
 thousand cankering cares, many <>f them more than half a 
 life spent in struggles and disappointments. In the untried 
 field before them there is hope; it may be Buccess and splen 
 dour ; a prospect like the renewing of life's lease, the younger 
 tn find f'n >h joys, the older to grow young again. 
 
 I '1' weeks has the San Saba mission house been the theme 
 of their thoughts, an<l topic of discourse. Thej will repeople 
 the deserted dwelling, restore it to its pristine splendour ; 
 bring its long neglected fields under tillage — out of them 
 make fortunes by the cultivation of cotton. 
 
 There is no cloud to darken the horizon of their hopes. 
 The toilsome journey is nearly at an end, and rejoicingly they 
 hail its termination. Whether their train of white tilted 
 wagons winds its way under shadowing trees, or across sunlit 
 glades, there is heard along its line only joyous speech and 
 loud hilarious laughter. 
 
 So go they on, regardless about the future, or only thinking 
 of it as full of bright promise. Little do they dream how it 
 may be affected by something seen upon the cliffs above, 
 though not seen by them. At the point they have now 
 reached, the bottom-land is several miles wide, with its bor- 
 dering of grim bluffs rising on either flank, and running far 
 as eye can see. On the left side, that they have just forsaken, 
 not upon the river's bank, but the cliff far back, is a cloud. 
 No darkness of the sky, or concentration of unsubstantial 
 vapour. Rut a gathering on the earth, and of men ; who, but 
 for their being on horseback, might be mistaken for devils. 
 In Satan's history the horse has no part ; though, strange to 
 say, Satan's sons are those who most affect friendship for the 
 noble animal. Of the horsemen seen hovering above the San 
 Saba there are in all twenty ; most of them mounted upon 
 mustangs, the native steed of Texas, though two or three 
 bestride larger and better stock, the breed of the States. 
 
 All appear Indians, or if there be white man among them, 
 he must have been sun-tanned beyond anything commonly 
 seen. In addition to their tint of burnt umber, they are all 
 garishly painted; their faces escutcheoned with chalk-white, 
 charcoal-black, and vermillion-red. Of their bodies not much 
 can be seen. Blankets of bluo and scarlet, or buffallo robes, 
 shroud their shoulders; while buckskin breeches and leggings 
 wrap their lower limbs; mocassins encasing their feet. In 
 addition to its dress, they wear the usual Indian adornments. 
 Stained eagle-plumes stand tuft-like out of their ro bl ick 
 
4 CL"l/D UN THE CLIFFS. 177 
 
 hair, which, in trailing tresses, sweeps back over the hips of 
 their horses; while strings of pecaries' teeth and claws of the 
 grizzly bear fall over their breasts in bountiful profusion. 
 
 It is true, they are not in correct fighting costume. Nor 
 would their tdilet betoken them on the "war-trail." But the 
 Texan Indian docs not always dress warrior-fashion, when he 
 goes forth upon a predatory excursion. More rarely when on 
 a mere pilferiug maraud, directed against some frontier settle- 
 ment, or travelling part} - of whites. On such occasions he 
 does not intend fighting, biit rather shuns it. And, as thieving 
 is mora congenial to him, he can steal as cleverly and adroitly 
 in a buckskin hunting-shirt, as with bare arms. 
 
 The Indians in question number too few for a war party. 
 At the same time, their being without women is evidence they 
 are on no errand of peace. But for the arms earned, they 
 might be mistaken for hunters. They have spears and guns, 
 some of them "bowie" knives and pistols; while the Indian 
 hunter still believes in the efficacy of the silent arrow. 
 
 In their armour and equipment there are other peculiarities 
 the ordinary traveller might not comprehend, but which to the 
 eye of an old prairie man would be regarded as suspicious. 
 Such an one would at once pronounce them a band of prairie 
 pirates, and of the most dangerous kind to be encountered in 
 all the territory of Texas. 
 
 Whoever they may be, and whatever their design, their 
 behaviour is certainly singular. Both by their looks and 
 gestures it can be told they are watching the waggon train, 
 and interested in its every movement ; as also taking care not 
 to be themselves observed by those belonging to it. To avoid 
 this they keep back from the crest ef the escarpment ; so far, 
 it would not be possible to see them from any part of the 
 bottom-land below. 
 
 One of their number, afoot, goes closer to the cliffs edge, 
 evident!}* sent there by the others as a sort of moving vidette. 
 Screened by the cedars that form its criniere, he commands 
 a view of the river valley below, without danger of being 
 himself seen from it. 
 
 At short intervals he passes back a pace or two, and gesticu- 
 lates to the others. Then returning to the cliffs edge, he 
 continues on as before. 
 
 These movements, apparently eccentric, are nevertheless of 
 grave import. The man who makes them, with those to 
 whom they are made, must be watching the travellers with 
 the intention of wavlaving them. 
 
178 nil in >. i h 
 
 Afar off are the waggons, just distinguishable as buc! 
 their white canvas tilts — the latter in contrast with the sur- 
 face of vivid green over which they are progressing. Slowly 
 crawling along, they bear similitude to a string of gigantic 
 termites bent on some industrial excursion. Still the forms of 
 mounted men — at least forty in number, < n be distinguished. 
 Some riding in front of the train, some in its rear, and others 
 alongside of it. No wonder the twenty savage men, who 
 pursue the parallel line along the cliff, are taking care not to 
 approach it too nearly. One would suppose that from such a 
 strong travelling party their chance of obtaining plunder 
 would seem to them but slight. And yet they do not appear 
 to think so. For as the caravan train tardily toils on up the 
 bottom-land, they too move along the upper plain at a like 
 rate of speed, their scout keeping the waggons in sight, at 
 intervals, as before, admonishing them of every movement 
 
 And they still continue watching the emigrant train until 
 the sun sinks low — almost to the horizon. Then they hall 
 upon a spot thickly beset with cedar trees — a sort of promon- 
 tory projecting over the river valley. 
 
 On its opposite side they can see the waggons still slowly- 
 creeping along, though now not all in motion. Those in the 
 lead have stopped ; the others doing likewise, as, successively, 
 they arrive at the same place. 
 
 This in front of a largo building, just discernible in the 
 distance, its outlines with difficulty traceable under the fast 
 gathering gloom of the twilight. 
 
 But the savages who survey it from the bluff have seen that 
 building before, and know all about it; know it to be one of 
 the abandoned misiones of San Saba; as, also, why those 
 vehicles are now coming to a stop before its walls. 
 
 While watching these, but few words are exchanged between 
 them, and only in an under tone. Much or loud talk woidd 
 not be in keeping with their Indian character. Still enough 
 passes in their muttered speeches — observable also in the ex- 
 pression of their features — for any one hearing the first, or see- 
 ing the last, to predict danger to the colony of Colonel Arm- 
 strong. If looks count for aught, or words can be relied on, 
 the chances seem as if the old San Saba mission-house, long 
 in ruins, may remain so yet longer. 
 
CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 A -i SPICIOUS SURVEILLANCE. 
 
 | HE ancient monastery, erst the abode of Spanish 
 monks, now become the dwelling-place of the ci- 
 devant Mississippi planter, calls for a word of 
 description. 
 
 It stands on the right side of the river, several hundred 
 yards from the bank, on a platform slightly elevated above the 
 general level of the surrounding terrain. 
 
 The site has been chosen with an eye to the pleasant and 
 picturesque — that keen look-out towards temporal enjoyment, 
 which at all times, and in all countries, has characterised 
 these spiritual teachers of the heathen. 
 
 Its elevated position gives it command of a fine prospect, at 
 tha same time securing it against the danger of inundation, 
 v. heii the river is in flood. 
 
 In architectural style the mission building itself does not 
 much differ from that of most Mexican country houses — called 
 haciendas. 
 
 Usually a grand quadrangular structure, with an uncovered 
 court in the centre, the patio; around which runs a gallery or 
 corridor, communicating with the doors of the different apart- 
 ments. 
 
 But few windows face outside; such as there are being case- 
 ments, uuglazed, but protected by a grille of iron bars set 
 vertically — the reja. In the centre of its front facade is a 
 • louble door, of gaol-like aspect, giving admittance to the 
 ge-way, called saguan ; this of sufficient capacity to admit 
 »gon with its load, intended for these grand old coaches 
 that lumbered along our own highways in the days of Dick 
 Turpiu, and in which Sir Charles Grandison used luxriously to 
 ride. Vehicles of the exact size, and pattern, may be seen to 
 this day crawling along the country roads of modern Mexico — 
 relics of a grandeur long since gone. 
 
 The patio is paved with stone flags, or tesselated tiles ; and, 
 where a head of water can be had, a fountain plays in the 
 
II VIII SHOT. 
 
 centre, Burrounded by orange-trees, or other evergreens, with 
 flowering-plants in pots. To rearward of this inner court, a 
 second passage-way gives entrance to another, and larger, if not 
 so sumptuously arrayed ; this devoted to stables, store-rooms, 
 and other domestic offices. Still farther back is the /nierta, or 
 garden. 
 
 That attached to the ancient monastery is an enclosure 
 of several acres in extent, surrounded by a high wall of 
 adobes; made to look still higher from being crested with a 
 palisade of the organ cactus. Filled with fruit trees and 
 flowering shrubs, these once carefully cultivated, but for 
 long neglected, now cover the walks in wild luxuriance. 
 Under their shade, silently treading with sandalled feet, or 
 reclining on rustic benches, the Texan friars used to spend 
 their idle hours, quite as pleasantly as their British brethren 
 of Tintern and Tewkesbury. Oft have the walls of the San 
 Saba mission-house echoed their "ha, ha!" as they quaffed 
 the choicest vintage of Xeres, and laughed at jests ribald as 
 any ever perpetrated in a pot-house. Not heard, however, by 
 the converted heathen under their care ; nor intended to be. 
 For them there were dwellings apart; a collection of rude hovels, 
 styled the rancheria. These were screened from view by a thick 
 grove of evergreen trees; the padres not relishing a too close 
 contact with their half-naked neophytes, who were but their 
 peons — in short their slaves. In point of fact, it was the 
 feudal system of the Old World transported to the New; with 
 the exception that the manorial lords were monks, and the 
 villeins savage men. And the pretence at proselytising, with 
 its mongrel mixture of Christianity and superstition, did not 
 make this Transatlantic villeinage a whit less irksome to endure. 
 Proof, that the red-skinned serfs required the iron hand of con- 
 trol is found in the presidio, or soldier's barrack — standing 
 close by — its ruin overlooking those of the raneheria. They 
 who had been conquered by the Cross, still needed the sword 
 to keep them in subjection, which, as we have seen, it finally 
 failed to do. 
 
 Several of the huts still standing, and in a tolerable state of 
 repair, have supplied shelter to the new settlers; most of 
 whom have taken up their abode in them. They are only to 
 serve as temporary residences, until better homes can be built. 
 There is no time for this now. The spring is on, and the 
 cotton-seed must be got into the ground, to the neglect of 
 everything else. 
 
 Colonel Armstrong himself, with his daughters and domes- 
 
A SUSPICIOUS SURVEILLANCE. 181 
 
 ^ics, occupies the old mission building, which also gives lodg- 
 ment to Luis Dupre and his belongings. For the young 
 planter is now looked upon as a member of the Armstrong 
 family, and it wants but a word from one in holy orders to 
 make him really so. And .such an one has come out with the 
 colonists. The marriage ceremony is but deferred until the 
 ■•it ton-seed be safe under the soil. Then there will be a day 
 of jubilee, such as has never been seen upon the San Saba; a 
 fiesta, which in splendour will eclipse anything the Spanish 
 monks, celebrated for such exhibitions, have ever got up, or 
 attempted. 
 
 But "business before pleasure" is the adage of the hour; 
 and, after a day or two given to rest, with the arrangement of 
 household affairs, the real work of colonising commences. 
 The little painted ploughs, transported from the States, are set 
 to soiling their paint, by turning up the fertile clod of the 
 San Saba valley, which has so long lain fallow; while the seed 
 of the cotton-plant is scattered far and wide over hundreds — 
 aye, thousands of acres. 
 
 Around the ancient mission is inaugurated a new life, with 
 scenes of industry, stirring as those presided over by the padres. 
 
 Is it sure of being as prosperous, or more likely to be per- 
 manent ] 
 
 One confining his view to the valley — regarding only the 
 vigorous activity there displayed — would answer this question 
 in the affirmative. 
 
 But he who looks farther off — raising his eyes to the bluff 
 on the opposite side of the river, fixing them on that spot 
 where the Indians made halt — would hesitate before thus prog- 
 nosticating. In the dusky cohort he might suspect some dan- 
 ger threatening the new settlement. 
 
 True, the savages are no longer there. After seeing the 
 waggons one after another becoming stationary, like vultures 
 deprived of a carrion repast, they moved away. But not far. 
 ( inly about five miles, to a grove of timber standing back upon 
 the plain, where they have made a more permanent camp. 
 
 Two alone are left upon the cliff's edge; evidently to act as 
 videttes. They keep watch night and day, one always remain- 
 ing awake. Especially during the night hours do they appear 
 on the alert — with eyes bent on the far off mission buildings 
 — watching the window-lights that steadily shine, and the 
 torches that flit to and fro. Watching for something not yet 
 Been. What can it be! 
 
 And what is the design of these painted savages, who looJ" 
 
18-2 
 
 I ill- ■ • I A'l II BHOT. 
 
 more like demons than menl Is it to attack the new colony, 
 plunder, and destroy it 1 
 
 Regarding their numbers, this would seem absurd They 
 are in all only twenty; while the colonists count at least fiftj 
 fighting men. No common men either; but most of (hem 
 accustomed to the use of armi : man] backwoodsmen, born 
 bi rderers, staunch as steel. Against Buch, twenty Indians 
 though the picked warriors of the warlike Comanche tribe 
 would stand no chance in fair open fight. But they may not 
 mean this; and their intent be only stealing] 
 
 Or they may be but a pioneer party — the vanguard of a 
 greater force? 
 
 In any ease, their behaviour is singularly suspicious. Sucb 
 manoeuvring can mean no good, but may be fraught with evil 
 to Colonel Armstrong and his colonists. 
 
 For several successive days is this surveillance maintained, 
 
 and still nothing seems to i le of it. The party of sai 
 
 remains encamped in the timber at back; while the two 
 sentinels keep their place upon the promontory; though n .\ 
 and then going and coming, as before, 
 
 But on a certain night they forsake their post altogether, 
 as if their object has been attained, and there is no need to 
 keep watch any more. 
 
 On this same night, a man might be seen issuing out ol 
 > the mission-building, and making away from its walls. 
 
 He is not seen, nevertheless. For it is the hour of mid 
 night, and all have retired to rest — the whole household 
 Beemingly wrapt in profoundest slumber. 
 
 Moreover, the man slips out stealthily, through the hack- 
 door; thenee across the second courtyard, and along a narrow 
 passage leading into the garden. Having ren h ; H - he 
 keeps on down the centre walk, and over the wall at bottom, 
 through which there chances to be a breach. 
 
 All these mysterious movements are in keeping with the ap 
 pearance of the man. For his countenance shows cunning ol 
 no ordinary kind. At first glance, and under the moonlight, 
 he might be mistaken for a mulatto, lint, though coloured, 
 he is not of this kind. His tawny skin shows a tinge of red. 
 which tells of Indian, rather than African blood. He is, in 
 truth, a mestizo — half Spaniard or Mexican, the other halt 
 being the aboriginal race of America, 
 
 It is a breed not always evil-disposed, still less frei|ueni U 
 ill featured ; and, so far as looks go, the individual in question 
 might claim to be called handsome. He has a plenteous pro 
 
A SUSPICIOUS SURVEILLANCE. 1N> 
 
 fusion of dark ourly hair, framing a countenance by no means 
 common. A face of oval form, regular features, the nose and 
 chin markedly prominent, a pair of coal black eyes, with a 
 well-defined crescent over each. Between his lips are teeth, 
 sound and of ivory whiteness, seeming whiter in contrast with 
 a pair of jet black moustaches, 
 
 Taking his features singly, any of them might be pro- 
 nounced comely. And yet the tout ensemble is not pleasing. 
 Despite physical beauty, there is something in the man's face 
 that appears repulsive, and causes shrinking in the heart of 
 the beholder. Chiefly is it his eyes thai seem to produce this 
 effect : their glance inspiring fear, such as one feels while 
 being gazed at by an adder. 
 
 Not always can this sinister look be observed. For the 
 mestizo, when face to face with his superiors, has the habit of 
 holding his eyes avi ri d c is down, as if conscious of having 
 committed crime, or an intuition to commit it. 
 
 Most with whom he comes in contact are impressed with 
 die idea, that he either has sinned, or intends sinning; so 
 all are chary of giving him confidence. 
 
 No — not all. There is one exception: one man who has 
 trusted, and still continues to trust him — the young planter, 
 Dupre. .So far, that he lias made him his man of confidence — 
 head-servant over all the household. For it need scarce be 
 told, that the real master of the house is he who rendered it 
 habitable, by tilling it with furniture and giving it a staff of 
 servants. Colonel Armstrong is but its head through courtesy 
 due to age, ami the respect shown to a future father-in-law. 
 
 Why the Creole puts such trust in Fernand — the mestizo's 
 name— no one can clearly comprehend. For he is not one of 
 those domestics, whose integrity has been tested by long years 
 of service, On the contrary, Dupr£ has neverset eyes on him, 
 till just before leaving Nachitoches. 
 
 While organizing the expedition, the half-blood had pre- 
 sented himself, and offered to act as its guide — professing 
 acquaintance with that section of Texas whither the colony 
 was to be conducted. P.ut long before reaching their destina 
 I in, 1 tupiv had promoted him t.. a higher and more lucrative 
 post — in short, made him his "major domo." 
 
 i lolonel Armstrong does not object. He has not the right. 
 Still less, anybody else. Outsiders only wonder and shak. 
 bads; saying, in whispers, that the thing is strange, 
 and adding, "No good can come of it." 
 
 < "tild any of them observe the mestizo at this midnight 
 
1*4 
 
 hi DEATH SHOT. 
 
 hour, fckulking away from the house : could they follow and 
 watch his further movements, they might iudulgc in some- 
 thing more than a surmise about his fidelity; indeed, be 
 convinced he is a traitor. 
 
 Alter getting about half-a-milc from the mission walls, he 
 makes stop on the edge of a bract of timber lying between — 
 its outer edge, open towards the river's bank, and the bluffs 
 beyond. 
 
 There, crouching dowu by the side of a flat stone, he pours 
 some gunpowder upon it, from a horn taken out of his pocket. 
 
 This done, he draws forth a bos of lueifer matches ; scrapes 
 one across the stone, and sets the powder ablaze. 
 
 It flashes up in bright glare, illumining the darkness around. 
 
 A second time he repeats this manoeuvre ; a third, and a 
 fourth ; and on, till, for the tenth time, powder has been 
 burnt. 
 
 Then turning away from the spot, he makes back towards 
 the dwelling-house, entering it by the way he went out, 
 and stealthily as before. 
 
 No one within its walls has been witness to the pyrotechnic 
 display. 
 
 For all, it has not been unobserved. The Indian videttes, 
 stationed on the far-off bluff, see it. See, and furthermore, 
 seem to accept it as a signal — a cue for action. What but 
 this could have caused them to spring upon the backs of their 
 horses, forsake their post of observation, and gallop off to the 
 bivouac of their comrades; which they do, soon as noting 
 that the tenth flash is not followed by another? 
 
 Surely must it be a signal, and preconcerted 1 
 
 In the life of the prairie savage fire plays a conspicuous 
 part. It is his telegraph, by which he can communicate with 
 far-off friends, telling them where an enemy is, and how or 
 when he should be " struck." A single spark, or smoke, has 
 in it much of meaning. A flash may mean more ; but ten 
 following in succession were alphabet enough to tell a tale 
 of no common kind — one. it may be, predicting death. 
 
*$, 4f ^. «&» si. if *«. ■.-> *, «"<> i 4f w -Sf ^ Jf a. -8» d. •£» 
 
 it z? »? *f if a- 4» £? t? t? 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 A SUSPECTED SERVANT 
 
 pOW fairly inaugurated, the new cjlony gives promise 
 of a great success ; and the cole nists are congratu- 
 lating themselves. 
 
 None more than their chief, Colonel Armstrong. 
 His leaving Mississippi has been a lucky move ; so far all has 
 gone well ; and if the future but respond to its promise, his 
 star, long waning, will be once more in the ascendant. There 
 is but one thought to darken this bright dream : the condition 
 of his eldest daughter. Where all others are rejoicing, there 
 is no gladness for her. Sombre melancholy seems to have 
 taken possession of her spirit, its shadow almost continuously 
 seated on her brow. Her eyes tell of mental anguish, which, 
 affecting her heart, is also making inroad on her health. 
 Already the roses have gone out of her cheeks, leaving only 
 lilies ; the pale flowers foretelling an early tomb. 
 
 The distressing symptoms do not escape the fond father's 
 observation. Indeed he knows all about them, now knowing 
 their cause. Only through the Natchez newspapers was he 
 first made aware of that secret correspondence between his 
 daughter and Clancy. But since she has confessed all — how 
 her heart went with her words ; is still true to what she then 
 said. The last an avowal not needed : her pallid cheeks pro- 
 claiming it. The frank confession, instead of enraging her 
 father, but gives him regret, and along with it self-reproach. 
 But for his aristocratic pride, with some admixture of cupidity, 
 he would have permitted Clancy's addresses to his daughter. 
 With an open honourable courtship, the end might have been 
 different — perhaps less disastrous. It could not have been 
 more. 
 
 He can now only hope, that time, the great soother of 
 suffering hearts, may bring balm to hers. New scenes in 
 Texas, with thoughts arising therefrom, may throw oblivion 
 over the past. And perchance a new lover may cause the lost 
 one to be less painfully remembered. Several aspirants have 
 
 14 
 
186 
 
 ill SHUT. 
 
 already presented themselves; more than our of the younger 
 in mbers of the colony having accompanied it, with no view oi 
 
 making fortunes by the cultivation of cotton, but solely to be 
 Melon Anns! i 
 
 Her suitors one and all will be disappointed. She to whom 
 they sue is not an ordinary woman; nor her affections of 
 the fickle kind. Like I tie ea jle'fl in ite, deprived of her proud 
 lord, she will live nil her after life in lone solitude — or die. 
 She has lost her lovei, or thinks so, believing Clancy dead; 
 but the love still burns within her bosom, and will, so long as 
 her life may last. begins to see this, 
 
 and despairs oi the r a ever again returning to the cheeks of 
 h is elder daughter. 
 
 It would, no do tl t . bo different were the blighted heart that 
 of his younger. With her the Spanish proverb, "un daw 
 saca otro cla >o," might have meaning. By good fortune, 
 Jessie needs no nail to drive out another. Her natural ex- 
 uberance of spirits grown to greater joy from the hopes that 
 now halo her young life, is flung over the future of all. Some 
 compensation for her sister's sadness — something to cheer 
 their common father. There is also the excitement attendant 
 on the industries of the hour — the cares of the cotton planting, 
 with speculations about the success of the crop — these, with a 
 hundred like thoughts and things, hinder him from so fre- 
 quently recurring to, or so long dwelling on, that which can 
 but cruelly distress. 
 
 It is the night succeeding that in which the mestizo made his 
 private pyrotechnic display; and Colonel Armstrong with bit 
 future son-in-law is seated in the former refectory of the mission, 
 which they have converted into a decent diuing-room. 
 
 They are not alone, or, as in French phraseology better 
 expressed, ckez eux Dimes. Six or seven of their fellow- 
 colonists of the better class share the saloon with them — 
 these being guests whom they have invtied to dinner. 
 
 The meal is over, the hour touching ten, the ladies have 
 retired from the table, only the gentlemen remain, drinking 
 choice claret, which Dupre, a sort of Transatlantic Lucullus, 
 has brought with him from his Louisiana wine bins. 
 
 Armstrong himself, being of Scotch ancestry, has the national 
 preference for whisky punch; and a tumbler of this beverage — 
 the best in the world — stands on the table before him. His 
 glass has been filled three times, and is as often emptied. 
 
 It need not be said, at this moment he is not sad. After 
 
A SI SPECTED SBRVAN1 
 
 three tumblers of whisky toddy no nian can help being hil- 
 arious; and so is it with Colonel Armstrong. Seated at the 
 head of his dining table, the steaming punch before him, he 
 converses with his guests, gay as the gayest. For a time their 
 conversation is on general topics; but at length changes to one 
 more particular. Something said has directed their attention 
 to a man, who waited upon them at table, now no longer in the 
 room. 
 
 The individual thus honoured is Dupre's confidential servant 
 Fernand; who, as already said, is house-steward, butler, facto- 
 tum of affairs generally. 
 
 As is usual with such grand dignitaries, he has withdrawn 
 simultaneously with the removal of the tablecloth, leaving a de- 
 puty to look to the decanting of the wine. Therefore, there is 
 nothing remarkable in his disappearance ; nor would aught be 
 observed about it, but for a remark made by one of the guests 
 during the course of conversation. A young surgeon, who has 
 cast in his lot with the new colony, is he who starts the topic, 
 thus introducing it : — 
 
 " Friend Dupre, where did you get that fellow Fernand ? 
 I dont remember having seen him on your Louisiana plan- 
 tion." 
 
 " I picked him up in Natchitoches while we were organising. 
 You know I lost my old major-domo last fall by the yellow 
 fever. It took him off while we were down in New Orleans. 
 Fernand, however, is his superior in every sense ; can keep 
 plantation accounts, wait at table, drive a carriage, or help in 
 a hunt. He's a fellow of wonderful versatility ; in short, a 
 genius. And what is rare in such a combination of talents, he 
 is devoted to his duties — a very slave to them." 
 
 "What breed may your admirable Crichton be V asks an- 
 other of the guests, adding: "He looks a cross between Spaniard 
 and Indian." 
 
 " Just what he is," answers the young planter ; "at least 
 says so. By his own account his father was a Spaniard, or 
 rather a Mexican, and his mother an Indian of the Seminole 
 tribe. His real name is Fernandez ; but for convenience I've 
 dropped the final syllable." 
 
 " It's a bad sort of mixture, that between Spaniard and 
 Seminole, and not improved by the Spaniard being a Mexican," 
 remarks he who made the inquiry. 
 
 " I don't like his looks," observes a third speaker. 
 
 Then all around the table wait to hear what Wharton, the 
 young surgeon, has to say. For it is evident, from his way of 
 
188 
 
 I Hi. L'EATH SHOT. 
 
 introducing the subject, he either knows or Buspects a metbing 
 prejudicial to the character of the major-domo. Instead of 
 going on to explain, he puts a second interrogatory — 
 
 "May I ask, M. Dupre\ whether you had any character with 
 him?" 
 
 "No, indeed," admits the master. "He came to me just 
 before we left Natchitoches asking f<. ran engagement. IL j ro 
 fessed to know all about Texas, and offered to act as a guide. 
 As I had engaged guides, I didu't want him for that ; when 
 he said any other place would do. Seeing him to be a sin.ni 
 sort of fellow, which he certainly has proved, I engaged him to 
 look after my baggage. Since, I've found him useful in other 
 ways, and have given him full charge of everything — even to 
 entrusting him with the care of my modest money chest." 
 
 " In doing that," rejoins the surgeon, " I should say you've 
 acted somewhat imprudently. Excuse me, M. Dupr6, for 
 making the observation." 
 
 " Oh, certainly," is the planter's frank reply. " But why 
 do you say so, Mr Wharton ] Have you any reason to suspect 
 his honesty?" 
 
 " I have ; more than one." 
 
 " Indeed ! Let us hear them all." 
 
 "Well ; in the first place I don't like the look of the man, 
 nor ever did since the day of our starting. Since I nover 
 set eyes on him before, I could have had no impression to 
 prejudice me against him. I admit that, judging by physiog- 
 nony, any one may be mistaken ; and I shouldn't have allowed 
 myself to be led by that. In this case, however, a circum- 
 stance has contributed to shaping my judgment; in fact, 
 deciding me in the opinion, that your fellow Fernaud is not 
 only dishonest, but something worse than a thief." 
 
 'Worse than a thief!" is the simultaneous echo from all 
 sides of the table, succeeded by a universal demand for 
 explanation. 
 
 " Your words have a weighty sound, doctor," is Colonel 
 Armstrong's way of putting it. "We are anxious to hear 
 what they mean"" 
 
 " Well," responds Wharton, "you shall know'why I've spoken 
 them, and what's led me to suspect this fellow Fernand. You 
 can draw your own conclusions, from the premises I put before 
 you. Last night at a late hour — near midnight—I took a 
 fancy into my head to have a stroll towards the river. Light- 
 ing a weed, I started out. I can't say exactly how- far I may 
 have gone ; but I know that the cigar — a long 'Henry Clay' — 
 
A SUSPECTED SERVANT. 189 
 
 was burnt to the eud before I thought of turning back. Ai 
 I was about doing so, I heard a sound, easily made out to be 
 the footsteps of a man, treading the firm prairie turf. As it 
 chanced just then, I was under a pecan-tree that screened me 
 with its shadow ; and I kept my ground without making any 
 noise. 
 
 "Shortly after, I saw the man whose footfall I had heard, 
 and recognised him as M. Dupre's head servant. He was 
 coming up the valley, toward the house here, as if returning 
 from some excursion. I mightn't have thought much of that, 
 but for noticing, as he passed me, that he didn't walk erect or 
 on the path, but crouchingly, among the trees skirting it. 
 
 Throwing away the stump of my cigar, I set out after 
 him, treading stealthily as he. Instead of entering by the 
 front, he went round the garden, all the way to its rear ; 
 where suddenly I lost sight of him. On arriving at the spot 
 where he had disappeared, I saw there was a break in the 
 wall. Through that, of course, he must have passed, and 
 entered the mission-building at the back. Now, what are we 
 to make of all this f 
 
 " What do you make of it, doctor]" asks Dupre. "Give us 
 your own deductions !" 
 
 "To say the truth, I don't know what deductions to draw. 
 I confess myself at fault ; and cannot account for the fellow's 
 movements ; though I take you'll all acknowledge they were 
 odd. As I've said, M. Dupre, I didn't from the first like your 
 man of versatile talents ; and I'm now more than ever dis- 
 trustful of him. Still I profess myself unable to guess what 
 he was after last night. Can any of you, gentlemen V 
 
 No one can. The singular behaviour of Dupre's servant is 
 a puzzle to all present. At the same time, under the circum- 
 stances, it has a serious aspect. 
 
 Were there any neighbouring settlement, the man might be 
 supposed returning from a visit to it ; entering stealthily, from 
 being out late, and under fear of rebuke from his master. As 
 there are no such neighbours, this theory cannot be enter- 
 tained. 
 
 On the other hand, there has been no report of Indians 
 having been seen in proximity to the place. If there had, the 
 mestizo's conduct might be accounted for, upon an hypothesis 
 that would certainly cause apprehension to those discus- 
 sing it. 
 
 But no savages have been seen, or heard of; and it is known 
 that the Southern ComantLcs — the only Indians likely to bo 
 
19 
 
 THE MATH Sllof. 
 
 id tered —are in treaty of peace with the Texan 
 
 Govi Dili nt. Therefore, the nocturnal excursion of the half- 
 iould not be connected with anything uf this kind. 
 His singular, and seemingly eccentric, behaviour, remains 
 an unsolved problem to the guests around the table : and the 
 subject is eventually dropped, their conversation changing to 
 other and pleasanter themes. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIL 
 
 OPPOSITE EMBLEMS. 
 
 LEASURE has uot been tlie sole purpose for 
 which Colonel Armstrong is giving his little 
 dinner party, else there would have been 
 invited along with the gentlemen. It is rather a 
 re-union to talk over the affairs of the colony; hence the only 
 ladies present were the daughters of the host. And, for the 
 same reason, these have retired from the table at an early hour, 
 betaking themselves to the sala of the old monastery, their 
 sitting and drawing-room. This, though an ample apart n 
 is anything but a pleasant one; never much affected by the 
 monks, who in their post-prandial hours, preferred sticking to 
 the refectory. A hasty attempt has been made to modernise 
 it ; but the light furniture of French Creole fabric, brought 
 along from Louisiana, ill accords with its heavy style of archi- 
 tecture, while its decayed walls and ceilings lezardee, give it a 
 gloomy dismal look, all the more from the large room being 
 but dimly lit up. As it is not a drawing-room party, the 
 ladies expect that for a long while, if not all evening, they will 
 be left alone in it. For a time they scarce know how to 
 employ themselves. With Helen, amusement is out of the 
 question. She has flung kerself into a fauteuil, and sits in 
 pensive attitude ; of late, alas ! become habitual to her. 
 
 Jessie, taking up her guitar, commences a song, the first 
 that occurs to her, which chances to be " Lucy Neal," a negro 
 melody, at the time much in vogue on the plantations of the 
 South. She has chosen the pathetic strain without thought 
 of the effect it may produce upon her sister. Observing it to 
 be painful she abruptly breaks off, and with a sweep of her 
 
OPPOSITE EMBLEMS. 191 
 
 fingers across the guitar strings, changes to the merrier re- 
 frain of " Old Dan Tucker." Helen, touched by the delicate 
 consideration, rewards it with a faint smile. Then, Jessie 
 rattles on through a melange of negro ministrelsy, all of the 
 light comical kind, her only thought being to chase away her 
 sister's despondency. 
 
 Still is she unsuccessful. Her merry voice, her laughter, and 
 the cheerful tinkle of the guitar strings, are all exerted in vain. 
 The sounds so little in consonance with Helen's thoughts 
 seem sorely out of place in that gloomy apartment ; whose 
 walls, though they once echoed the laughter of roystering 
 friars, have, no doubt, also heard the sighs of many a poor peon 
 suffering chastisement for disobedience, or apostacy. 
 
 At length perceiving how idle are her efforts, the younger 
 sister lays aside her guitar, at the same time starting to her 
 feet, and saying : — " Come, Helen ! suppose we go outside for 
 a stroll ? That will be more agreeable than moping in this 
 gloomsome cavern. There's a beautiful moonlight, and we 
 ought to enjoy it." 
 
 "If you wish, I have no objections. Where do you intend 
 strolling to V 
 
 " Say the garden, i We can take a turn along its walks, 
 though they are a little weedy. A queer weird place it is — 
 looks as if it might be haunted. I shouldn't wonder if we 
 met a ghost in it— some of the old monks; or it might be one 
 of their victims. 'Tis said they were very cruel, and killed 
 people — aye, tortured them. Only think of the savagemonsters ! 
 True, the ones that were here, as I've heard, got killed them- 
 selves in the end — that's some satisfaction. But it's all the 
 more reason for their ghosts being about. If we should meet 
 oik', what would you doT' 
 
 "That would depend on how he behaved himself." 
 
 "You're not afraid of ghosts, Helen? I know you're not." 
 
 "I was when a child. Now I fear neither the living nor 
 the dead. I can dare both, having nought to make me care 
 for life " 
 
 "Come on!" cries Jessie, interrupting the melancholy train 
 of reflection, "Let us to the garden. If we meet a monk in 
 hood and cowl, I shall certainly — — " 
 
 "Do what?" 
 
 "Run back into the house fast as feet can cany me. Come 
 along!" 
 
 Keeping up the jocular bravado, the younger sister leads 
 the way out. Arm-in-arm the two cross the patio, then the 
 
192 THIS DKAT11 Ml 1 1 
 
 outer courtyard, and on through a narrow passage communica- 
 ting with the walled enclosure at back; once a grand garden 
 under careful cultivation, still grand in its neglect. 
 
 Alter entering it, the sisters make stop, and for a while 
 stand surveying the scene. The moon at full, coursing through 
 a cloudless sky-, flings her soft light upon gorgeous flowers 
 with corollas but, half closed, in the sultry southern night 
 giving out their fragrance as by day. The senses of sight and 
 smell are not the only ones gratified; that of hearing is also 
 charmed with the song of the czentzontle, the Mexican nightin- 
 gale. One of these birds perched upon a branch, and pouring 
 forth its love-lay in loud passionate strain, breaks oft' at Bight 
 of them. Only for a short interval is it silent; then resuming 
 its lay, as if convinced it has nought to fear from such fair 
 intruders. Its song is not strange to their ears, though there 
 are some notes they have not hitherto heard. It is their own 
 mocking-bird of the States, introducing into its mimic min- 
 strelsy certain variations, the imitations of sounds peculiar to 
 Texas. 
 
 After having listened to it for a short while, the girls move 
 on down the centre walk, now under the shadow of trees, anon 
 emerging into the moonlight; which shimmering on their white 
 evening robes, and reflecting the sparkle of their jewellery, 
 produces a pretty effect. 
 
 The garden ground slopes gently backward ; and about 
 half-way between the house and the bottom wall is, or has 
 been, a fountain. The basin is still there, and with water in 
 it, trickling over its edge. But the jet no longer plays, and the 
 mason-work shows greatly dilapidated. So also the seats 
 and statues around, some of the latter yet standing, others 
 broken off, and lying alongside their pedestals. 
 
 Arriving at this spot, the sisters again stop, and for a 
 time stand contemplating the ruins; the younger making a 
 remark, suggested by a thought of their grandeur gone. 
 
 " Fountains, statues, seats under shade trees, every luxury 
 to be got out of a garden ! What Sybarites the Holy Fathers 
 must have been !" 
 
 " Truly so," assents Helen. " They seem to have made 
 themselves quite comfortable ; and whatever their morals, it 
 must be admitted they displayed good taste in landscape 
 gardening, with an eye to good living as well. They must 
 have been very fond of fruit, and a variety of it — judging by 
 the many sorts of trees they've planted." 
 
 " So much the better for us," gleefully replies Jessie. " We 
 
OPPOSITE EMBLEMS. 193 
 
 shall have the benefit of their industry, when the fruit season 
 comes round. Won't it be a grand thing when we get the 
 walks gravelled, these statues restored, and that fountain once 
 more in full play. Luis has promised me it shall be done, 
 soon as the cotton crop is in. Oh ! it will be a Paradise of a 
 place !" 
 
 " I like it better as it is." 
 
 "You do. Why?" 
 
 "Ah! that you camiot understand. You do not know — I 
 hope never will — what it is to live only in the past. This 
 place has had a past, like myself, once smiling; and now like 
 me all desolation." 
 
 "0 sister! do not speak so. It pains me — indeed it does. 
 Besides your words only go half-way. As you say, it's had 
 a smiling past, and's going to have a smiling future. And so 
 will you sis. I'm determined to have it all laid out anew, 
 in as good style as it ever was — better. Luis shall do it — 
 must, when he marries me — if not before." 
 
 To the pretty bit of bantering Helen's only answer is a sigh, 
 with a sadder expression, as from some fresh pang shooting 
 through her heart. It is even this; for, once again, she can- 
 not help contrasting her own poor position with the proud one 
 attained by her sister. She knows that Dupre is in reality 
 master of all around, as Jessie will be mistress, she herself 
 little better than their dependant. No wonder the thought 
 should cause her humiliation, or that, with a spirit imperious 
 as her's, she should feel it acutely. Still, in her crushed heart 
 there is no envy at her sister's good fortune. Could Charles 
 Clancy come to life again, now she knows him true — were he 
 but there to share with her the humblest hut in Texas, all 
 the splendours, all the grandeurs of earth, could not add to 
 that happiness, nor give one emotion more. 
 
 After her enthusiastic outburst, to which there has been no 
 rejoinder, Jessie continues on toward the bottom of the garden, 
 giving way to pleasant fancies, dreams of future designs, with 
 her fan playfully striking at the flowers as she passes them. 
 
 In silence Helen follows; and no word is exchanged between 
 them till they reach the lower end ; when Jessie, turning 
 round, the two are face to face. The place where they have 
 stopped is another opening with seats and statues, admitting 
 the moonlight. By its bright beam the younger sister sees 
 anguish depicted on the countenance of the older. 
 
 With a thought that her last words have caused or contri- 
 buted to thiB, she is about to add others that may remove it, 
 
VJi 
 
 TIIK DEATH SHOT. 
 
 But before she can speak, Helen makes a gesture that holds 
 b 
 
 Near the spot where the)' are standing two trees overshadow 
 the walk, their boughs meeting across it. Both are emblematic 
 
 — one symbolising the most joyous hour of existence, the 
 other it saddest. They are an orange, and a cypress. The 
 former is in bloom, as it always is; the latter only in leai, 
 without a blossom on its branches. 
 
 Helen, stepping between them, and extending an arm to 
 each, plucks from the one a sprig, from the other a flower. 
 Raising the orange blossom between her white fingers, more 
 attenuated than of yore, she plants it amid Jessie's go! len 
 tresses. At the same time she sets the cypress sprig behind the 
 plaits of her own raven hair; as she does so, saying: — 
 
 "That for you, sister— this for me. We are now decked 
 as befits us — as we shall both soon be — you for the bridal, 1 
 for the tomb I 
 
 The words, seeming but too prophetic, pierce Jessie's heart 
 as arrow with poisoned barb. In an instant, her joy is gone, 
 sunk into the sorrow of her sister. Herself sinking upon 
 that sister's bosom, with arms around her neck, and tears 
 falling thick and fast over her swan-white shoulders. 
 
 Never more than now has her heart overflowed with 
 compassion, for never as now has Helen appeared to suffer so 
 acutely. As she stood, holding in one hand the symbol oi 
 bright happy life, in the other the dark emblem of death, she 
 looked the very personification of sorrow. With her magni- 
 ficent outline of form, and splendid features, all the more 
 marked in their melancholy, she might have passed for its 
 divinity. The ancient sculptors would have given much for 
 such a model, to mould the statue of Despair. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 A BLANK DAY. 
 
 i|N the frontier every settlement has its professional 
 hunter. Often several, seldom less than two or 
 three; their ■metier being to supply the settlers with 
 meat and game — venison, the standing dish — now 
 and then bear hams, much relished — and, when the place is 
 
A BLANK DAT. 195 
 
 upon prairie-land, the flesh of the antelope and buffalo. The 
 wild turkey, too — grandest of all game birds — is on the pro- 
 fessional hunter's list for the larder ; the lynx and panther he 
 will kill for their pelts ; but squirrels, racoons, rabbits, and 
 other such " varmints," he disdains to meddle with, leaving 
 them to the amateur sportsman, and the darkey. 
 
 Usually the professional votary of St. Hubert is of solitary 
 habit, and prefers stalking alone. There are some, however, 
 of more social inclining, who hunt in couples; one of the pair 
 being almost universally a veteran, the other a young man — 
 as in the case of Sime Woodley and Ned Hey wood. l'\ the 
 inequality of age the danger of professional jealousy is avoided; 
 the younger looking up to his senior, and treating him with 
 the deference due to greater knowledge and experience. 
 
 Just such a brace of professionals has come out with the 
 Armstrong colony — their names, Alec Hawkins and Cris 
 Tucker — the former an old bear-hunter, who has slain his 
 hundreds ; the latter, though an excellent marksman, in the 
 art of venerie but a tyro compared with his partner. 
 
 Since their arrival on the San Saba, they have kept tne 
 settlement plentifully supplied in meat; chiefly venison of the 
 black-tailed deer, with which the bottom-laud abounds. Tur- 
 keys, too, in any quantity ; these noble birds thriving in the 
 congenial climate of Texas, with its nuts and berry-bearing 
 trees. 
 
 But there is a yet nobler game, to the hunting of which 
 Hawkins and his younger associate aspire ; both being eager to 
 add it to the list of their trophies. It is that which has 
 tempted many an English Nimrod to take three thousand 
 miles of sea voyage across the Atlantic, and by land nearly as 
 many more — the buffalo. Hawkins and Tucker, though having 
 quartered the river bottom, for ten miles above and below the 
 mission-building, have as yet come across none of these grand 
 quadrupeds, nor seen " sign" of them. 
 
 This day, when Armstrong has his dinner party, the 
 hunters bethink themselves of ascending to the upper plain, 
 in the hope of there finding the game so much desired. 
 
 The place promising best is on the opposite side of the 
 valley, to reach which the river must be crossed. 
 
 There are two fords at nearly equal distances from the old 
 mission-house, one about ten miles above, the other as many 
 below. By the latter the waggons came over, and it is the 
 one chosen by the hunters. 
 
 Crossing it, they continue on to the bluffs rising beyond, and 
 
196 
 
 U it!l SHOT. 
 
 ascend those through a lateral ravine, the channel of a water 
 course — which affords a practicable pass to the plain. On 
 reaching its summit they behold a steppe to all appearand 
 illimitable, almost as sterile as Saara itself. Treeless save ;i 
 skirting of dwarf cedars along the cliffs edge, with here 
 and there a motle of black-jack oaks, a cluster of cactus plants, 
 or a solitary yucca of the arborescent species — the jyalmrlla of 
 the Mexicans. 
 
 Withal, not an unlikely place to encounter the cattle with 
 hunched backs, and shaggy shoulders. None are in sight ; 
 but hoping they soon will be the hunters launch out upon the 
 plain. 
 
 Till near night thoy scout around, but without seeing anv 
 buffalo. 
 
 The descending sun warns them it is time to return home : 
 and, facing for the bluff, they ride back towards it. 
 
 Some three or four hundred yards from the summit of the 
 pass is a motle of bl ick-jacks, the trees standing close, in full 
 leaf, and looking i ha ly. As it is more than fifteen miles to the 
 mission, and they have not eaten since morning, they resolve 
 to make halt, and have a sneck. The black-jack grove is right 
 in their way, its shade invites them, for the sun is still sultry. 
 Soon they are in it, their horses tied to trees, and their haver- 
 sacks summoned to disgorge. Some corn-bread and bacon is 
 all these contain ; but no better refection needs a prairie 
 hunter, nor cares for, so long he has a little distilled corn- 
 juice to wash it down, with a pipe of tobacco to follow. 
 
 They have eaten, drunk, and are making ready to smoke, 
 when an object upon the plain attracts their attention. Only 
 a cloud of dust, and far off — on the edge of the horizon. For 
 all that a sign significant. It may be a "gang" of buffaloes, the 
 thing they* have been all day vainly searching for. 
 
 Thrusting the pipes back into their pouches, they grasp 
 their guns, with eyes eagerly scanning the dust cloud. At 
 first dim, it gradually becomes darker. For a whiff cf wind 
 has blown the " stoor " aside, disclosing not a drove of buffo; 
 loes, but instead a troop of horses, at the sam: time Bhowiug 
 them to have riders on their backs, as the hunters can perceive 
 Indians. 
 
 Also that the troop is coming towards them, and advancing 
 at such rapid pace, that in less than twenty minutes after 
 being descried, it is close to the clump of black-jacks. 
 
 Fortuu it. lv for Alec Hawking and Oris Tucker, the Indian 
 horsemen have no intention to halt there, or rest themselves 
 
A BLANK DAY. 197 
 
 under the shadow of the copse. To all appearance they are 
 riding in hot haste, and with a purpose which carries them 
 straight towards the pass. They do not even stop on arrival 
 at its summit; but dash down the ravine, disappearing 
 suddenly as though they had dropped into a trap ! 
 
 It is some time before the two hunters have recovered from 
 their surprise, and can compare notes about what they have 
 seen, with conjectures as to its bearing. They have witnessed 
 a spectacle sufficiently alarming, — a band of fierce-looking 
 savages, armed with spear and tomahawk — some carrying 
 guns — all plumed and painted, all alike terrible in aspect. 
 
 Quick the apparition has passed before their eyes, as 
 suddenly disappearing. The haste in which the Indians 
 rode down the ravine tells of their being bent on some fore- 
 arranged purpose that calls for early execution. It may be 
 murder, or only plunder; and the men may be Comanches — as 
 m every likelihood they are. 
 
 "They're a ugly-looking lot," says Hawkins, after seeing 
 them file past. "If there were a hundred, instead o' twenty. 
 I'd predict some danger to our new settlement. They appear 
 to be going that way — at all events they are bound for the 
 river bottom, and the lower crossing. We must follow them, 
 Cris, an' see if we can make out what's their game. The red 
 devils mayn't mean downright robbery, but like enough they 
 intend stealin'. Hitch up, and let's after em'." 
 
 In a trice the two hunters are in their saddles; and proceed- 
 ing to the summit of the pass, look down at the valley below. 
 Not carelessly, but cautiously. Hawkins is an old cam- 
 paigner, has fought Indians before, and knows how to deal 
 with them. 
 
 Keeping himself and horse under cover of the cedars, after 
 instructing his comrade to do the same, he reconnoitres the 
 bottom-land, before attempting to descend to it. 
 
 As expected, he sees the Indians making for the ford. At 
 the point between the San Saba, and either of its bluffs is a 
 breadth of some four miles, part open meadow land, the other 
 part, contiguous to the river overgrown with heavy timber. 
 Into this the red horsemen are riding, as the two hunters 
 reach the summit of the pass; the latter arriving just in 
 time to see their last files disappear among the trees. It is 
 their cue to descend also; which they do, without further 
 delay. 
 
 Hastening down the ravine and on to the river ford, they 
 discover that the Indians have crossed it The tracks of their 
 
198 
 
 mi. I'KATii shut. 
 
 horses arc on both banks. Beyond, the hunters cannot tell 
 which way they have taken. For though still only twiligtht 
 it is dark as night under the thick standing trees; and lie 
 keenest eye could not discover a trail. 
 
 Thus thrown oft*, they have no choice but continue on to 
 the settlement. 
 
 Reaching this at a rather late hour, they do uot enter 
 the mission building nor yet any of tin' huts of the / - ' 
 i riii. Their own residence is a tent, standing in the grove 
 between ; and to it they betake themselves. Once under 
 canvass their first thought is supper, and they sot about 
 cooking it. Though they have brought back no buffalo meat, 
 a twenty pound turkey "gobbler" has been all day dangling 
 at the horn of Hawkins' saddle — enough for a plentiful n 
 
 Cris, who acts as cook, sets to plucking the bird, while 
 Hawkins commences kindling a fire outside the tent. But 
 before the fagots are ablaze, the old hunter, all along abstracted, 
 becomes fidgetty, as if troubled with the reflection of having 
 neglected some duty he ought to have done. 
 
 Abrapl ly breaking off, and pitching aside the sticks, he says: 
 — " This wont do, Cris, nohow. I've got a notion in my head 
 there's something not right about them Indyens. I must up 
 to the house an' tell the Colonel. You go on, and get the 
 gobblei roasted. I'll be back by the time its ready." 
 
 "All right," rejoins Tucker, continuing to make the feathers 
 fly. " Dont stay if you expect any share of this bird. I'm 
 hungry enough to eat the whole of it myself." 
 
 '■ You needn't fear for my stayin'. I'm just as sharp set as 
 yourself." 
 
 So saying, Hawkins strides out of the tent; leaving his com- 
 rade to continue the preparations for their repast. 
 
 from the hunter's tent, the house is approached by a nar- 
 row path, nearly all the way running through timber. While 
 gliding silently along it, Hawkins comes suddenly to a stop. 
 
 "Seems to me I heard a cry," he mutters to himself; 
 " seems, too, as 'twar a woman's voice." 
 
 After listening awhile, without hearing it repeated, he adds : 
 
 " I reckon, 'twar only the skirl o' them tree crickets. The 
 warm night makes 'em chirp their loudest." 
 
 Listening a little longer, he becomes convinced it was but 
 the crickets he heard, and keeps on to the house. 
 
 =-C~<fe<SSgAg)^>*>-3~J 
 
g&8£&R$8 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 WAITING THE WORD. 
 
 ]0 all appearance Fernand's fireworks are about to 
 bear fruit, this likely to be bitter. As the sky, 
 darker after the lightning's flash, a cloud is collect- 
 ing over the new settlement, which threatens to 
 sweep down upon it in a rain siorm of ruin. What but they 
 could have caused this cloud; or, at all events, given a cue 
 fur the time of its bursting. 
 
 It appears in the shape of a cohort of dusky horsemen, 
 painted and plumed. No need to say, they are the same that 
 were seen by Hawkins and Tucker. 
 
 Having crossed the river at its lower ford, where so far the 
 hunters saw their tracks, there losing them, the savages con- 
 tinued on. Not by the main road leading to the mission, but 
 along a path which deflects from it soou after leaving the 
 river's bank. A narrower trace, indeed the continuation of 
 that they had been following all along — the transverse route 
 across the bottorn-laud from bluff to bluff, on both sides 
 ascending to the steppe. 
 
 But though they came down on one side, they went not up 
 on the other. Instead, having reached the nether bluff, they 
 turned sharp along its base, by another and still narrower 
 trace, which they knew would take them up to the mission- 
 building. A route tortuous, the path beset with many 
 obstacles ; hence their having speut several hours in passing 
 from the ford to the mission-house, though the distance be- 
 tween is barely ten miles. 
 
 No doubt they have good reason for submitting to the irk- 
 some delay caused by the difficult track, as also for the 
 cautious manner in which they have been coming along it. 
 Otherwise, they would certainly have chosen the direct road 
 running nearer the river's bank. 
 
 While Colonel Armstrong, and his friends, are enjoying them- 
 selves in the refectory of the ancient mission-house, in the midst 
 of their laughing hilarity, the painted cavaliers have been 
 
 15 
 
200 
 
 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 making approach, and are now halted, within less than half a 
 mile from its walls. In such fashion as shows, they do not 
 intend a long stay in their stopping place. Not a saddle is 
 removed, or girth untightened ; while the bridles, remaining on 
 their horses' heads, are bu1 used as halters to attach them to 
 the trees. 
 
 The men have dismounted, but not to form camp, or make 
 bivouac. They kindle no fires, nor seem caring to cook, or 
 eat. They drink, however; several of them taking flasks from 
 their saddle pouches, and holding them to their heads bottom 
 upward. Nothing strange in this. The Texan Indian, whe- 
 ther Comanche, Kiowa, or Lipan, likes his tire-water as 
 much as a white man. and as constantly carries it along with 
 him. The only peculiarity about these is that, while quaffing, 
 they do not talk in the Indian tongue, but English of the 
 Ti ■■ in idiom, with all its wild swearing! 
 
 The place where they have halted is a bit of glade-ground, 
 nearly circular in shape, only half-encompassed by timber, the 
 other half being an embayrnent of the bluffs, twin to those on 
 the opposite side of the river bottom. It is shaded three- 
 quarters across by the cliff, the moon being behind this. 
 The other quarter, on the side of the trees, is brilliantly lit up 
 by her beams, showing the timber thick and close along its 
 edge, to all appearance impassable as the j'ir._ t Je of rutted 
 rock frowning from the opposite concave of the' enclosed circle. 
 
 Communicating with this arc but two paths possible for 
 man or horse, and for either only in single file. One enters 
 the glade coming up the river bottom along the base of the 
 bluff; the other debouches at the opposite end, still follow-in"- 
 the cliff's foot. By the former the Indians have entered ; but 
 by the latter it is evident they intend going out, as their eyes 
 are from time to time turned towards it, and their gestures 
 directed that way. Still they make no movement for resuming 
 their march, but stand in gathered groups, one central and 
 larger than the rest. In its midst is a man by nearly the 
 head taller than those around him : their chief to a certainty 
 His authority seems acknowledged by all; who address him^ 
 if not with deference, in tone and speech telling they but wait 
 for his commands, and are willing to obey them. He, himself, 
 appears waiting for something, or somebody else, before he can 
 issue them, his glance continually turning towards the point 
 where the path leads out upwards. 
 
 Impatiently, too j as ever and anon he pulls out a watch 
 
AN UNCANNY SKULKEK. 201 
 
 and consults it as to the time. Odd to see a savage so 
 engaged; above all possessed of a repeater! Still the Indians 
 of to-day are different from those of days past, and have 
 learnt many of the white man's ways — even to wearing watches. 
 The man in question seems to know all about it : and has his 
 reasons for being particular as to the hour. He is evidently 
 acting upon a preconcerted plan, with the time fixed and fore- 
 arranged. And evident also that ten is the hour awaited ; 
 for, while in the act of examining his dial, the old mission- 
 clock, restored to striking, tolls just so many times; and, 
 before the boom of its cracked bell has ceased rolling in broken 
 reverberation through the trees, he thrusts the watch hurriedly 
 into his fob. Then stands in expectant attitude, with eyes 
 upon the embouchure of the upper path, scanning it more 
 eagerly than ever. There is a strange coincidence between 
 the strokes of the clock and the flashes of Fernand's powder — 
 both numbering the same. Though not strange to the leader 
 of the savage troop. He knows what it is — comprehends 
 the signifiance of the signal — for signal it has been. A dread 
 one, too, foreboding danger to innocent people. One who 
 could behold this savage band, scrutinize the faces of those 
 composing it. witness the fierce wicked flashes from their eyes, 
 just as the clock is striking, would send up a prayer for the 
 safety of Colonel Armstrong and his colonists. 
 
 If further informed as to who the savages are, the prayer 
 would sure be succeeded by the reflection — ' : Heaven help 
 his daughters ! If God guard not, a fearful fate will be theirs 
 — a destiny worse than death !" 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 AN UNCANNY SKULKER. 
 
 jlTILL within the garden are the young girls — still 
 standing under the shadow of the two trees that 
 furnished the contrasting symbols, — unconscious of 
 danger near. Helen's speech, suggesting such 
 painful sequence, has touched her sister to the quiok, soon as 
 spoken, afflicting also herself; and for a time they remain 
 with entwined arms and chocks touching — their tears flowing 
 
202 
 
 lTH bhot. 
 
 er. I'.nt Ji louder, her grief greater 
 
 than thai she lias been endeavouring to assuage. 
 
 Eelen perceiving it. rises to the occasion; and, as oft before, 
 in turn becomes tl er; their happiness and misery 
 
 like scales vibrating >>n the beam. 
 
 "Don't cry so, Jess. Be a good girl, now. You're a little 
 simpleton, and I a big one.' 'Twas very wrong of me to 
 whai I did. Be it forgotten, and let's hope we may yet both 
 be happy." 
 
 " I Mi, if I could but think that !" 
 
 •'Think it, then. You are happy, and I— shall try to be. 
 Who knows what time may do — that, and Texas I Now, my 
 little Niobe, dry up your tears. Mine are all gone, and 1 feel 
 in first rate spirits. I do indeed." 
 
 she is not sincere in h lys, and but counterfeits 
 
 cheerfulness to restore thai ol her sister. 
 
 she has well nigh succeeded, when a third personage appears 
 upon the in their tho 
 
 turning these into a new and v< c hannel. 
 
 He whose appearance p cl — for it is a man 
 
 — seems wholly urn ofluence he has ex 
 
 indeed, is so. 
 
 When first observed, he down tl central walk; 
 
 which, though wide, is partial] I bytrees. And in 
 
 their shadow - to it, as if desirous to shun 
 
 observation. His step declares it; not bold this, nor regai 
 but skulking, with tread catlike; while every now and thou 
 he casts a backward glance, as if in fear of some one being 
 behind, .fust that which hinders him from seeing those who 
 :ire in front. 
 
 The girls are still standing together, with hands joined — 
 luckily on one of the side walks, and like himself in shadow — 
 though very near to ha rated, and one, at 
 
 rushing out into the lighl al firsi sound of his footsti p. For 
 to Jessie it gave joy, supposing it that of her Lnis. Naturally 
 expecting him to join her, she was almost sure of its being he. 
 
 Only for an instant. The tread ■ I for a man 
 
 marching with honesl intent, and the step too shuffling to be 
 that of the young planter. So whispered Helen. 
 
 Soon they see it. is no1 he, but his major-domo. 
 
 Both are annoyed, some little irritated, at being thus in- 
 truded upon. At Buch a time, in the midst of sacred emotions, 
 all the more by a man they both instinctively dislike. For 
 Fernand is not a favourite with either. 
 
AN LNCA.NXY SKULKER. 203 
 
 Then the idea occurs, he may be coming to seek them, 
 sent with some message from the house, and if so, they can 
 excuse him. Concluding his errand to be this, they await it, 
 in silence. 
 
 TLey are quite mistaken, and soon perceive it. An honest 
 messenger would not be moving as he. While passing the open 
 ground by the ruined waterworks, the moon falls full upon his 
 face, which wears an expression anything but innocent, as they 
 can both Bee. ] tures also betray guilt ; for he 
 
 is skulk e lances back. 
 
 ■•What can it mean?" whispers Jessie into Helen's ear; 
 who replies by placing a finger on her lips, and drawing her 
 sister into deeper shadow. 
 
 Silent both stand, not stirring, scarce breathing. One seeing, 
 mistake them for statues — a Juno and a Y 
 Fortunately Fernand does not see, else he might scrutinize 
 them more closely. He is too much absorbed about hit 
 affair, whatever it be, to think of any one loitering there at that 
 ■ 
 
 Where the main garden-walk meets the one going along the 
 bottom, is another open sr- :e, smaller than that around the 
 fountain, still sufficient to let in the light of the moon. Here 
 also have b( the latter lying shattered, 
 
 as if dashed to the earth by the hand of some ruthless i 
 clast. Just opposite, is a breach in the wall ; the mud bricks, 
 crumbled into clods, forming a talus on each face of it. 
 
 Arriving at this, the mestizo makes stop. Only for an 
 instant, long enough to give a last glance up the garden. 
 
 Apparently satisfied, that he is not followed nor observed, he 
 scrambles up the slope and down on the op] where 
 
 he is lost to the view of the sisters; who both stand wondering 
 — the younger sensibly trembling. 
 
 '■What on earth is the fellow after?" asks Helen, whose 
 i comes first. 
 
 •• What, indeed \" echoes Jessie. 
 
 "A question, sister, you should be better able to answer 
 than I. He ■ rvant of M. Dupre; and he, I 
 
 take it, has told you all about him." 
 
 •• Not a word has lie. He knows that 1 don't like the 
 and never did from the first. I've intimated as much t" him 
 more than once." 
 
 "That oiiu'ht to have got .Master Fernand his disci 
 Luis will surely not keep him, if he knows . 
 j ou 1 " 
 
204 
 
 THK DfCATII SHOT. 
 
 " Will, perhaps he wouldn'1 it' I were to put it in that way 
 I haven't ■' 1 only hinted that the man wasn't 
 
 altogether to my liking ; especially made so much ofas Luis 
 makes of him. 5Tou must know, dear Helen, my future lord 
 
 and master is of a very trusting nature; tar too much, I fear, 
 i ir some of the people now around him. He has been brought 
 up like all Creoles, without thought for the morrow. A 
 sprinkling of Yankee cuteness wouldn't do him any harm. As 
 for tins fellow, lie has insinuated himself into Luis'-s confidence 
 in some way that appears quite mysterious. It even puzzles 
 our father; though he's said nothing much about it. So far 
 he appears satisfied, because the man lias proved capable, 
 and, I believe, very useful to them in their affairs. For my 
 part I've In en mystified by him all along, and not less now. 
 1 wonder what he ran lie after. Can you not give aguessl" 
 
 " Not the slightest ; unless it be theft. Do you think it's 
 tb it r 
 
 " I declare I don't know." 
 
 '■ Js there anything he could he carrying off from the house, 
 with the intention of secreting it outside) Some of your 
 Luis's gold for instance, or the plot ly jewels he has given youl" 
 
 "My jewels! No; they are safe in their case; locked 
 tip in my room, of which I've the key with me. As 
 for Luis's gold, he hasn't much of that. All the money 
 he possesses — quite fifty thousand dollars, I believe — - 
 is in silver. I wondered at his bringing it out here in 
 that li'.iw shape, for it made a whole waggon-load of itself 
 He's told me the reason, however; which is, that among 
 Indians and others out here on the frontier, gold is not 
 thought so much of as silver." 
 
 " It can't be silver Fernand is stealing — if theft it be. He 
 would look more loaded, and couldn't have gone so lightly 
 over that wall." 
 
 " Indeed, as you say, he went skipping over it like a grass- 
 hopper." 
 
 "Rather say gliding like a snake. I never saw a man 
 whose movements more resembled the Devil in serpent shape 
 — except one." 
 
 The thought of this one, who is Richard Darke, causes 
 Helen Armsrong to suspend speeeh : at the same time evoking 
 a sigh to the memory of another one — Charles Clancy. 
 
 "Shall we return into the house?" asks Jessie, after a 
 pause. 
 
 •• For what purpose?" 
 
AN UNCANNT SKULKER. 205 
 
 " To toll Luis of what we've seen ; to warn him about 
 Fernniid." 
 
 "If we did the warning would be unheeded. I fear 
 U isieur Dupre will remain unconvinced of any intended 
 treachery in his trusted servant, until something unpleasant 
 occur; it may be something disastrous. After all, you and I, 
 Jess, have only our suspicions, and may be wronging the 
 fellow. Suppose we stay a little longer, aud see what comes 
 of it. No doubt, he'll soon return from his mysterious pro- 
 menade, and by remaining, we may find out what he's been 
 after. Shall we wait for him ? You're not afraid, are you?" 
 
 "A little, I confess. Do you know, Helen, this Fernand gives 
 me the same sort of feeling I had at meeting that big fellow in 
 the streets of Natchitoches. At times he glares at me just in 
 the same way. And yet the two are so different." 
 
 " Well, since no harm came of your Nachitoches bogie, it's 
 to be hoped there won't any from this one. If you have any 
 fear t<> stay, let us go in. Only my curiosity is greatly excited 
 by what we've seen, and I'd like to know the end of it. If we 
 don't discover anything, it can do no harm. And if we do — 
 say; shall we go, or try?' 
 
 " I'm not afraid now. You make me brave, sister. Besides, 
 we may find out something Luis ought to know." 
 
 " Then let us stay." 
 
 Having resolved to await the coming back of the half-blood, 
 and watch his further movements, the sisters bethink them of 
 seeking a safer place for observation; one where there will be 
 less danger of being themselves seen. 
 
 It is to Helen the idea occurs. 
 
 "On his return," she says, " he might stray along this way, 
 aud not go up the centre walk. Therefore we had better con- 
 ceal ourselves more effectually. I wonder he didn't see us 
 while passing out. No doubt he would have done so, but for 
 looking so anxiously behind, and going at such a rapid rate. 
 Coming back he may not be so hurried; and should he sight 
 us, then an end to our chance of finding out what he's up to. 
 AYhere's the best place to play spy on him?" 
 
 The two look in different direct ions, in search of an appro- 
 priate spot. 
 
 There can be no difficulty in finding such. The shrubbery, 
 long unpruned, grows luxuriantly everywhere, screening the 
 facade of the wall along its whole length. 
 
 Near by is an arbour of evergreens, thickly overgrown with 
 a trellis of trailing plants. 
 
206 
 
 HI SHOT. 
 
 They know of this shadj retreal : have been in it before 
 that n ij^il it. Now, although the n oon is shining brightly, its 
 
 interior, arcaded over by , ie in dark shadow — dark 
 
 as a cavern. Once inside it, eyi e them from with- 
 
 out. 
 
 "The verj place," whiBpers Helen; and they commence 
 towards it. 
 
 To reach the arbour it is necessary for them to return to 
 the main walk, ami pass the place where the bottom wall is 
 broken down; a ruin evidently caused by rude intru 
 doubtless the Bame savages who made the mission dee 
 The talus extending to the path, with its fringe of further 
 .aires them to step carefully so as to avoid 
 stumbling. 
 
 They go hand iii hand, mutually supporting one another. 
 
 Their white gossamer dresses, floating lightly around them 
 as they glide silently along, ■ ' m ice to 
 
 sylphs, or wood-nymphs, all the more as they emerge into 
 moonlight. 
 
 To complete the sylvan picture, it seems necessary there 
 shoul-1 I us, as well. 
 
 And such in reality there are, not a great way off. These, 
 or something closely resembling them. No satyrs could show 
 in nun ae guise than the forms at that moment mov- 
 
 i'i the wall, on its opposite side. 
 
 Gliding on, the arrived before the gap. Some 
 
 instinct, perhaps curiosity, tempts them to take a look through 
 
 it, into the shadowy forest beyond; and for some time, as 
 
 under a spell of fascination, they stand ito its dark, 
 
 ions depths. 
 
 They see nought save the sparkle of fire-flies; ami hear 
 nothing but the usual noises of the Southern night, to which 
 they have been from infancy accustomed. 
 
 But as they are about moving mi again, a sound salutes 
 their ear — distinguishable as a footstep. Irregular and 
 scrambling, as of one stepping among the broken bricks. 
 Simultaneously a man is seen making his way over ike walk 
 
 •■ Fernand !" 
 
 No use for them now to attempt concealment; no good 
 can come of it. He has seen them. 
 
 Nor does he any longer seem desirous of shuning observa- 
 tion. On the contrary, leaping down from the rampart, he 
 comes straight towards tin m; in an instant presenting him- 
 self face to face, not with the nimble air of a servant, but the 
 
LOOKED IN. 207 
 
 demeanour of one who feels himself master, and intend to play 
 tyrant. With the moon shining full upon his tawny face, 
 they can distinuish the play of its features. No look of 
 humility, nor sign of subservience there. Instead, a bold, 
 bullying expression, eyes emitting a lurid light, lips set 
 in a satanic smile, between them teeth gleaming like a 
 tiger's ! 
 
 He does not speak a word. Indeed, he has not time; for 
 Helen Armstrong anticipates him. The proud girl, indignant at 
 what she sees, too fearless to be frightened, at once com- 
 mences chidiug him. 
 
 In words bold and brave, so much that, if alone, the scoundrel 
 might quail under their castigation. But he is not alone, nor 
 does he allow her to continue. 
 
 Instead, he cries out, interrupting, his speech not addressed 
 to her, but some one behind: — 
 
 'Tiring hither the serapes! Quick, or " 
 
 He himself is not permitted to finish what he intended say- 
 ing ; or, if so, bis last words are unheard ; drowned by a con- 
 fused noise of rushing and rumbling, while the gap in the 
 i wall is suddenly closed, as if by enchantment. It is 
 at first filled by a dark mass, seemingly compact, but soon 
 separating into distinct forms. 
 
 The sisters, startled, terrified, have but time to give out one 
 wild cry — a shriek. Before either can utter a second, brawny 
 arms embrace them ; blinds are thrown over their faces ; and, 
 half stifled, they feel themselves lifted from their feet, and 
 borne rudely and rapidly away ! 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 LOCKED IX. 
 
 j]T that same moment, when the red Sabines are 
 carrying off his daughters, Colonel Armsti 
 engaged, with his fellow colonists, in diseasing a ■ 
 question of great interest to all. The I 
 sugar — the point, whether it will be profitable to cultivate it 
 in their new colony. That the cane can be grown there all 
 know. Both soil and climate arc suitable. The only question 
 is, will the produce pay, sugar being a bulky article in propor- 
 
208 
 
 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 tiun to its price, and costly in transport through a territory 
 without railroads, or steam communication. 
 
 While the discussion is at its height a new guest enters the 
 room; who, soon as inside, makes a speech, which not only 
 terminates the talk about sugar, but drives all thought of it 
 out of their minds. 
 
 A speech of only four words, but these of startling signifi- 
 cance : " There are Indians about I " 'Tis Hawkins who speaks, 
 having entered without invitation, confident the nature of his 
 news will hold him clear of being deemed an intruder. 
 
 And it does. At the word "Indians," all around the table 
 spring up from their seats, and stand breathlessly expectant 
 of what the hunter has further to commuuicate. For, by 
 his serious air, they are certain there must be something 
 moro. 
 
 ( !i lonel Armstrong alone asks, the old soldier showing the 
 presence of mind that befits an occasion of surprise. 
 
 " Indians about? Why do you say that, Hawkins? What 
 reason have you to think so ? " 
 
 " The best o' reasons, colonel. I've seed them myself, and 
 so's Cris Tucker along with me." 
 
 " Where 1 " 
 
 "Well, there's a longish story to tell. If you'll have 
 patience, I'll make it short as possible." 
 
 "Go on!— tell it!" 
 
 The hunter responds to the demand ; and without wasting 
 words in detail, gives an epitome of his day's doings, in com- 
 pany with Cris Tucker. After describing the savage troop, as 
 first seen on the upper plain, how he and his comrade followed 
 them across the river bottom, then over the ford, and there 
 lost their trail, he concludes his account, saying: 
 
 " Where they went afterward, or air now, 'taint possible for 
 me to tell. All I can say is, what I've sayed already : lliere 
 are Indians about." 
 
 Of itself enough to cause anxiety in the minds of the 
 assembled planters ; which it does, to a man making them 
 keenly apprehensive of danger. 
 
 All the more from its being their first alarm of the kind. 
 For, while travelling through Eastern Texas, where the settle- 
 ments are thick, and of old standing, the savages had not even 
 been thought of. There was no chance of seeing any there. 
 Only, on drawing nigh to the Colorado, were Indians likely to 
 be encountered; though it did not necessarily follow that the 
 encounter should be hostile. On the contrary, it ought to be 
 
LOCKED IN. 209 
 
 friendly; since a treaty of peace had for some time been 
 existing between the Comanches and Texans. 
 
 For all this, Colonel Armstrong, well acquainted with the 
 character of the red men, in war as in peace, had not relied 
 altogether on their pacific promises. He knew that such 
 contracts only bind the savage so long as convenient to him, 
 to be broken whenever they become irksome. Moreover, a 
 rumour had reached the emigrants that, although the 
 Comanche nation was itself keeping the treaty, there were 
 several smaller independent tribes accustomed to make 
 "maraud" upon the frontier settlements, chiefly to steal 
 horses, or whatever chanced in their way. 
 
 For this reason, utter entering the territory where such 
 pillagers might be expected, the old soldier had conducted his 
 expedition as if passing through an enemy's country. The 
 waggons had been regularly corraled, and night guards kept 
 — both camp sentinels and outlying pickets. 
 
 These rules had been observed up to the hour of arrival at 
 their destination. Then, as the people got settled down in 
 their respective domiciles, and nothing was heard of any In- 
 dians in that district, the discipline had been relaxed — in 
 fact, abandoned. The colonists, numbering over fifty white 
 men — to say nothing of several hundred negro slaves — 
 deemed themselves strong enough to repel any ordinary assault 
 from savages. They now considered themselves at home; and, 
 with the confidence thus inspired, had ceased to speculate on 
 being molested by Indian enemies, or any others. 
 
 Fur this reason the suspicious movements of Dupre's half- 
 breed servant, as repi irted by the young surgeon, had failed 
 to make more than a passing impression on those around the 
 dining-table ; many of them treating it as an eccentricity. 
 
 Xow, after hearing Hawkins, they think differently. It 
 presents a serious aspect, is, in truth, alarmingly suggestive 
 of treason. 
 
 The half-blood inside the house may be in correspondence 
 with full-blooded Indians outside, for some scheme of thieving 
 or burglary. 
 
 The thought of either is sufficient to excite Colonel Arm- 
 strong's guests, and all are on foot ready to take action. 
 
 "Dupre, call in your half-breed!" says the Colonel, directing 
 it. '"Let us hear what the fellow has to say for himself." 
 
 '•Tell Fernand to come hither," commands the Creole, 
 addressing himself to one of the negro lads waiting at table. 
 "Tell hirn to come instantly!" 
 
210 
 
 TIIE DEATII SIIOT. 
 
 The boy hastens off to execute the order; and is several 
 minutes before making re-appearance. 
 
 During the interval, they continue to discuss the circum- 
 stances that have so suddenly turned up; questioning 
 Hawkins, and receiving from him minuter details of what ho 
 and his comrade have seen. 
 
 The additional matter made known but excites them the 
 more, further intensifying their apprehensions. 
 
 They're at their keenest, as the darkey re-enters the room 
 with the announcement that Fernand is not to be found! 
 
 " What do you mean, boy?" thunders Dupre, in a voice that 
 well-nigh takes away the young negro's wits. "Is he not in 
 the house 1 !" 
 
 "Dat's jess what he aint Mass Looey. De 'Punish Indyin's 
 no whar inside dis buildin'. We bab irch all oba de place; 
 call out his name in de store-rooms, an' de coatyard, an' de 
 cattle closure — ebbery wha we tink of. We shout loud nuf for 
 him to hyeer, ef he war anywha 'bout. He haint gib no 
 answer. Sartin shoo he no inside o' dis 'tablishmcnt." 
 
 The young planter shows dismay. So also the others, in 
 greater or less degree, according to the light in which each 
 views the matter. 
 
 For now on the minds of all is an impression, a presenti- 
 ment, that there is danger at the bottom of Fernand's doings — 
 how near they know- not. 
 
 At any other time his absence would be a circumstance not 
 w< irth noting. He might be supposed on a visit to some of 
 the huts appropriated to the humbler families of the colonist 
 fraternity. Or engaged outside with a mulatto " wench," of 
 whom there are several, belonging to Dupre's extensive slave- 
 gang, far from ill-favoured. 
 
 Fernand is rather a handsome fellow, ami given to gaiety; 
 which, under ordinary circumstances, would account for his 
 absenting himself from the house, and neglecting his duties as 
 its head servant. But after what the young surgeon has seen — 
 above all the report just brought in by Hawkins — his conduet 
 will not convey this trivial interpretation. All in the room 
 regard it in a more serious light — think the mestizo is a traitor. 
 
 Having come to this general conclusion, they turn towards 
 the table, to take a last drink, before initiating action. 
 
 Just as they get their glasses in hand, the refectory door is 
 once more opened; this time with a hurried violence that 
 causes them to start, as though y x bombshell had rolled into 
 the room. 
 
LOCKED I.N. 21 1 
 
 Faicng towards it, the)' see it is only the negro boy, who 
 had gone out again, re-entering. But now with fear depicted 
 on his face, and wild terror gleaming from his eyes; the latter 
 awry in their sockets, with little beside the whites seen! 
 
 Their own alarm is not much less than his, on hearing what 
 he has to say. His words are, — 
 
 " Oh, Mass Kurnel ! Mass Looey! Gemmen all! De place 
 am full oh Indyin sabbages ! Dar outside in de coatyard, 
 a thousan' ob um : an' murderm' ebbery body!" 
 
 At the dread tidings, glasses drop from the hands holding 
 them, flung down in fear, or fury. Then all, as one man, 
 make for the door, still standing open as in his scare the negro 
 lad ki. 
 
 Before they can reach it, his words are too fully confirmed. 
 Outside they see painted faces, heads covered with black 
 hanging hair, and plumes bristling above. Only a glimpse 
 they gi . indistinct through the obscurity. But if 
 
 transitory, not the less terrible — not less like a tableau in 
 some horrid dream — a glance into hell itself. 
 
 The sighl brings them to a stand; though, but for an 
 instant. Then, (hey rush on towards the doorway, regard- 
 less of what may await them outside. 
 
 Outside they are not permitted to pass. Before they can 
 reach the door, it is shut to with a loud clash; while another 
 but slighter sound tells of a key turning in the wards, shooting 
 a bolt into its keeper. 
 
 "Locked in, by G — d!" exclaims Hawkins, the rest involun- 
 tarily echoing his wild words ; which are succeeded by a 
 cry of rage as from one threat, though all have voice in it. 
 Then silence, as if they were suddenly struck dumb. 
 
 For e .11. ii moments they remain paral ' jazing in one 
 '.- faces in mute despairing astonishment. No one 
 thinks of asking explanation, or giving it. As by instinct, all 
 realize the Situation — a surprise, an Indian attack. .No 1 
 
 ire danger they have been deeming probable, but its 
 dread present reality ! 
 
 Short while do they stand irresolute. Hawkins, a man of 
 herculean strength, dashes himself against the deer, in hopes 
 of heaving it from its hinges. Others add their efforts. 
 
 All idle. The door is of stout timber — oaken — massive as 
 that of a jail; and, opening inward, can oidy be forced along 
 with its posts and lintels. These are set in the thick wall, 
 embedded, firm as the masonry itself 
 
 They rush to the windows, in hope of getting egress there. 
 
112 
 
 TiiU DEATlf SHOT. 
 
 Equally to bo disappointed, bullied. The strong iron bars 
 resist every effort to break or dislodge them. Though weak- 
 ened with decaying rust, they are yet .strung enough to sustain 
 the shock of shoulders, and the tug of aims. 
 
 "Trapped, by the Eternal!" despairingly exclaims the 
 hunter. "Yes, gentlemen, we're caged to a certainty." 
 
 They need not telling. All are now aware of it — too well. 
 They see themselves shut in — helplessly, hopelessly im- 
 prisoned. 
 
 Impossible to describe their thoughts, or depict their looks, 
 in that anguished hour. No pen, or pencil, could do justice to 
 either. Outside are their dear ones ; near, but far away from 
 any hope of help, as if twenty miles la)- between. And what 
 is being done to them 1 No one asks — none likes to tempt 
 the answer; all guessing what it would be, dreading to hear 
 it spoken. Never did men suffer emotions more painfully 
 intense, passions more heartfelt. and harrowing; not even the 
 prisoners of Cawnpore, or the Black Hole of Calcutta. 
 
 They are in darkness now — have been from the moment of 
 the door being closed. For, expecting to be fired at from the 
 outside, they had suddenly extinguished the lights. They 
 wonder there has been no shooting, aware that the Coman- 
 ches carry fire-arms. But as yet there has been no report, 
 either cf pistol, or gun ! 
 
 They hear only voices — which they can distinguish as those 
 of the house servants — male and female — all negroes or mulat- 
 toes. There are shrieks, intermingled with speeches, the last in 
 accent of piteous appealing ; there is moaning and groaning. 
 But where are the shouts of the assailants'? Where the 
 Indian yell- — the dread slogan of the savage 1 Not a stave of 
 it is heard — nought that resembles a warwhoop of Comanches ! 
 
 And soon is nothing heard. For the shrieks of the domes- 
 tics have ceased, their cries coming suddenly, abruptly to an 
 •end, as if stifled by blows bringing death. 
 
 Inside the room is a death-like stillness ; outside the saiae 
 
 «^Tse£Xa?'V~-«» 
 
- 
 
 vrv&g** 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 MASSACRE WITHOUT HEI«_ V. 
 
 JASS to the scene outside, than which none more 
 tragical in the history of Texan colonization. 
 
 Xo need to tell who the Indians are that have 
 shown their faces at the dining-room door, shut- 
 ting and locking it. They are those seen by Hawkins and 
 Tucker — the same Dupre's traitorous servant has conducted 
 through the gap in the garden wall; whence, after making 
 seizure of the girls, they continued on to the house, the half- 
 blood at their head. 
 
 Under his guidance they passed through the cattle corral, 
 and into the inner court. Till entering this they were not 
 i ed. Then the negro lad, sent in search of Fernand, 
 seeing them, rushed back tor the refectory. 
 
 With all his haste, as already known, too late in giving the 
 
 alarm. Half-a-dozeu of the foremost, following, were at the 
 
 dining-room door almost soon as he, while others proceeding 
 
 to the front entrance, closed the great gate, to prevent any 
 
 ue escaping that way. 
 
 In the courtyard ensues a scene, horrible to behold. The 
 domestics frightened, screaming, rushing to and fro, are struck 
 down with tomahawks, impaled upon spears, or hacked aud 
 stabbed with long-bladed knives. At least a half-score of 
 •In.-, unhappy creatures fall in the fearful slaughter. ludis- 
 crimis ;e or sex: for men, women, and children are 
 
 among its victims. 
 
 Their shrieks, and piteous appeals, are alike disregarded. 
 One after another the} - are struck, or hewu down, like saplings 
 by the macketS. A scene of red carnage, resembling a 
 saturnalia of demons, doing murder! 
 
 Short as terrible] in less than ten minutes after its com- 
 mencement it is all over. The victims have saccumbed, their 
 bleeding bodies lie along the pavement. Only those dome-ties 
 have escaped, who preserved enough presence of mind to get 
 inside rooms, and barricade the doors behind them. 
 
 16 
 
214 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 They ore not followed ; for despite the red murder already 
 dom the action ensuing, tells of only robbery intended. 
 
 evid snt from I hi way tl go to work. 
 
 In.-t ad of attempting to reach those they have imprisoned 
 within the dining-room, thej placi two of thi . number to 
 stand guard l>\ its door; another pah going on to the ite 
 entrance. These steps taken, the rest, with Fernand .still 
 conducting, hurry along the corridor, towards a room which 
 opens at one of its angles. It is the chamber Dupre 1 has 
 chosen for his sleeping apartment, and where he has de- 
 
 i 1 his treasure. Inside it his cash, at least fifty thousand 
 
 dollars, most of it in silver, packed in stout boxes. 
 
 Fernand carries the key, which he inserts into its lock. 
 The door flics open, and the half M 1 enters, closely followed 
 
 1>\ those who appear all Indians, They go in with tin- i 
 
 ness of tigers springing upon prey, or more like the stealthiness 
 
 of cat s. 
 
 Soon they come out again, each bearing a box, of diminu- 
 tive size, but weight sufficient to test his strength. 
 
 Laying these down, they re-enter the room, and return 
 from it similarly loaded. 
 
 And so they go and come, rallying out the little boxes, 
 until nearly a score are deposited upon the pavement of the 
 courtyard. 
 
 The abstraction of the specie compli ted, the sentries set by 
 the dining-room door, is also those senl to guard the entrance- 
 gate, are called off; and the hand becomes reunited by the 
 treasure, as vultures around a can-ass. 
 
 Some words are exd ged in undertone. Then each, laying 
 
 hold of a box — there is one each for nearly all of them — and 
 poising it upon his shoulders, strides off outof the courtyard. 
 
 Silently, and in single file, they pass across the cattle corral, 
 on into the garden, down the central walk, and out through 
 i he gap bj « hii h I hej c ime in. 
 
 Then on to the glade where they have left their horses. 
 
 These they remount, alter balancing the boxes upon their 
 saddle-bows, and there .seeming them with trail-ropes. 
 
 Soon as in the saddle they move silently, but quickly away; 
 the half-blood going along with them. 
 
 lie, too, has a horse, the best in the troop — taken from the 
 Stable of the master he has SO basely betrayed, so pitilessly 
 ] "hindered. 
 
 And that master at the moment nearly mad! Raging 
 frantically around the room where they are left confined, 
 
MASSACRE WITHOUT MERCT. 215 
 
 nearly all the others frantic as he. For scarce any of them 
 who has not like reason. 
 
 In the darkness groping, confusedly straying over the floor, 
 stunned and stupified, they reel like drunken men; as they 
 come in contact tremblingly interrogating one another as to 
 what can have occurred. 
 
 By the silence outside it would seem as if everybody were 
 murdered, massacred — coloured sen-ants within the house, 
 colonists without — all ! 
 
 And what of ( iolonel Armstrong's own daughters? To their 
 father it is a period of dread snpense — an agony indescribable. 
 Much longer continued it woidd drive him mad. Perhaps he is 
 saved from insanity by anger — by thoughts of vengeance, and 
 the hope of living to accomplish it. 
 
 While mutually interrogating, one starts the suggestion that 
 the whole affair may be a travestie — a freak of the younger, and 
 more frolicksomc members of the col »nist fraternity. Notwith- 
 standing its improbability, the idea takes, and is entertained, 
 as drowning men catch at straws. 
 
 Only for an instant. The thing is too serious, affecting 
 personages ot too much importance, to be so trifled with. 
 There are none in the settlement who would dare attempt 
 such practical joking with its chief — the stem old soldier, 
 Armstrong. Besides, the sounds heard outside were not those 
 of mirth, mocking its opposite. The shouts and shrieks had 
 the true ring of terror, and the accents of despair. 
 
 No. It could not be anything of a merrymaking, but what 
 they at first supposed it — a tragedy. 
 
 Their rage returns, and they think only of revenge. As 
 before, but to feel their impotence. The door, again tried, 
 with all their united strength, refuses to stir from its hinges. 
 As easily might they move the walls. The window railings 
 alike resist their efforts ; and they at length leave off, despair- 
 ingly scattering through the room. 
 
 One alone remains, clinging to the window bare. It is 
 Hawkins. He stays not with any hope of being able to wrench 
 them off. He has already tested the strength of his arms, and 
 found it insufficient. It is that of his lungs he now is deter- 
 mined to exert, and does so, shouting at the highest pitch of 
 his voice. 
 
 Not that he thinks there is any chance of its being heard at 
 the ranrhcria, nearly a half-mile off, with a grove of thick 
 timber intervening. Besides, at that late hour the settlers 
 will be asleep. 
 
'.']6 THE 1>V UII SHOT, 
 
 But in the grov< betwt en, and nearer, lie knows there in a 
 nut ; and inside it u man who will be awake, if not dead — his 
 comrade, <'ris Tucker. 
 
 In the hope this may still be in the land of the living, 
 Hawkins leans against the window bars and. projecting his 
 face outward, as far as the jawbones will allow, lie gives utter- 
 ance to a series of shouts, interlarded with exclamations, that 
 in the ears of a sober Puritan would have sounded terribly 
 profane. 
 
 ill AFTER LIII. 
 
 A HOIIRID BPECTAOLK. 
 
 j|N a log outside the tent sits Oris Tucker, with the 
 fire before him, kindled for cooking the turkey. 
 The bird is upon a spit suspended above the blaze. 
 A fat young "gobbler," it runs grease at every 
 pore, causing the fire to flare up. Literally is it being broiled 
 by its own grease, and is now well-nigh done brown. 
 
 Perceiving this, Tucker runs his eyes inquiringly along the 
 path leading towards the mission, at the .same time netting his 
 .ar- to listen. What can be keeping his comrade, who pro- 
 mised so soon to be back ? 
 
 '• Promises are like pie-crust," say.s Oris in soliloquy ; "Old 
 Hawk aint keeping his, and I guess ainl goin' to. 1 heard 
 they war to have a big dine up there the night. So 1 suppose 
 the colonel's axed him in for a -]a^> o' his whiskey punch. 
 Hawk's jest the one to take it— a dozen, if they insist. Well, 
 there's no reason 1 should wait supper any longer. I'm 
 'most famished as it is. Besides, that bird's gettin' burnt." 
 
 Rising up from the log, be takes the turkey oft' the spit, 
 and carries it in.side the tent. Then dishing, he sets it upon 
 the table; the dish a large platter of split wood rudely whit- 
 tled into oblong oval shape, the table a stump with top 
 horizontally hewn, over which the tent has been erected. 
 
 Placing a "pone" of com bread, and some salt alongside, 
 he sits down; though not yet to commence eating. As cer- 
 tainly his comrade should now soon be back, he will give him 
 ten minutes' grace. 
 
A HORRID SPECTACLE. 117 
 
 The position is agreeable, at the same time having its draw- 
 hacks. The odour pervading the tent ia delicious; still there 
 is the sense of taste to be satisfied, and that of smell hut pro- 
 vokes it. The savoury aroma of the roast turkey is keenly 
 appetizing, and Oris can't hold out much longer. 
 
 Time passes, and no sign of Hawkins returning. Tucker's 
 position becomes intolerable; the bird is getting cold, its 
 juices drying up, the repast will be spoilt. 
 
 Besides, his comrade has not kepi faith with him. In all pro- 
 liability he has eaten supper at the house, ami at that moment 
 is enjoying a jorum of whisky punch, quite forgetful of him. 
 Tucker. Cris can stand it no longer; and, drawing out his 
 knife, he takes the turkey by the leg, ami cuts a large slice 
 from its breast. 
 
 This eaten, another slice of breast is severed and swallowed. 
 Then a wing is carved off, and lastly a leg; which he polishes 
 to the smoothness of a drumstick. 
 
 The young hunter, now no longer ravenous, proceeds more 
 leisurely, and completes his repast by tranquilly chewing up 
 the gizzard, and after it the liver — the last a tit-bit upon the 
 prairies, as in a Strasburg pate. 
 
 Washing all down with a gourd of whisky and water, he 
 lights his pipe; and, seated by the mangled remains of the 
 gobbler, commences smoking. 
 
 For a time the inhaled nicotine holds him tranquil; though 
 not without wondering why his comrade is so long in putting 
 in an appearance. 
 
 When over two hours have elapsed, his wonder becomes 
 changed to anxiety. Not strange it should, recalling the 
 reason why he has been left alone. 
 
 This increasing to keen apprehension, he can no longer stay 
 within the tent. He will go up to the house, and find out 
 w hat is detaining Hawkins. 
 
 Donning his skin cap, and stepping out into the open air, he 
 fi towards the mission building. 
 
 Li •-. than ten minutes' walking brings him to its walls, by 
 the main front entra 
 
 There he pauses, surprised at the .stillness surrounding the 
 place. It is profound, unnatural. 
 
 For some moments he remains in front of the massive pile, 
 looking at it, and listening. Still no sound, within or without. 
 
 True, it is time for the inmates to be a-bed. 
 
 But if so, where is Hawkins? He may be drinking, bet 
 burely not sleeping within! 
 
218 
 
 IIIK uv MM 3H0T. 
 
 In :t-i , Cris deems it his duty to look him upj and 
 
 with this intent determines to enter. 
 
 Hi- i- qo1 on ti rms of social equality with those who occupy 
 the mission; still, under the oircumstances, he cannot he con- 
 sidered intruding. 
 
 He sees that the great dour is closed, lint the wicket is ajar; 
 presumptive proof of Hawkins being inside. There are no 
 Lights in the front windows, but, as Oris knows, those of bhi 
 dining-room open backward. 
 
 Hesitating no longer, he steps under the arched portal, 
 pas es on through the mguan, and once more emerges into 
 moonlight within the patio. 
 
 There, suddenly stopping, he stands aghast. For he beholds 
 a sight that almost causes his hair to crisp up, and raise th 
 cap from his head. 
 
 Down into the hallow quadrangle— enclosed on every side. 
 ! that towards heaven — the moonbeams are falling in full 
 effulgence. By their light he sees forms Lying along the pave- 
 ment in every possible position. They are human bodies 
 men and boys, among them some whose draper] declares them 
 to be women. They are black, brown, or yellow; but all 
 spotted and spattered with red — with blood! Fresh, but fast 
 
 freezing in the chill night air.it is already darke I. almost 
 
 to the hue of ink. 
 
 The hunter turns faint, sick, as he contemplates this | 
 tomb of i oi '| a. A. spectacle far more fearful than any ever 
 witnessed upon battle-field. There men lie in death from 
 wounds given, as received under the grand, if delus 
 -lory. Those Oris Tucker sees must have been struck down 
 by the- hand of the assassin ! 
 
 For a time he stands gazing upon them, scarce '.<!' 
 what to do. 
 
 His first impulse is to turn back, rush out of thi 
 and away altogether from the place. 
 
 But a thought 8 loyal thought or instinct, stays him. 
 Where is Hawkins? ffw bodj may he among the rest— Oris 
 is almost sure it will he found there — and affection for his 
 friend prompts him to seek for it. There may still be breath 
 in it — a spark of departing life, capable of being called back. 
 
 With this hope, however faint, la alliances sen. 
 
 among the corpses. 
 
 The spectacle, thai has sickened, makes his step feehl 
 He staggers as he passes among the prostrate forms, at I 
 compelled to stride over them. 
 
A IIoRIUD SPECTACLE. -19 
 
 He examines one after another, bending low down to each — ■ 
 lower where they lie in shadow, and it is mure difficult to dis- 
 tinguish their features. 
 
 Going the round of the courtyard, be completes the scrutiny 
 of all. Living or dead, Hawkins is not among them. 
 
 Nor is there the body of any white man. or woman. The 
 stricken victims are of every age, and both sexes. But all, 
 male as female, are negroes or mulattoes — the slaves of the 
 establishment. Many of them he recognises ; knows them to 
 he t he house-servants. 
 
 Where are their masters? Where everybody? What 
 terrible tragedy has occurred to leave such traces behind ? 
 The traces of murder — of wholesale slaughter ! 
 
 Who have been the murderers, and where are they now] 
 Where is Hawkins ' 
 
 To the young hunter these self-asked interrogatories occur 
 in quick succession ; along with the last a sound reaching his 
 ears win h causes him to start, and stand listening acutely for 
 its re] etition. It seemed a human voice, as of a man in 
 mortal agony shouting for succour. Faint, as if far oft', away 
 at the hack of the building. 
 
 Continuing to listen, Tucker hears it again, this time recog- 
 nising the voice of Hawkins. 
 
 He does not stay to conjecture why bis comrade should be 
 calling in ace uts of appeal. That they are so is enough for 
 him to hasten to his aid. Clearly the cry comes from out- 
 side ; and. soon as assured of this, Tucker turns that way, 
 leaps lightly over the dead bodies, glides on along the saguan, 
 and through the open wicket. 
 
 Outside he stops, and again listens, waiting for the voice to 
 direct him ; which it does. 
 
 As before he hears it. shouting for help, now sure it is 
 Hawkins who calls. And sure, also, that the cries come from 
 the eastern side of the building. 
 
 Towards this Tucker rushes, around the angle of the wall, 
 breaking through the hushes like a chased bear. 
 
 Nor does he again stop till he is under a window, from which 
 the shouts appear to proceed. 
 
 Looking up he sees a face, with cheeks pressing distractedly 
 against the bars ; at the same time hearing himself hailed in 
 a familiar voice. 
 
 "Is't you, Cris Tucker] Thank the Almighty it is !" 
 
 "Sartin it's me," Hawkins. "What does it all mean]" 
 
 "Mean] That's more 'en T can tell; or any o' us inside 
 
220 inr death shot. 
 
 here; though there's big ends o' a dozen. We're shut up, lo 
 in, as ye see. Who's done it you ought to know, bein' outside. 
 Han't you Been the Indians?" 
 
 •'I've sen) no Indians: lint their work I take it. There's 
 a ugly Bight round t'other side." 
 
 " What sight, Cris? Never mind — dout stay to talk. Go 
 back, ami get something to break open the door of this room. 
 Quick, comrade ; quick ! " 
 
 Without stayin' for further exchange of speech, the youi 
 hunter hurries lack into the jxitio as rapidly as he had quitted 
 it ; and laying hold of a heavy beam, brings it like a battering- 
 ram, against the dining-room door. 
 
 Massive as this is, and strongly hung upon its hinges, it 
 yields to his strength. 
 
 When at length laid open, and those inside released, they 
 look upon a spectacle that sends a thrill of horror through 
 their hearts. 
 
 In the courtyard lie ten corpses, all told. True they are 
 but the dead bodies of slaves — to some beholding them searct 
 accounted as human beings. Though pitied, they arc passed 
 over without delay ; the thoughts, as the glances, of their 
 masters going beyond, in keen apprehension for the fate of 
 those nearer and dearer. 
 
 Escaped from their imprisonment, they rush to and fro, 
 like maniacs let out of a madhouse. Giving to the dead 
 bodies only a passing glance, then going on in tear of finding 
 others by which they will surely stay ; all the time talking, 
 interrogating, wildly gesticulating, now questioning Cris 
 Tucker, now one another; in the confusion of voices, some 
 heard inquiring for then - wives, some their Bisters or sweet- 
 hearts, aJl with like eagerness; hopefully believing their dear 
 ones still alive, or despairingly thinking them dead; fearing 
 they may rind them with gashed throats and bleeding breasts, 
 like those lying along the flagstones at their feet. 
 
 The spectacle before their eyes, appalling though it be, is 
 nought to that conjured up in their apprehensions. What 
 they see may be but a forecast, a faint symbol, of what ere 
 long- they may be compelled to look upon. 
 
 And amid the many voices shouting for wife, sister, or 
 sweetheart, none so loud, or sad, as that of Colonel Armstrong 
 calling for his daughters. 
 
^r 4* ">• «*• & *? * <r *r <*• 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 BIDING DOUBLE. 
 
 jlITH Colonel Armstrong's voice iu tone of heartrending 
 anguish, goes up that of Dupre 1 calling the names 
 "Helen ! Jessie !" 
 
 Neither gets response. They on whom they call 
 cannot hear. They are too far off; though nearer, it would be 
 all the same; for both are at the moment hooded like hawks. 
 The serapes thrown over their heads are still on them, corded 
 around their necks, so closely as to hinder hearing, almost 
 stifle their breathing. 
 
 Since their seizure nearly an hour has elapsed, and they are 
 scarce yet recovered from the first shock of surprise, so terrible 
 as to have stupified them. No wonder! What they saw before 
 being blinded, with the rough treatment received, were enough 
 to deprive them of their senses. 
 
 From the chaos of thought, as from a dread dream, both are 
 now gradually recovering. But, alas! only to reflect oil new 
 fear- — on the dark future before them. Captive to such cap- 
 tors — red ruthless savages, whose naked anus, already around, 
 have held them in brawny embrace — carried away from home, 
 from all they hold dear, into a captivity seeming hopeless as 
 horrid— to the western woman especially repulsive, by songs 
 sung over her cradle, and tales told throughout her years of 
 childhood — tales of Indian atrocity. 
 
 The memory of these now recurring, with the reality itself, 
 not strange that for a time their thoughts, as their senses, are 
 almost paralysed. 
 
 Slowly they awake to a consciousness of their situation. 
 Tiny remember what occurred at the moment of their being 
 made captive; how in the clear moonlight they stood face to 
 face with Fernand, listened to bis impertinent speeches, saw 
 the savages surrounding them; then, suddenly blinded and 
 seeing no more, felt themselves seized, lifted from their feet, 
 carried oft', hoisted a little higher, set upon the backs of horses, 
 and there tied, each to a man already mounted. All these 
 incidents they remember, as one recalls the fleeting phantas- 
 magoria of a dream. But that they were real, and not fanoi- 
 
'-"-'13 Tin: DEATH SHOT. 
 
 ful, they now too surely know; for the hoods arp over their 
 heads, the horses underneath; and the savages to whom they 
 
 trapped still there, their bodies in repulsive contact with 
 their own! 
 
 'That there are only two men, and as many horses, can be 
 
 told by the hoof-strokes rebounding from the turf; the same 
 
 is proclaiming it a forest path through thick timber, at 
 
 intervals emerging into open ground, and again entering among 
 
 trees. 
 
 For over an hour this continues; during all the while not 
 a word being i tchai ed between the two horsemen, or if so, 
 not heard by their captives. 
 
 Possibly they may communicate with one another by signs 
 or whispers; as for most part the horses have been abreast, 
 going in single Sle only where the path is narrow. 
 
 At length a hall ; of such continuance, as to make the cap 
 tives suppose I hej have arrived at some place where they are to 
 pass the remainder of the night. Or it may be but an obstruc- 
 tion ; this probable from their hearing a sound, easily under- 
 stood — the ripple of running water. They have arrived 
 the bank of a river. 
 
 The San Saba, of course ; it cannot be any oilier. Whether 
 «r not, 'tis the same to them. On the banks of the San Saba 
 they are now no safer, than if it were the remotest stream in 
 all the territory of Texas. 
 
 Whatever be tbe river whose waters they can hear coursing 
 past, their guards, now halted upon its bank, have drawn their 
 horses' heads together, and carry on a conversation. It seems 
 in a strange tongue ; bui of this the captives cannot be sure, 
 fur it is in low tone — almost a whisper — the words indis- 
 tinguishable amid the rush of the river's current. If bend. 
 it is not likely they would understand. The two men are 
 Indians, and will talk in the Indian tongue. Fur this same 
 reason they need have no fear of freely conversing with 
 another, since the savages will be equally unable to comprehend 
 what they say. 
 
 To Helen this thought first presents itself; soon as it does. 
 leading her to call, though timidly and in subdued tone, 
 "Jess !" 
 
 She is answered in the same way, Jessie saying, 
 
 " Helen, I hear you." 
 
 " I only wanted to say a word to cheer you. Have courage. 
 Kei p up your heart. It looks dark now; but something may 
 may arise up to save us." 
 
TIRED TRAVELLERS. 223 
 
 " What are you thinking of 1" 
 
 " I have a presentiment wo shaH be rescued from the 
 hands of these horrid monsters. It may he I'm mistaken ; 
 but something seems to whisper it, as if a word from God 
 himself Tray to Him, Jess, as I've been doing." 
 
 '• I too, sister. Oh ! what of father ? of dear Luis ? Both 
 1 f ear " 
 
 '•Have no fears about them. 1 don't believe the savages 
 
 can have killed all. Some will be still surviving — let us hope 
 father and Luis. If so, they'll be sure to come after — aye in 
 time to rescue us. You know that among our people there 
 are old hunters, who are skilled trackers. We can trust these 
 to guide the pursuit." 
 
 " And I can trust Luis to lead it ! Ah! he'll give all his gold 
 — offer grand rewards — do everything to save me. He will — 
 I know he will " 
 
 Jessie's enthusiastic speech is interrupted by a peal of loud 
 in -eking laughter from the throats of those having them in 
 charge. 
 
 While the horrid cachinnation is still sounding in their cars, 
 their bosoms involuntarily vibrating against the bodies of those 
 who utter it, the horses arc again set in motion; and soon 
 after, entering the river, the plashing of their hooves renders 
 inaudible all other sounds. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 TIRED T R A V E I. I. E R S. 
 
 IKE lower crossing of tin . so frequently 
 
 referred to, calls for topi description. 
 
 At this point the stream, si vera] hundred yards 
 wide, courses in smooth, tranquil current, between 
 banks wooded to the water's edgi . The trees are chiefly 
 cottonwoods, with oak, elm, tulip, wild China, and pecan 
 interspersed; also the mag • m short, such a 
 
 forest as may be seen in many parts of the Southern Si 
 On both sides of the river, and for some distance up and down, 
 this timbered tract is close and continuous, extending nearlv 
 a mile back from the banks; where its selvedge of thinner 
 growth becomes broken into glades, somi of them resembling 
 
THr. DEATH SHOT. 
 
 ;'. a i gardens, others dense thickets of the arundo gigant'n, 
 in the language of the country, " cane-brakes." Beyond this, 
 the bottom-land is open meadow, a sea of green waving grass 
 — the gramma of the Mexicans — which, without tree or bush, 
 sweeps in to the base of the bluffs. 
 
 Ou each side of the crossing the river is approached by a path, 
 or lather an avenue-like opening in the timber, which shows 
 signs oi' having been felled; doubtless, done by the former 
 proprietors of the mission, or more like, the soldiers who si rved 
 - risonja road made tor military purposes, running between 
 the presidio itself and the town of San Antonio tie Bejar. 
 Though again partially overgrown, it is sufficiently clear to 
 permit the passage of wheeled vehicles, having been kept open 
 by roving wild horses, with occasionally some that are 1 
 and ridden — by Indians on raid. 
 
 On its northern side the river is approached by two distinct 
 trails, which unite before entering the wooded tract — their 
 point of union being just at its edge. One is the main road 
 coming from the Colorado; the other only an Indian trace, 
 leading direct to the blufis and the high land above them. It 
 was by the former that Colonel Armstrong's train came up 
 the valley, while the latter was the route taken by Hawkins 
 and Tucker in their bootless excursion after buffalo. 
 
 On the same evening, when the hunters, returning from 
 their unsuccessful search, repassed the ford, only at a later 
 hour, a party of horsemen is seen approaching it — not by the 
 transverse trace, but the main up-river road. In all there an 
 five of them; four upon horseback, the rifth riding a mule. 
 It is the same party we have seen crossing the Sabine — Clancy 
 and his comrades — the dog still attached to it, the cx-iailer 
 added. They are travelling in haste — have been ever since 
 entering the territory of Texas. Evidence of this iu their 
 Steeds showing jaded, themselves fatigued. Further proof of 
 it in the fact of their being now close to the San Saba ford, 
 within less than a week alter Armstrong's party passing over, 
 while more than two behind it at starting from the Sabine. 
 
 There has been nothing to delay them along the route — 
 uo difficulty in finding it. The wheels of the loaded waggons, 
 denting deep in the turf, have left a trail, which Woodley for 
 one could take up on the darkest hour of the darkest night 
 that ever shadowed a Texan prairie. It is night now, about 
 two hours after sundown, as coming up the river road they 
 enter the timber, and approach the crossing place. When 
 within about fifty yards of the ford at a spot where the path 
 
17 RED TRAVELLEK3. 225 
 
 widens, they pull up. Woodley and Clancy riding a 'ittle 
 apart from the others, as if to hold consultation whether they 
 
 shall proceed across the stream, or stay where they are for 
 the night. 
 
 Clancy wishes to go forward, but Woodley objects, urging 
 fatigue, and saying: - 
 
 •• It can't make much diff rence now, whether we git up 
 thai- the night, or take it leezyurly in the cool o' the mornin'. 
 Since you say ye don't intend showin' yourself 'bout the mis- 
 sion buildin', it'll be all the better makiu' halt hyar. We 
 kin steal nearer, an' seelect a campin' place at the skreek o' 
 day jest afore sun-up. Arter thet me an' Ned '11 enter the 
 settlement, an' sec how things stand." 
 
 " 1'erhaps yoiir're right." responds Clancy, " If yon think it 
 better for us to halt here, I shant object ; though I've, an idea 
 we ought to go on. It may appear very absurd to you, Sime, 
 but there's something on my mind — a sort of foreboding." 
 
 •• Forebodin' o' what?" 
 
 "In truth I can't tell what or why. Yet I can't get it out 
 of my head that there's some danger hanging over " 
 
 He interrupts himself, holding back the name — Helen 
 Armstrong. Fur it is over her he fancies danger may be im- 
 pending. No new fancy either; but one that has been afflict- 
 ing him all along, and urging him so impatiently onward. 
 Not that lie has learnt anything new since leaving the Sabine. 
 On its banks the ex-jailer discharged his conscience in full, by 
 confessing all he could. At most not much; since hi- It 
 
 the 1" .olish fell iw lie was. had never made him 
 sharer in their greatest secret Still he had heard and reported 
 enough to give Clancy good reason for uneasiness. 
 
 " I kin guess who you're alludin' to," rejoins W U< \ . with- 
 out waiting for the other to finish, "an' ef so, yur forebodin', 
 call it. air only a foolich notion, an' nothin' more. 
 
 Take Sime W II ■ \ V word for it. ye'll find things up the river 
 
 all right." 
 
 •• 1 I,' pe so." 
 
 "Ye nii\ be sure o't. Calklate, ye don't know Planter 
 Armstrong 's well 's 1 do, tho 1 I admit ye may hev a better 
 knowledge o' one that bears tie- name. A- for tic ole kurnel 
 bisself, thi- chile's kampayned wi' him in the Cherokee wars, 
 an' kin say tor sartin he aiut a goin' to sleep 'it In .ut keepin' 
 one o' his peepers skinned. Beside, his party air too - 
 
 an' the men COmpOSin' it too cxpalicnccd, to be tuk by SUr- 
 
 l by any enemy out on these purayras, 
 
226 
 
 nil. w.un 8H0T. 
 
 in ;1rt red Injuns or white pirates. Kf thar air danger it'll 
 come arter they've settled down, an' growed unsurspishus. 
 Then thar mout be a chance o' ciroumventin' them. But thru 
 we'll be thar to purvent it. No fear o' our arrivin' too late. 
 We'll gel up to the ole mission long afore noon the morrow, 
 whar ye'll find, whal ye've been so long trackin' arter, souu' an 
 
 -ale. Trust Siuie \\ Uej I'm- that.'' 
 
 The comforting words fcranquilise Clancy'E fears, at the same 
 time checking his impatience. Still is he reluctant to stay, 
 and shows it by his answer. 
 
 "Sime, 1M rather we went on." 
 
 "Wal, ef ye so weesh it, on Id's go. Your the chief o' 
 this party an' kin command. For myself I'm only thinkin' o' 
 them | ■. tired critters." 
 
 The hunter point- to the horses, thai for the last hour have 
 been dragging their limbs along like bees honey-laden. 
 
 "To Bay nothin' o' ourselves," he.ad.ds, "though for my part 
 I'm riddy to keep on to the Rio Grand, if you insist on goin' 
 thar'." 
 
 Notwithstanding his professed willingness, there is some- 
 thing in the tone of Sime's speech which contradicts it — -just a 
 soupfdn i if vexation. 
 
 Perceiving it, Clancy makes rejoinder with the delicacy be- 
 coming a gentleman: Though against his will and 1 
 
 judgment, his habitual belief in, ami reliance cm Wbodley's 
 wisdom, puts an cii'l to his opposition j and in fine yielding, 
 he says : — 
 
 "Very well; we shall stay. After all, it can't make much 
 difference. A truce to my presentiments. I've often had 
 such before, that came to nothing. Hoping it may be the 
 same now, we'll spend our night this side the river." 
 
 '• All right," responds the backwoodsman. " An' since it's 
 decided we're to stay, I see no ree/un why we shedn't make 
 ourselves as comfortable as may ' )c miner the circumstances. 
 As it so chances, 1 know this hyar San Saba bottom 'most as 
 well as that o' our ole Massissip. An' ef my mem'ry don't 
 mistake, t bar's a spot not far from hyar that'll jest suit for us 
 to camp in. Fuller me; I'll find it." 
 
 Saying this, he kicks his heels against the ribs of his horse, 
 and compels the tired steed once more into reluctant motion, 
 the rest riding after in silence. 
 
 — ^&*®>X&2*^— 
 
I 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 SPECTRAL EQUESTRIANS. 
 
 HIT a short distance from where the travellers made 
 stop, a side trace leads to the left, parallel to the 
 direction of the river. Into this Woodley strikes, 
 conducting the others. 
 
 It is so narrow they cannot go abreast, but in single file. 
 
 After proceeding thus for some fifty yards, they reach a 
 spot where the path widens, debouching upon an open space — 
 a sort of terrace that overhangs the channel of the stream, 
 separated from it by a fringe of low trees and bushes. 
 
 Pointing to it, Sime says : — 
 
 •■ This chile hev slop on that spread o' grass, sonie'at like 
 six ycern ago, wi' nothin' to disturb his rest 'ceptin the skee- 
 ters. Them same seems nasty bad now. Let's hope we'll 
 git through tho night 'ithout bein' clar eat up by 'em. An', 
 talkin' o' eatiu', I reckin we'll all be the better o' a bit supper. 
 Arter thet we kin squat down au' surrender to Morpheous." 
 
 The meal suggested is speedily prepared, and, soon as des- 
 patched, the "squatting" follows. 
 
 In less thau twenty minutes after forsaking the saddle, 
 all are astretch along the ground, their horses " hitched " to 
 trees, themselves seemingly buried in slumber — bound in its 
 oblivions embrace. 
 
 There is one, however, still awake — -Claucy. 
 
 Ho has slept but little any night since entering the terri- 
 tory of Texas. On this he sleops not at all — never closes eye 
 — cannot. On the contrary, he turns restlessly on his grassy 
 couch, fairly writhing with the presentiment he has spoken of, 
 still upon him, and not to be cast oft'. 
 
 There are those who believe in dreams, in the reality of 
 visions that appear to the slumbering senses. To Clancy's, 
 awake, on this night, there seems a horrid realism, almost a 
 certainty, of some dread danger. And too certain it is. If 
 endowed with the faculty of clairvoyance, he would know it to 
 be so — would witness a scries of incidents at that moment 
 occurring up the river scarce ten miles from tho spot whore, 
 
 17 
 
ZZO i ti i D] \ 1 11 SHOT. 
 
 he is lying — scenes thai would cause hun to -t:ii-t suddenly 
 to his feet, rush for his hone, and ride ofl'. calling upon him 
 companions to follow. Then, plunging into the nver without 
 fear of the ford, he would gallop on towards the S.m Saba 
 mission, as it the house were in flames, and he only hud the 
 power to extinguish them. 
 
 Not gifted with second sight, he does not perceive the tragedy- 
 there being enacted. He is only impressed with a prescience 
 of some evil, which keeps him wide awake, while tie- others 
 around are asleep; soundly, as he ran tell by their snoring. 
 
 Wo dlej alone Bleeps lightly ; the hunter habituated, as he 
 himself phrases it, "allorstodo the possum bizness, wi' >nc 
 eye open." 
 
 He has heard Clancy's repeated shiftings and turnings, 
 coupled with involuntary exclamations, as of a man murmur- 
 ing in his dreams. One of these, louder than the rest, at 
 length startling, causes Woodley to enquire what his com- 
 rade wants; and what is the matter with hint 
 
 " Oh, nothing," replies Clancy ; " only that I can't slejp— 
 that's all." 
 
 " Can't sleep ! Wharfore can't ye ? Sure ye ougbter be 
 able by this time. Ye've had furteeg enuf to put you iu the 
 way o' slumberin' soiin' as a huinmin' top." 
 
 " I can't to-night, Sinn. 1 ." 
 
 " Preehaps ye've swallered somethin' as don't sit well on 
 your stummuk? Or, it may be, the klimat o' this hvar 
 destrict. Sartin it do feel a leetle dampish, 'count 6' the rivet- 
 fog; tho', as a general thing, the San Salter bottom air 'counted 
 one o' the healthiest >pots in Texas. S'pose ye take a pull out 
 o' this ole gourd o' myen. It's the best Monongaheely, an' 
 for a seedimentary o' tie. 1 narves thar ain't it's eequal to be 
 fouu' in any drug-shop. I'll bet my bottom dollar on thet. 
 Take a suck, Charley, and see what it'll do for ye." 
 
 "It would have no effect. I know it wouldn't. It isn't ner- 
 vousness that keeps me awake — something quite different." 
 
 "Oh!" grunts the old hunter, in a tone that tells of com- 
 prehension. "Something quite diff'rent? I reck'n I kin 
 guess what thet somethin' air — the same as keeps other 
 young fellurs awake — thiukin' o' thar sweethearts. Onc't in 
 tie arms o' MorpheOus, ye'll forgit all about your gurl. 
 Fuller my deeviee ; put some o' this physic inside yur skin, 
 an' you'll be asleep in the shakin' o' a goat's tail." 
 
 The dialogue comes to a close by Clancy taking the pre- 
 scribed physic. 
 
SPECTRAL EQUESTRIANS. 229 
 
 After which he wraps his blanket around him, and once 
 more essays to sleep. 
 
 As before, he is unsuccessful. Although for a while trau 
 quil and courting slumber, it will not come. He again tosses 
 about; an 1 at length rises to his feet, his hound starting up 
 at the same time. 
 
 Woodley, once more awakened, perceives that the potion 
 has failed of effect, and counsels his trying it again. 
 
 " No," objects Clancy ; " 'tis no use. The strongest sopori- 
 fic in the world wouldn't give me sleep this night. I tell you, 
 Sime, I have a fear upon me." 
 
 " Fear o' what ? " 
 
 "That welt be too lot,." 
 
 The last words, spoken solemn^ . tell <A' apprehension keenly 
 felt — whether false, or prophetic. 
 
 " That air's all nonsense,"' rejoins Woodley, wishing to 
 •eason his comrade out of what he deems an idle fancy, 
 The height o' nonsense. Wheesh!" 
 
 The final exclamation, uttered in an altered tone, is accom- 
 panied by a start — the hunter suddenly raising his head from 
 the saddle on which it rests. Nor has the act any relation to 
 his previous speeches. It comes from his hearing a sound, or 
 fancying he hears one. At the same instant, the hound pricks 
 up its ears, giving utterance to a low growl. 
 
 ''What is't, I wonder?" interrogates Woodley, in a whisper, 
 placing himself in a kneeling posture, his eyes sharply set upon 
 the dog. 
 
 Again the animal jerks its ears, growling as before. 
 
 "Take clutch on the critter, Charley! Don't let it gie 
 tongue." 
 
 I laucy lays hold of the hound, and draws it against his 
 knees, by speech and gesture admonishing it to remain silent. 
 
 The well-trained animal sees what is wanted; and, crouching 
 down by its master's feet, ceases making demonstration. 
 
 Meanwhile Woodley has laid himself ilat along the earth, 
 with ear close to the turf. 
 
 There is a sound, sure enough ; though not what he sup- 
 posed lie had heard just before. That was like a human 
 voice — some one laughing a long way off. It might bo the 
 " too-who-ha" of the owl, or the bark 'A' a prairie wolf. The 
 noise now reaching his ears is less ambiguous, and he has no 
 difficulty in determining its character. It is that of water 
 violently agitated — churned, as by the hooves of horses. 
 
 Clancy, standing erect, hears it. too. 
 
230 
 
 1111 DEATH SHOT. 
 
 The backwoodsman Joes not remain much longer prostrate; 
 only a second to assure himself whence the sound proceeds. 
 It is from the ford. The dog looked that way, on first starting 
 up : and still keeps sniffing in the same direction. 
 
 Woodley is now on his feet, and the two men standing close 
 together, intently listen. 
 
 They have no need to listen long ; for their eyes are above 
 the tops of the hushes that border the river's bank, and they 
 see what is disturbing the water. 
 
 Two horses are crossing the stream. They have just got 
 clear of the timber's shadow on the opposite side, and are 
 making towards mid-water. 
 
 Clancy and Woodley, viewing them from higher ground, can 
 perceive their forms, in silhouette, against the shining surface. 
 
 Nor have they any difficulty in making out that they are 
 mounted. What puzzles them is the manner. Their riders 
 do not appear to be anything human ! 
 
 The horses have the true equine outline; but they upon 
 iheir backs seem monsters, not men ; their bodies of unnatural 
 breadth, each with two heads rising above it ! 
 
 There is a haze overhanging the river, as gauze thrown over 
 a piece of silver plate. It is that white filmy mist which 
 enlargos objects beyond their natural size, producing the 
 mystery of mirage. By its magnifying effect the horses, as their 
 riders, appear of gigantic dimensions ; the former seeming 
 Mastodons, the latter Titans bestriding them ! 
 
 Both appear beings not of Earth, but creatures of some 
 weird wonder-world — existences not known to our planet, or 
 only in ages past .' 
 
 CHAPTER LVIL 
 
 PLANNING A CAPTURE. 
 
 jlPEECHLESS with surprise, the two men stand gazing 
 at the odd apparition ; with something more than 
 surprise, a supernatural feeling, not unmingled with 
 fear. Such strange unearthly sight were enough to 
 et this in the stoutest hearts; and, though none stouter 
 than theirs, for a time both are awed by it. 
 
PLANNING A CAPTDBE. J.61 
 
 Only so loug as the spectra] equestrians were within the 
 shadow of the trees on t lie opposite side. But soon as arriv- 
 ing at mid-stream the m\ atery is at an end; like most others, 
 simple when understood. Their forms, outlined against the 
 moonlit surface of the water, shown very natural phenomenon 
 — two horses carrying double. 
 
 W lley is the first to announce it, though Clancy has made 
 
 the discovery at the same instant of time. 
 
 " Injuns.''' says the backwoodsman, -peaking in a whisper. 
 " Two astride o' each critter. Injuns, for sure. See the 
 fei 'hers stickin' up out o' their skulls ! Them on the krupper 
 look like squaws; though that's kewrous too. Out. on these 
 Texas parayras the Injun weemen hez gen'rally a hoas to their- 
 selves. an' kin ride 'most as well as the men. What seem 
 queericr still is thar bein' only two kupple ; but maybe there's 
 more comin' on ahint. An' yet thar don't appear to be. I 
 don't see stimc o' anythin' on tother side the river. Kin you ?" 
 
 "No. I think there's but the two. They'd be looking 
 back if there were others behind. What ought we to do with 
 them ? " 
 
 "What every white man oughter do meetin' Injuns out 
 hyar — gie 'em a wide berth : that's the best way." 
 
 " It may not in this case ; I don't think it is." 
 
 ■ Why?" 
 
 " On my word, I scarce know. And yet I have an idea we 
 light to have a word with them. Likely they've been up to 
 the settlement, and will be able to tell us something of things 
 there. As you know, Sime, I'm anxious to hear about " 
 
 '■ I know all that. Wal, ef you're so inclined, let it be as 
 ye say. We kin eezy stop 'em, an' hear what they've got to 
 say for thoirselves. By good luck, we've the devantage o' 'em. 
 They're bound to kum 'long the big trail. Tharfor, ef we 
 throw ourselves on it, we'll intercep' an' take 'em as in a trap. 
 Jess afore we turned in hyar. I noticed a spot whar we kin 
 ambuskade." 
 
 "Let us do so; but what about these I" Clancy points to 
 the other tin-... <till seemingly asleep. ''Hadn't we better 
 awake them I Ar Ml events, Heywood : we may need him.'' 
 
 "For that matter, no. Thar's but two buck Injuns. The 
 does wont count for much in a skrimmge. Ef they show 
 thar teeth T rcckin we two air good for uglier odds than thai. 
 BowBomever, it'll be no harm to hev Ned. We kin roust him 
 up, lettin' Harkness an' the mullater lie. Ye-es; en second 
 thinkin' it'll be as well to hev him along. Ned! Ned 
 
nn in 1 i II SHOT. 
 
 The summons is not spokes aloud, but in a whisper, 
 
 \V Hey stooping down till his lips touch Heywood's ear. The 
 
 young hunter hearing him, starts, then sits up, and finally gets 
 upon his feet, rubbing his eyes while erecting himself. He 
 t once why he has been awakened. A glance cast upon 
 the river shows him the strangely ridden horses: still visible 
 though, just entering the tree-shadow on its nether bank. 
 
 In a few hurried words Woodley makes known their inten- 
 tion; and for some seconds the three stand in consultation, all 
 haying hold of their rifles. 
 
 They do not deem it necessary to rouse either tho ex-jailer 
 Or Jupiter. Tt is not advisable, in view of the time that would 
 be wa-n d. Besides, any iiuise. now, might reach the ears of 
 tho Indians, who, if alarmed, could still retreat to the opposite 
 Side, and so escape. Woodley, at first indifferent about their 
 capture, has now entered into the spirit of it. It is just 
 possible some information may be thus obtained, of service bo 
 their future designs. At all events, there can be no harm in 
 knowing why the redskins are travelling at such an untimely 
 hour. 
 
 "As a gen'ral rule," he says, "Tair best let Injuns go thai- 
 own way when thar's a big crowd thegitter. When their 
 aint, as it chances hyar, it may be wisest to hev a leetle 
 palaver wi' them. They're putty sure to a been arter some 
 diviltry anyhow. 'S like 's not this lot's been a pilferin' 
 somethin' from the new settlement, and air in the act o' toatin' 
 off (liar plunder. Ef arter gruppin 'em, we find it aint so, we 
 kin lot go again, an' no dammidge done. But first, let's ex- 
 amine 'cm, an' see." 
 
 '•Our horses?" suggests Hey wood, "ought'nt we to take 
 them along ] " 
 
 " No need," answers Woodley. "Contrary wise, they'd only 
 hamper us. If the redskins make to rush past, wo kin eezy 
 shoot down thar animals, an' so stop 'em. Wi' thar squaws 
 along, they ain't like to make any resistance. Besides, arter 
 all, they may be some sort that's friendly to the whites. Ef 
 so, 'twould be a pity to kill the critters. We kin captor 'em 
 without sheddin' thar blood." 
 
 " Not a drop of it," enjoins Clancy, in a tone of authority. 
 " No, comrades. I've entered Texas to spill blood, but not thai 
 of the innocent — not that of Indians. When it comes to 
 
 killing I shall see before me . No matter; you know 
 
 whom I mean." 
 
 "I guess we do," answers Woodley. "We both <S us 
 
PLANNING -I OAPTUKB. 233 
 
 understan' your feelins, Charley Clancy; aye, an' respect 
 'em. But let's look sharp. Whilst we stan' palaverin the 
 Injuns may slip past. They've arreudy reech'd the bank, an' 
 . Quick, knm along 1 " 
 
 The three are about starting off, when a fourth figure ap- 
 pears standing erect. It is Jupiter, A life of long suffering 
 has made the mulatto a light sleeper, and he has been awake 
 all the time they were talking. Though they spoke ouly in 
 whispers, he has heard enough to suspect something about to 
 be done, in which there may be danger to Clancy. The slave, 
 now free, would lay down his lite for the man who has manu- 
 mitted him. 
 
 Coming up, he requests to be taken along, and permitted bo 
 share their exploit, however perilous. 
 
 As there can be no great objection, his request is granted, 
 and he is joined to the party. 
 
 But this necessitates a pause, for something to be considered. 
 What is to be done with the ex-jailer ? Though not strictly 
 treated as a prisoner, still all along they have been keeping 
 him under surveillance. Certainly, there was something 
 strange in his making back for the States, in view of what he 
 might there expect to meet for his misdemeanour ; and, 
 considering this, they have never been sure whether he 
 may not still be in league with the outlaws, and prove twice 
 traitor. 
 
 Now that they are approaching the spot where events may 
 be expected, more than ever is it thought necessary to keep 
 an eye on him. 
 
 It will not do to leave him alone, with their horses. 
 What then ? 
 
 While thus hesitating, Wopdley cuts the Gordian knot by- 
 stepping straight to where Harkness lies, grasping the collar 
 of his coat, and rudely arousing him out of his slumber, by a 
 jerk that brings him erect upon his feet. Then, without 
 waiting word of remonstrance from the astonished man, Sime 
 hisses into his ear : — 
 
 " Kum along, Joe Harkness! Keep elose aorfcer us, an' 
 don't ask any questyuns. Thar, Jupo; you take charge o' 
 him." 
 
 At this, he gives Harkness a shove which sends him stagger- 
 ing into the arms of the mulatto. 
 
 The latter, drawing a long stiletto-like knife, brandishes it 
 before the ex-jailer's eyes, as he does so, saying : 
 
 "Mass Harkness; keep on afore me; I Poller. If you try 
 
234 JUL DEATH SHOT. 
 
 leave the track look out. This blade bum go 'tween your 
 back ribs." 
 
 'The shining steel, with the sheen of Jupiter's teeth set in 
 stem determination, is enough to hold Harkness honest, what- 
 ever his intent He makes no resistance, but, trembling, turns 
 along the path. 
 
 Once out of the glade, they fall into single fde, the narrow 
 trace making this necessary; Woodley in the lead; Clancy 
 second, holding his hound in leash ; Hcywood third ; Harkness 
 fourth: Jupiter with bared knife-blade bringing up the rear, 
 
 Never marched troop having behind it a more inexorable 
 file-closer, or one more determined on doing his duty. 
 
 CHAPTER LV1II. 
 
 AC ROSS THE 1 ORB. 
 
 need to tell who are the strange equestrians seen 
 coming across the river; nor to say, that those on 
 the croup are not Indian women, but white ones— 
 captives. The reader already knows they are Helen 
 and Jessie Armstrong. 
 
 Had Charles Clancy or Sime Woodley but suspected this 
 at the time, they would not have waited for Hcywood, 
 or stood dallying about the duplicity of Harkness. Instead, 
 they would have rushed right en to the river, caring little 
 what chances might be against them. Having no suspicion 
 of its being ought save two travelling redskins, accompanied 
 by their squaws, they acted otherwise. 
 
 The captives themselves know they arc not in charge of 
 Indians. After hearing that horrid laughter they are no 
 longer in doubt. It came from the throats of white men: for 
 only such could have understood the speeches that called it 
 forth. 
 
 This discovery affords them no gratification, but the op- 
 posite. Instead of feeling safer in the custody of civilised 
 men, the thought of it but intensifies their fears. From the 
 red savage, pur sang, they might look for some compassion; 
 from the white one they need not expect a spark of it. 
 
 And ii. oli. r does: both have alike lost heart and sunk into 
 
188 THE FORI). 235 
 
 deepest dejection. Never crossed Acheron two spirits more 
 despairing — less hopeful of happiness beyond. 
 
 They are silent now. To exchange speech would only be 
 to tempt a fresh peal of that diabolical laughter yet ringing in 
 their ears. Therefore, they do not speak a word— have not 
 since, nor have their captors. They, too. remain mute, for to 
 converse, and he heard, would necessitate shouting. The 
 horses are now wading knee deep, and the water, in continuous 
 agitation, makes a tumultuous noise: its cold drops dashed 
 back, clouting against the blankets in which the forms of the 
 captives are enfolded. 
 
 Though silent, these are busy with conjectures. Each 
 has her own about the man who is beside her. Jessie thinks 
 she is sharing the saddle with the traitor, Femand. She 
 trembles at recalling his glances from time to time cast upon 
 her — ill understood then, too well now. And now m his 
 power, soon to be in his arms ! Oh, heavens — it is horror. 
 
 Something like this she exclaims, the wild words wruug 
 from her in her anguish. They are drowned by the surging 
 noise. 
 
 Almost at the same instant, Helen gives out an ejaculation. 
 She, too, is tortured with a terrible suspicion about him 
 whose body touches her own. She suspects him to be one 
 worse than traitor; is almost sure he is an assassin ! 
 
 If so, what will be her fate ? Reflecting on it, no wonder 
 she cries out in agony, appealing to heaven — to God ! 
 
 Suddenly there is silence, the commotion in the water hav- 
 ing ceased. The hoofs strike upon soft sand, and soon after 
 with firmer rebound from the bank. 
 
 Via- a length or two the horses strain upward: and again 
 i 'ii level ground are halted, side by side and close together. 
 The man who has charge of Helen, speaking to the other, 
 says : — 
 
 " You'd better go ahead, Bill. 1 aint sure about the bye- 
 path to the big tree. I've forgotten where it strikes off. You 
 know, don't you?" 
 
 "Yes, lobtenant : I guess I kin find where it forks." 
 
 Xn thought of Indians now — nor with Jessie any longer a 
 fear of Fernand. By his speech, the man addressed as Bill 
 cannot be the half-blood. It is something almost to reassure 
 her. But for Helen — the other voice ! Though speaking in 
 undertone, and as if with some attempt at disguise, she is sure 
 of having heard it before; then with distrust, as now with 
 loathing. She hear- it again, commanding : — "Lead on!" 
 
■J-'l>; IHH DEATH SHOT. 
 
 Bill does not instantly obey, but says in rejoinder: — 
 
 "Skuse me, lootenant, but it seems a useless thing our 
 goiu' up to the oak. I know the Cap' sayed we were to wait 
 for them under it. Why cant we just as well stay heer? 
 'Taint like they'll be long now. They wont dally a minute, 
 I know, after they've olutched the shiners, an' I guess they 
 got 'cm most as soon as we'd secured these pair o' petticoat-. 
 Besides they'll come quicker than we've done, seeing as they're 
 moro like to bo pursooed. It's a ugly bit 'o track 'tween 
 here au' the big tree, both sides thorny bramble that'll tear 
 tho duds off our backs, to say nothin' o' the skin from our 
 faces. In my opinion wo oughter stay where wo air till the 
 rest jeius us." 
 
 "No," responds the lieutenant, in tone mure aiithuratiti\e. 
 " We mustn't remain here. Besides, we cant tell what may 
 have happened to them. Suppose they have to fight for it, 
 and get forced to take the upper crossing. In that case " 
 
 Tho speaker makes pause, as if perceiving a ddemma. 
 
 " In that case," interpolates the unwilling Bill, " we'd best 
 not stop heer at all, but put straight for head-quarters on the 
 creek. How d'ye incline to that way of it 1" 
 
 " Something in what you say," answers the lieutenant. 
 Then adding, after a pause, " It isn't likely they'll meet any 
 obstruction. The half-breed Indian said he had arranged 
 everything clear as clock-work. They're safe sure to com. 
 this way, and 'twont do for us to go on without them. 
 Besides, there's a reason you appear not to think of. Neither 
 you nor I know tho trail across the upper plain. We might 
 get strayed there, and if so, we'd better be in h — 1 ! " 
 
 After the profane utterance succeeds a short interval of 
 silence, both men apparently cogitating. The lieutenant is 
 the first to resume. 
 
 " Bosley," he says, speaking in a sage tone, and for the first 
 time addressing the subordinate by his family name. " On 
 the prairies, as elsewhere, one should always be true to a trust, 
 and keep it when one can. If there were time, I could tell 
 you a curious story of one who tried but couldn't. It's 
 generally the wisest way, and I think it's that for us now. 
 We might make a mess of it by changing from the programme 
 understood — which was for us to wait under the oak. Besides 
 I've got a reason of my own for being there a bit — something 
 you can't understand, and don't need telling about. And 
 time's precious too; so spin ahead, and find the path." 
 
 " All right," rejoins the other, in a tone of assumed rosigna- 
 
A FOILED AMBUSCADE. 237 
 
 tion. "Stayin' or goin's jest the, same to me. For that matter 
 I might like the first way best. I kin toll ye I'm precious 
 tired toatin this burden at my back, beauty though she be; 
 an' by remainin' heer I'll get the sooner relieved. When 
 Cap' comes he'll be wantin' to take her oft' my hands; to the 
 which I'll make him welcome as the flowers o' May." 
 
 Witht his poetical wind-up, the reluctant robber sots his 
 horse in motion, and leads on. Not far along the main road. 
 When a few yards from the ford, he faces towards a trail on 
 his lift, which under the shadow is with difficulty discernible. 
 For all this, he strikes into it with the confidence of one well 
 acquainted with the way. 
 
 Along it they advance between thick standing trees,, the 
 path arcaded over by leafy branches appearing as dark as a 
 tunnel. As the horses move on, the boughs, bent forward by 
 their breasts, swish back in rebound, striking against the legs of 
 their riders; while higher up the hanging Manas, many of them 
 beset with spines, threaten to tear the skin from their faces. 
 
 Fortunately for the captives, theirs are protected by tin 
 close-woven serapes. Though little care they now: thorns 
 lacerating their cheeks were but trivial pain, compared to 
 the torture in their souls. They utter no complaint, neither 
 speaking a word. Despair has stricken them dumb; for, moving 
 along that darksome path, they feel as martyrs being con- 
 ducted to stake or scaffold. 
 
 CHAPTER L1X. 
 
 A FOILKD AJHJISCADE. 
 
 LMOST at the same instant the double-mounted steeds 
 
 are turning oft' the main road, Woodley and those 
 
 with him enter upon it ; only at a point further 
 
 away from the Ford. 
 
 Delayed, first in considering what should be done with 
 
 Darkness, and afterwards by the necessity of going slowly, as 
 
 « ell as noiselessly along the narrow trace, they have arrived 
 
 uvon the road's edge just in time to be too late. 
 
 4 c /et they are not aware of this, though Woodley has his 
 fcpurene£3) r s; these 1' coming convictions, after he has stood 
 
ZOO 1111. DEATH 
 
 for a time listening, and hears no sound, save that of the 
 water, which comes in hoarse hiss between the trees, almost 
 deafening the ear. For at this point the stream, shallowing, 
 runs in rapid current over a pebbly bed, here and there break- 
 ing into crests. 
 
 Woodley's fear has been, that before he and his companions 
 reach the road, the Indians might get past. If so, the 
 chances of taking them will be diminished, perhaps gone alto- 
 gether. For, on horseback, they would have an ad van 
 tagc over those following a f< « >t ; and their capture could only 
 be effected by the most skilful stalking, as such travellers 
 have the habit of looking behind. 
 
 The question is — Have they passed the place, where it was 
 intended to waylay them? 
 
 "I dou't think they hev," says Woodlcy, answering it. 
 " They have hardly hed time. Besides 'tain't nat'ral they'd 
 ride strait on, jest arter kimmin acrosst the river. It's a 
 longish wade, wi' a good deal o' work for the hosses. More 
 like they've pulled up on reachin' the bank, an' air thai- 
 breathin' the critters a bit." 
 
 None of the others offering an opinion, he adds — 
 
 " Thur's a eezy way to make sure, an' the safest, too. Ft' 
 they've goed by hyar, they can't yet be very far off. Itidiu' as 
 they air they won't think o' proceedin' at a fast pace. There- 
 for, let's take a scout 'long the road outwards. Ff they're on 
 it, we'll soon sight 'em, or we may koukludo they're behind on 
 the bank o' the river. They're bound to pass this way, ef 
 they hain't arready. So we'll eyther overtake, or meet 'em 
 when returnin', or what mout be better'n both, ketch 'em a" 
 campin' by the water's edge. In any case our surest way air 
 first to follow up the road. Ff that prove a failure, we kin 
 'bout face, an' back to the river." 
 
 "Why need we all go!" asks Heywood. " Supposing the 
 rest of you stay here, while I scout up the road, ami see 
 whether they've gone along it? " 
 
 " What ud be the use o' that ?" demands Sime. " S'posin' 
 ye did, an' sighted 'em, ye ain't goin' to make thar capture all 
 o' yourself. Look at the time lost whiles ye air trottin' back 
 hyar to tell us. By then, they'd get out into the clear moon- 
 light, whar thcr'd be no chance o' our eomin' up to them with- 
 out thar spyin 1 us. No, Ned: your idee won't do. What do 
 you think, Charley 1 " 
 
 •'That your plan seems best. You're sure there's no other 
 way for them to p-i<s out from the river?" 
 
v ■ • • 239 
 
 "This chile don't know o' any, ceptin' this trace we're our- 
 selves kuin offo'." 
 
 "Then, clearly, our best plan is first to try along the road 
 
 — all together.'' 
 
 "Let's on, then!" urges VVoodley. •■ Thai's uo time to 
 waste. While we stan talkin' hyar, them redskins may ride 
 to the jumpin'-off place o' ereashun." 
 
 So saying, the hunter turns face to the right, and goes off 
 at a run, the others moving in like manner behind him. 
 
 After proceeding some two or three hundred yards, they 
 arrive at a place where the trees, standing apart, leave an 
 open space between. There a saddle-like hollow intersects the 
 road, traversing it from side to side. It is the channel of a 
 rivulet when raining; but now nearly dry, its bed a mortar . .i" 
 soft mud. They had crossed it coming in towards the river, 
 but without taking any notice of it, further than the necessity 
 of guiding their tired steeds to guard against their stumbling. 
 It was then in darkness, the twilight just past, aud the moon 
 not risen. Now that she is up in mid heaven, it is flooded b\ 
 her light, so that the slightest mark in the mud can be clearly 
 distinguished. Running their eyes over its surface, they ob- 
 serve traces tbey have hot been looking for, and more than 
 they have reason to expect. Signs to cause them surprise, 
 if not actual alarm. Conspicuous are two deep parallel ruts. 
 which they know have been made by the wheels of the emi- 
 grant wagons. A shower of rain, since fallen, has not obliter- 
 ated them; only washed off their sharp angles, having done 
 the same with the tracks of the mule teams between, and those 
 of the half hundred horses ridden alongside, as also the hoof- 
 marks of the horned cattle driven after. 
 
 It is not any of these that gives them concern. But other 
 tracks more recent, made since the rain — iu fact, since the sun 
 rose that same morning — made by horses going towards the 
 river, and with riders on their backs. Over twenty in all, 
 without counting their own : some of them shod, but most 
 without iron on the hoof 
 
 To the eyes of Sime Woodley — to Clancy's as well —these 
 facts declare themselves at a single glance; and they only 
 dwell upon further deductions. Hut not yet. For while 
 scanning the slough they see two sets of horse tracks going in 
 the opposite direction- outward from the river. Shod horsi . 
 too; their hoof-prLn ts stamped deep in the mud, as if both 
 had been heavily mounted. 
 
 This is u matter more immediate. The redskins, riding 
 
240 nil Dl Mil SHOT. 
 
 double, have gone past. If they are t<j be overtaken, imv a 
 moment must be spent thinking of aught else. 
 
 Clancy lias risen erect, read] to rush on after them. 3p 
 Ueywood and the rest. But not Woodley; who, still stooping 
 over the slough, seems unsatisfied. And soon he makes u 
 remark, which not only restrains the others, but causes an 
 entire change in their intention. 
 
 "They unit fresh," he Bftj g, speaking of the tracks last 
 looked at. "Thet is, they hain't been made 'ithin the hour. 
 Tharfbr, it can't be them as liev je^t crossed the stream. Take 
 a 3qtiint at 'em, * 'harley." 
 
 Clancy, tlnis called upon, lowering his eyes, again looks at 
 the tracks. Not fur long. A glance gives him evidence that 
 
 W lley is right. The horses which made these outgoing 
 
 tracks cannot be the same seen coming across. 
 
 And now, the others being more carefully scrutinized, these 
 same two are discovered among them, with the convexity of 
 i lie h.., f turned towards the river! 
 
 In all this there is strangeness, though it is not the time to 
 inquire into it. That must be left till later. Their only 
 I bought now is, where are the Indians: for they have cer- 
 tainly not come on along the road. 
 
 ••Boys!" says WoodleV'. "we've been makiu' a big round- 
 about 'ithout gamin' a great deal by it. Sartin them redskins 
 hev stopped at the river, au' thai' mean squattin' for the 
 remainder o' this night. That'll suit our purpiss to a teeto- 
 tum. We kin capter 'em in thar camp eezier than on the 
 backs "' thai critters. So, let's go right on an'grup'em!" 
 
 With this he turns, and runs back along the road, the others 
 keeping close after. 
 
 In ten minutes more they are uii the river's bank, where it 
 dee-lines to the crossing. They see no Indians there —no 
 human creature's of my kind - nor yet any horses! 
 
CHAPTER LX. 
 
 ' THE LIVE-OAK. 
 
 j|T a pace necessarily slow, from the narrowness of the 
 path and its numerous obstructions, the painted 
 robbers, with their captives, have continued on; reach- 
 ing their destination about the time Clancy and his 
 comrades turned back along the ford road. 
 
 From this they are now not more than three hundred yards 
 distant, halted in the place spoken of as a rendezvous. 
 
 A singular spot it is — one of those wild forest scenes by 
 which nature oft surprises and delights her straying 
 worshipper. 
 
 It is a glade of circular shape, with a colossal tree stand- 
 ing in its centre, — a live-oak with trunk full forty feet in 
 girth, and branches spreading like a banyan. Though an 
 evergreen, but little of its own foliage can be seen, only here 
 and there a parcel of leaves at the extremity of a protruding 
 twig ; all the rest, great limbs and lesser branches, shrouded 
 under Spanish moss, this in the moonlight showing white as 
 flax. 
 
 Its depending garlands, stirred by the night breeze, sway 
 to and fro, like ghosts moving in a minuet; when still, appear- 
 ing as the water of a cataract suddenly frozen in its fall, 
 its spray converted into hoar frost, the jets to gigantic icicles. 
 
 In their midst towers the supporting stem, thick and black, 
 its bark gnarled and corrugated as the skin of an alligator. 
 
 This grim Titan of the forest, o'ertopping the other trees 
 like a giant among men, stands alone, as though it had com- 
 manded them to keep their distance. And they seem to obey. 
 Nearer than thirty yards to it none grow, nor so much as an 
 underwood. It were easy to fancy it their monarch, and them 
 uoi daring to intrude upon the domain it has set apart for 
 itself 
 
 With the moon now in the zenith, its shadow extends 
 equally on all sides of its huge trunk, darkening half the sur- 
 face of the glade — the other half in light, forming an 
 
 18 
 
242 
 
 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 illuminated ring around it. There could be no mistaking it 
 for other than the "big tree," referred to in the dialogue 
 between the two robbers; and that they recognise it as such is 
 evident by their action. Soon as sighting it, they head straight 
 towards its stem, and halting, slip down out of their saddles, 
 having undone the cords by which the captives were attached 
 to them. 
 
 When dismounted, the lieutenant, drawing Bosley a step or 
 two apart, says: — 
 
 " You stay here, Bill, and keep your prisoner company. I 
 want a word witli mine before our fellows come up, and as it's 
 of a private nature, I'm going to take her to the other side of 
 the tree." 
 
 The direction is given in tone so low the captives can- 
 not hear it ; at the same time authoritatively, to secure 
 Bill's obedience. He has no intention of refusing it. On 
 the contrary, he responds with alacrity : — " All right. I 
 understand." This spoken as if implying consent to some 
 sinister purpose on the part of his superior. Without further 
 words, the lieutenant lays hold of his horse's rein, and leads 
 the animal round to the other side of the live-oak, his captive 
 still in the saddle. Thus separated, the two men are not 
 only out of each other's sight, but beyond the chance of ex- 
 changing speech. Between them is the butressed trunk many 
 yards in breadth, dark and frowning as the battlements of a 
 fortress. Besides, the air is tilled with noises, the skirling of 
 tree-crickets, and other sounds of animated nature that dis- 
 turb the tranquillity of the southern night. They could only 
 communicate with one another by shouting at the highest 
 pitch of their voices. Just now they have no need, and each 
 proceeds to act for himself. 
 
 Bosley, soon as left alone with his captive, bethinks him 
 what he had best do with her. He knows he must treat her 
 tenderly, even respectfully. He has had commands to this 
 effect from one he dare uot disobey. Before starting, his 
 chief gave him instructions, to be carried out or disregarded at 
 peril of his life. He has no intention to disobey them — 
 indeed, no inclination. A stern old sinner, his weakness is 
 not woman — perhaps for this very reason selected for the 
 delicate duty now intrusted to him. Instead of paying court 
 to his fair captive, or presuming to hold speech with her, he 
 only thinks how he can best discharge it to the satisfaction 
 of his superior. No need to keep her any longer on the horse. 
 She must be fatigued; the attitude is irksome, and he may get 
 
THE L1VK-0AK. 
 
 243 
 
 blamed for not releasing her from it. Thus reflecting, he 
 flings his arms around her, draws her down, and lays her 
 gently along the earth. 
 
 Having so disposed of her, he pulls out his pipe, lights it, 
 and commences smoking, apparently without further thought 
 of the form at his feet. That spoil is not for him. 
 
 But there is another, upon which he has set his mind. One 
 altogether different from woman. It is Dupre's treasure, of 
 which he is to have his share; and he speculates how much it 
 will come to on partition. He longs to feast his eyes with a 
 si_ht of the shining silver of which there has been so much 
 talk among the robbers, and grand expectations excited ; its 
 value as usual exaggerated. 
 
 Pondering upon it, he neither looks at his captive, nor thinks 
 of her. His glances are toward the river ford, which he sees 
 not, but hears ; listening amid the water's monotone for the 
 plunging of horses' hoofs. Impatiently, too, as between the puffs 
 from his pipe, he ever and anon utters a grunt of discontent 
 at the special duty imposed upon him, which may hinder him 
 from getting bis full share of the spoils. 
 
 Unlike is the behaviour of him on the other side of the oak. 
 He, too, has dismounted his captive, and laid her along the 
 ground. But not to stand idly over. Instead, he leaves her, 
 and walks away from the spot, having attached his horse to 
 the trunk of the tree, by hooking the bridle rein over a piece 
 of projecting bark. He has no fear that she will make her 
 escape, or attempt it. Before parting he has taken precautions 
 , by lashing her limbs together. 
 
 All this without saying a word — not even giving utterance 
 to an exclamation ! 
 
 In like silence he leaves her, turning his face toward the 
 river, and striking along a trace that conducts to it. 
 
 Though several hundred yards from the ford, the bauk is 
 close by; for the path by which they approached the glade 
 has been parallel to the trend of the stream. The live-oak 
 overlooks it, with only a bordering of lushes between. 
 
 Through this runs a narrow trace made by wild animals, 
 the forest denizens that frequent the adjacent timber, going 
 down to their drinking plac°ej 
 
 Parting the branches, that would sweep the plumed tiara 
 from his head, the lieutenant glides along it, not stealthily, 
 but with confidence, and as if familiar with the way. Once 
 through the thicket, he sees the river broad and bright before 
 him ; its clear tranquil current in contrast with the dark and 
 
244 
 
 '1111. DEATH SHOT. 
 
 stormy passions agitating his own heart. He is not thinking 
 of this, nor is there any sentiment in his soul, us he | 
 Ky the side of the stream, lie has sought it for B UlOffl 
 prosaic purpose — to wash his face. For this he has brought 
 with him a piece of soap and a rag of cotton cloth, taken out 
 of a haversack carried on the pommel of his saddle. 
 
 Stepping down the slope, he stoops to perform his ablutions. 
 In that water-mirror many a fierce ugly hue has been reflected, 
 but never one fiercer or uglier than his, under its garish 
 panoply of paint. Nor is it improved, when this, sponged off, 
 shows the skin to be white; on the contrary, the sinister 
 passions that play upon his features would better become the 
 complexion of the savage. 
 
 Having completed his lavatory task, he throws snap and 
 rag into the river ; then, turning, strides back up the bank. 
 At its summit he stops to readjust his plumed head-dri 
 he does so, saving in soliloquy : — 
 
 '• I'll give her a surprise, such as she hasn't had since 
 leaving the States. I'd bet odds she'll be more frightened at 
 lay face now, than when she saw it in the old garden. She 
 did'nt recognise it then; she will now. And now for her 
 torture, and my triumph : for the revenge I've determined to 
 take. AVon't it be sweet ? " 
 
 At the close of his exultant speech, he dives into the dark 
 path, and gliding along it, soon re-enters the glade. 
 
 He perceives no change, for there has been none. 
 
 Going ou to her from whom he had separated, he again 
 places himself Iry her recumbent form, and stands gazing upon, 
 ideating over it, like a panther whose prey lies disabled at 
 its feet, to be devoured at leisure. 
 
 Only an instant stays he in this attitude; then stooping till 
 his head almost touches hers, he hisses into her ear: — 
 
 ' So, Helen, at length and at last. 1 have you in my power, 
 at my mercy, sure, safe, as ever eat had mouse." Oh ! it is 
 sweet — sweet — sweet ! 
 
 She has no uncertainty now. The man exclaiming sweet, 
 is he who has caused all her life's bitterness. The voice, no 
 longer disguised, is that of Richard Darke! 
 
 «--c-<5*<y<SAS>'i> o->~» 
 
"-> "r "> "<• ~~> ~> ^ *c #■ & 
 
 CHArTER LXI. 
 
 A RUFFIAN TRIUMPHANT. 
 
 j!ILD thoughts has Helen Armstrong, thus apostro- 
 phised, with not a word to say in return. She 
 knew a it would be idle ; but without this, her very 
 indignation holds her dumb — that and despair. 
 For a time he, too, is silent, as if surrendering his soul to 
 delightful exultation. 
 
 Soon he resumes speech in changed tone, and interrogatively : 
 — " Do you know who's talking to you? Or must I tell you, 
 Xc!l > You'll excuse familiarity in an old friend, won't you?" 
 Receiving no response, he continues, iu the same sneering 
 style : " Yes, an old friend, I say it ; one you should well 
 remember, though it's some time since we met, and a good 
 way from here. To assist your recollection, let me recal an 
 incident occurring at our last interview. Perhaps 'twill be 
 enough to name the place and time 1 Wall, it was under a 
 jsippi ; time ten o'clock of night ; 
 moonlight, if I rightly remember, as now. It matters not the 
 day of the month being different, or any other trivial circum- 
 stance, so Ioiil' as the serious ones are so. And they are. 
 thank God for it ! P>eneath the magnolia I knelt at your feet; 
 under this tree, which is a live-oak, you lie at mine." 
 
 He pauses, but not expecting reply. The woman 
 tortured speaks not; neither stirs she. The only motion 
 visible throughout her frame is the swell and fall of her 
 bosom — tumultuously beating. 
 
 He who stands overwell knows it is throbbing in pain. But 
 he for that; on the contrary, it . 
 ■ : again drawing from him the exultant exclamation — 
 
 t — E 
 
 After another interval of silence, he continues, banteringly 
 as before : 
 
 "So, fair Helen, you perceive how circumstances have 
 changed between us, and I hope you'll have the sense to suit 
 yourself to the change. Beneath the Mississippian tree you 
 
246 
 
 Till. DEATH SHOT. 
 
 denied mc : hero under the Texan, youll not ho so inexorable 
 - nil] you I" 
 
 Still no response. 
 
 "Well : if you won't vouchsafe an answer, I must be con- 
 tout to go without it; remembering the old saw- 'Silence 
 consents.' Perhaps, ere long your tongue will untie itself; 
 when you've go1 over grieving for him who's gone— your great 
 favourite, Charley Clancy. ! take it. you've heard of his 
 death ; and possibly a report, that some one killed him. Both 
 stories arc true ; and. telling you so, I may add, no one knows 
 better than myself; since 'twas I sent the gentleman to 
 kingdom come — I Richard Darke." 
 
 On malting the fearful confession, and in boastful emphasis, 
 he bends lower to observe its effect. Not in her face, still 
 covered with the scrape, but her form, in which he can per- 
 ceive n tremor from head to foot, she shudders, and not 
 strange, as she thinks: — 
 
 "He murdered him. He may intend the same with me. 
 I care not now." 
 
 Again the voice of the self-aecuscd assassin : 
 
 " You know me now 1" 
 
 She is silent as ever, and once more motionless; the con- 
 vulsive spasm having passed. Even the beating of her heart 
 tilled. 
 
 is she dead? Has his fell speech slain her? In reality it 
 wotdd appear so. 
 
 "Ah, well;" he says, "you won't recognize me? Perhaps 
 you will after seeing my face. Sight is the sharpest of the 
 senses, and the most reliable. You shall no longer be de- 
 prived of it. T.ct me take you to the light." 
 
 Lifting, he carries her out to where the moonbeams 
 the tree's shadow, and there lays her along. Then dropping 
 to his knees, he draws out something that glistens. Two 
 months before he stooped over the prostrate form of her lover, 
 holding a photograph before his eyes — her own portrait. In 
 bur's he is about to brandish a knife ! 
 
 le sei ing him in this attitude would suppose he intended 
 burying ils blade in her breast. Instead, he slits open the 
 serape in front of her face, tossing the severed edges back 
 beyond her cheeks. 
 
 Her features exposed to the light, show wan mid woeful; 
 withal, lovely as ever; piquant in their pale beauty, like those 
 of some rebellious nun hating the hood, discontented with 
 cloister and convent. 
 
A RUFFIAN TRIUMPHANT. 247 
 
 As she sees him stooping beside, with blade upliftel, she 
 feels sure he designs killing her. But she neither shrinks, nor 
 shudders now. She even wishes him to end her agony with a 
 blow. Were the knife in her own hand, she would herself 
 give it. 
 
 It is not his intention to harm her that way. Words are 
 the weapons by which he intends torturing her. With these 
 he will lacerate her heart to its core. 
 
 For he is thinking of the time when he threw himself at 
 her feet, and poured forth his soul in passionate entreaty, only 
 to have his passion spurned, and his pride humiliated. It is her 
 turn to suffer humiliation, and he has determined she shall. 
 Recalling his own, every spark of pity, every pulsation of 
 manhood, is extinguished within him. The cup of his scorned 
 love has become a chalice filled with the passion of vengeance. 
 
 Sheathing the knive, he says : 
 
 " I've been longing for a good look at you. Now that I've 
 g >t it, I should say you're pretty as ever, only paler. That 
 will come right, and the roses return to your cheeks, in this 
 recuperative climate of Texas; especially in the place where I 
 I taking you. But you hav'nt yet looked at my face. 
 It's just had a washing for your sake. Come, give it a glance ! 
 I want you to admire it, though it may not be quite so hand- 
 some as that of Charley Clancy." 
 
 She averts her eyes, instinctively closing them. 
 
 "Oh, well, you won't I Never mind, now. There's a time 
 coming when you'll not be so coy. and when I shan't any 
 longer kneel supplicating you. For know, Nell, you're com- 
 pletely in my power, and I can command, do with you what I 
 will. I don't intend any harm, nor mean to be at all un- 
 kind. It'll be your own fault if you force me to harshness. 
 And knowing that, why should'nt there be truce between us 1 
 What's the use of fretting about Clancy? He's dial as a 
 door nail, and your lamenting won't bring him to life again. 
 Better take things as they are, and cheer up. If you've losl 
 Lctheart, there's another left, who loves you more than 
 ever did he. I do, Helen Armstrong ; by G — d, I do !" 
 
 The ruffian gives emphasis to his profane assertion, bj < 
 in-- before her, and laying his hand upon his heart.| 
 
 Neither his speech nor attitude moves her. She lies as 
 
 ever, still, silent. Wrapped in the Mexican blanket — whose 
 
 : of Aztec design bears striking resemblance to the hieri >- 
 
 glyphs of Egypt — this closed and corded round her figure, she 
 
 ••easily be mistaken for a mummy, one of Phara ih's 
 
THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 daughters taken out of the sarcophagus in which fur centuries 
 she has slept. Alone, the face with its soft white skin, nega- 
 tiu-s (lie ci.iiijiari on: though it appears bloodless, too. The 
 tell nought : their lids are closed, the long dark lashes 
 alone showing in crescent curves. With difficulty could one 
 tell whether she be asleep, or dead. 
 
 Richard Darke does not suppose she is i ither; and, incensed 
 at receiving mi reply, again apostrophises her in tone more 
 spiteful than ever. Hi has lost control ol his temper, and 
 now ta'ks unfeelingly, brutally, profanely. 
 
 " D — n you ! " he cries. " Keep your tongue in your teeth, 
 if yon like. Erelong I'll find a way to make it wag; when 
 we're man and wife, as we shall soon be — after a fashion. A 
 good one, too, practised here upon the prairies of Texas. Just 
 the place for a bridal, such as ours is to be. The nuptial knot 
 tied, according to canons of our own choice, needing no sanc- 
 tion o: church, or palaver of priests, to make it binding." 
 
 The ruffian pauses in his ribald speech. Nol that he has 
 yet sated his vengeance, for he intends continuing the torture 
 of his victim unable to resist. He has driven the arrow deep 
 into her heart, and leaves it to rankle there. 
 
 For a tune he is silent, as if enjoying his triumph — the ex- 
 pression un his countenance truly satanic. It is seen suddenly 
 to change, apprehension taking its place, succeeded by fear. 
 
 The cause: sounds coming from the other side of the tree ; 
 human voices! 
 
 Not those of Boslcy, or his captive j but of strange men 
 speaking excitedly ! 
 
 Quick parting from his captive, and gliding up to the trunk, 
 he looks cautiously around it. 
 
 In the shadow he sees several figures clustering around Bos- 
 ley and his horse; then hears names pronounced, one which 
 chills the blood within his veins — almost freezing it. 
 
 He stands transfixed ; cowering as one detected in an act of 
 crime, and by a strong hand held in the attitude in which 
 caught ! Only for a short while thus; then, starting up, he 
 rushes to regain his horse, jerks the bridle from the back, and 
 drags the animal in the direction of his captive. Tossing 
 her upon the pommel of the saddle, he springs into it. But 
 she too has heard names, and now makes herself heard, shout- 
 ing, " Help — help!" 
 
CHAPTER LXII. 
 
 " HELP ! HELP ! " 
 
 AULKED in their attempt to ambuscade the supposed 
 Indians, Clancy and his companions thought not of 
 abandoning the search for them. On the contrary, 
 they continued it with renewed eagerness, their 
 interest excited by the unexplained disappearance of the 
 party. 
 
 And they have succeeded in finding it, for it is they who 
 surround Bosley, having surprised him unsuspectingly puffing 
 away at his pipe. How they made approach, remains to be 
 told. 
 
 On reaching the river's bank, and there seeing nought of 
 the strange equestrians, their first feeling was profound 
 astonishment. On Woodley's part, also, some relapse to a 
 belief in the supernatural ; Heywood, to a certain degree, 
 sharing it. 
 
 " Odd it air !" mutters Sime, with an ominous shake of the 
 head. " Tarnashun odd ! Whar kin they hev been, an whar 
 Lev they goed 1 " 
 
 '• Maybe back, across the river?" suggests Heywood. 
 
 •■ Unpossible. Thar ain't time. They'd be wadin now, an' 
 we'd see 'em. No. They're on this side yit, if anywhar on 
 airth ; the last beiu' the doubtful." 
 
 " Supposin' they've taken the trace we came by? They 
 might while we were up the road." 
 
 "By the jumpin Jechosofat !" exclaims Woodley, startled 
 by this second suggestion, '' I never thought o' that. If they 
 hev, thar's our horses, an' things. Let's back to camp quick 
 as legs kin take us." 
 
 " Stay ! " interposes Clancy, whose senses are not confused 
 by any unearthly fancies. " I don't think they could have 
 gone that way. There maybe a trail up the bank, and they've 
 taken it. There must be, Sime. I never knew a stream 
 without one." 
 
 " Ef there be, it's beyont this child's knowledge. I hain't 
 
250 Tin-: in. mm SHOT. 
 
 noticed nccry one. Still, as you say, sech is usooal, ef only 
 a way for the wild beasts. We kin try for it." 
 
 " Let us first make sure whether they came out here at all. 
 We did'nt watch them quite in to the shore." 
 
 Saying this, Clancy steps down to the water's edge, the 
 others with him. 
 
 They have no occasion to stoop. Standing erect they can 
 see hoof-marks, conspicuous, freshly made, filled with water 
 that has fallen from the fetlocks. 
 
 Turning, they easily trace them up the shelving bank; but 
 not so easily along the mad, though certain they continue 
 that way. It is black as pitch beneath the shadowing 
 trees. Withal, Woodley is not to he thus baffled. His skill 
 as a tracker is proverbial among men of his calling; moreover, 
 he is chagrined at their ill success so far ; and, but for there 
 being no time, the ex-jailer, its cause, would catch it. He 
 does in an ojcasioual curse, which might be accompanied by 
 a cuff, did he not keep well out of the backwoodsman's way. 
 
 Dropping on all fours, Sime feels for hoof- prints of the 
 horses that have just crossed, groping in darkness. He can 
 distinguish them from all others by their being wet. And so 
 does, gaining ground, bit by bit, surely if slowly. 
 
 But Clancy has conceived a more expeditious plan, which 
 he makes known, saying : 
 
 '•No need taking all that trouble, Sime. You may be the 
 best trailer in Texas; and no doubt you are, for a biped: still 
 here's one can beat you." 
 
 "Who!" asks the backwoodsman, rising erect, " show me 
 the man " 
 
 "No man,'' interrupts the other with a smile. "For our 
 purpose something better. There stands your competitor." 
 
 " You're right; I didn't think o' the dog. He'll do it like a 
 breeze. Put him on, Charley ! " 
 
 " Gome, Brasfort !" says Clancy, apostrophising the hound, 
 while lengthening the leash, and setting the animal on the 
 slot. " You tell us where the redskin riders have gone." 
 
 The intelligent creature well understands what is wanted, 
 and with nose to the ground goes instantly off. But for the 
 check string it would soon outstrip them, for its eager action 
 tells it has caught scent of a trail. 
 
 At first lifting it along the ford road, but only for a few 
 yards. Then abruptly turning left, the dog is about to strike 
 into the timber, when the hand of the master restrains it. 
 
 The instinct of the animal is no longer needed. They 
 
HELP ! HELP ! 251 
 
 perceive the embouchure of a path, that looks like the entrance 
 to a cave, dark and forbidding as the back door of a jail. 
 But surelv a trace leading in among the trees, which the 
 plumed horsemen have taken. 
 
 After a second or two spent in arranging the order of march, 
 they also take it, Clancy now assuming command. 
 
 They proceed with caution greater than ever; more slowly 
 too, because along a path, dark, narrow, unknown, shaggy with 
 thorns. They have to grope every inch of their way; all the 
 while in surprise at the Indians having chosen it. There 
 must be a reason, though none of them can think what it is. 
 
 They are not long left to conjectures. A light before their 
 eyes throws light upon the enigma that has been baffling 
 their brains. There is a break in the timber, where the moon- 
 beams fall free to the earth. 
 
 Gliding on, silently, with undiminished caution, they arrive 
 on the edge of an opening, and there make stop, but inside 
 the underwood that skirts it. 
 
 Clancy and Woodley stand side by side, crouchingly; and in 
 this attitude interrogate the ground before them. 
 
 They see the great tree, with its white shroud above, and 
 deep obscurity beneath — the moonlit ring around it. But at 
 first nothing more, save the fire-flics scintillating in its shadow. 
 
 After a time, their eyes becoming accustomed to the cross 
 light, they see something besides; a group of figures close in 
 to the tree's trunk, apparently composed of horses and men. 
 They can make out but one of each, but they take it there are 
 two, with two women as well. AVhile scanning the group, 
 they observe a light larger and redder than that emitted by 
 the winged insects. Steadier too ; for it moves not from its 
 place. They might not know it to be the coal upon a tobacco 
 pipe, but for the smell of the burning " weed " wafted their way. 
 
 Sniffing it, Sime says : 
 
 "That's the lot, sure: tho' thar appears but the half o't. 
 I kin only make out one hoss, an' one man, wi' suthin' 
 astreetch 'long the grouu' — one o' the squaws in coorse. The 
 skunk on his feet air smokin'. Strange they hain't lit a fire ! 
 True 'taint needed 'ceptin 1 for the cookin' o' thar supper. 
 Maybe they've hed it, an' only kim hyar to get a spell o' 
 sleep. But ef thet's thar idee why shed you 'un be stannin' 
 up. Wal ; I guess, he's doin' sentry bizness, the which air 
 alters needcessary out hyar. How shell we act, Charley 1 
 Rush right up an' tackle 'cm t That's your way. I take it." 
 
 " It is — why not 1 " 
 
_■>. THli DBATH SHOT. 
 
 "Because thar's a better — leastwise a surer to prevcni 
 spillin' thai blood. 8e say, you don't want that?" 
 
 "On no account. If I thought there was a likelihood of it, 
 I'd go straight back to our camp, and leave them alone. 
 They may be harmless creatures, on .souk.' innocent errand. 
 If it prove so, we musn't molest them." 
 
 •' Wal ; I'm williu' for thet," rejoins Woodley, adding a re- 
 servation, "Ef they resist, how arc we to helj it 1 We must 
 t \ ther kill, or be kilt.'' 
 
 There is reason in this, and Clancy perceives it. While lie 
 is cogitating what course to take, Woodley, resuming speech, 
 points it out. 
 
 "Thar's no use for lis to harm a hair on thar beads, 
 supposin' them to be innercent. For all thet, we shed maki 
 sure, an' take preeeaushin in case o' them Outtin' up ugly. It 
 air alters the best way \\i redskins." 
 
 " How do you propose, Sime '" 
 
 "To surround 'cm. Injuns, whether it be bucks or squaws, 
 air slickery as eels. It's good sixty yurds to whar they're 
 squatted yonner. Ef we push strait torst 'em, they'll see us 
 crossiu' that bit o' moonshine, an' be inter the tinmier like 
 greased lightnin' through the branches o' a gooseberry bush. 
 Tho' out o' thar soddlcs now, an' some o' 'em streetched 
 'long the airth, apparently sleepin, they'd be up an' oil' in the 
 shakin' o' a goat's tail. Tharefor, say I, let's surround 'em.'' 
 
 " If you think that the better way," rejoins Clancy, "let 
 us. But it will take time, and call for the greatest caution. 
 To get around the glade, without their seeing us, we must 
 
 keep well within the timber. Through that unden* 1 ; i 
 
 won't be easy. On second thoughts, Sime, I'm inclined to 
 chauce it the other way. They can't possibly escape us. If they 
 do take to their horses, they couldn't gallop off beyond reach of 
 our rifles. We can easily shoot their animals down. Besides, 
 remember there's two to get mounted on each. We may as 
 well run right up, and determine the thing at once. I see no 
 difficulty." 
 
 "Wheesht!" exclaims Woodley, just as Clancy ceases 
 speaking. 
 
 " What is it? Do you hear anything, Sime!" 
 
 " Don't you, Charley V 
 
 Clancy sets himself to listen, but at first hears nothing, 
 save the usual sounds of the forest, of which it is now full. 
 A spring night, a sultry one, the tree crickets are in shrillest 
 cry, the owls and goatsuckers joining in the chorus. 
 
1IK1.1' ! HELP ' -•'■' 
 
 But in the midst of its continuous strain there is surely a 
 sound, not animal, but human i Surely the voice of a maul 
 
 After a time, Clancy can distinguish it. 
 
 One is talking, in tone not loudj but with an accent which 
 appi irs to be that of boasting or triumph. And the voice is 
 not like an Indian's, while exclamations, at intervals uttered, 
 are certainly such as could only proceed from the lips of a 
 white man. 
 
 All this is strange, and causes astonishment to the travellers 
 — to Clancy something more. But before ho has time to re- 
 flect upon, or form conjectures about it. he hears that which 
 compels him to cast aside every restraint of prudence; and 
 springing forward, he signals the others to follow him. 
 
 They do. without a word; and in less than twenty seconds' 
 time, they have entered the shadowed circle, and surrounded 
 the group at which they have been so long gazing. 
 
 Only three figures after all ! A man, a horse, with what 
 may be woman, but looks less like one living than dead ! 
 
 The man, Indian to all appearance, thus taken by surprise. 
 plucks the pipe from between his teeth. It is struck out oi 
 liis hand, the sparks flying from it, as Woodlej- on one side 
 and Heywood the other, clutching, drag him toward the light. 
 
 "When the moon shines on it, they behold a face which both 
 have seen before. 
 
 Under its coating of charcoal and chalk they might not 
 recognise it, but for the man making himself known by speech, 
 which secures his identification. For he, too, sees a familiar 
 face, that of Simeon Woodley; and under the impression he 
 is himself recognised, mechanically pronounces the backwoods- 
 man's name. 
 
 •• Bill Bosley ! " shouts the astonished Sime, "Good Lord ! 
 Painted Injun! What's this for? Some devil's doings ye're arter 
 i^ ye allers war. Explain it, Bill! Tell the truth 'ithout 
 preevarieashun. Ef ye lie, I'll split your thrapple like I wud 
 a water-millvun." 
 
 " Simc Woodley ! Ned Heywood ! Joe Harkness ! " gasp- 
 ingly ejaculates the man, as in turn the three faces appear 
 before him. "Cod Almighty', what's it mean I" 
 
 ■• We'll answer that when we've heeru yum- story. Quick, 
 tell it." 
 
 "1 can't; your chokin' me. For God's sake, Heywood, 
 take your hand off my throat. Sime! sure you don't in- 
 tend 1. i 1 1 i 11 me '--ye won't, ye won't." 
 
 •■ That depends ■" 
 
25 t THE DEATH SIIOT. 
 
 "But I aint to blame. Afore heaven, 1 swear I aint 1 You 
 know that, Harkness i " You beard me protest against tin. ir 
 ugly doina more than ouce. In this business, now, I'm only 
 act in' under the captin's order. He sent me 'long with the 
 Looti Qfint to take care of " 
 
 '• The lieutenant ! " interrupts Clancy. "What name!" 
 
 "Phil Quantrell, we call him; though I guess he's got 
 anol her " 
 
 "Where is he?" inquires Clancy, tortured with a terrible 
 suspicion. 
 
 " He went t'other side the tree, takin' the young lady all ing." 
 
 At that moment comes a cry from behind the oak — a 
 woman's voice calling " Help ! help ! " 
 
 Clancy stays not to hear more, but rushes oft with the air 
 of a man struck with sudden phrenzy ! 
 
 On turning the trunk, he sees other forms, a horse with 
 man mounted, a woman before him he endeavours to restrain, 
 who, struggling, thirsts for succour. 
 
 It is nigh, though near being too late. But for a fortunate 
 circumstance, it would be. The horse, headed towards the 
 forest, is urged in that direction. But, frayed by the conflict 
 on his back, he refuses to advance; instead, jibbing and rear- 
 ing, he returns under the tree. 
 
 Clancy, with rifle raised, is about to shoot the animal down. 
 But at thought of danger to her calling "help I" he lowers his 
 piece ; and rushing in, lays hold of the bridle-rein. This in- 
 stantly let go, to receive in his arms the woman, released 
 from the ruffian's grasp, who would otherwise fall heavily to 
 the earth. 
 
 The horse, disembarrassed, now obeying the rein, shoots 
 out from under the oak, and headed across the moonlit belt 
 makes straight for the timber beyond. 
 
 In the struggle Clancy has let go his gun, and now vainly 
 gropes for it in the darkness. But two others are behind, 
 with barrels that bear upon the retreating horseman. In an 
 instant all would be over with him, but for Clancy himself; 
 who, rushing between, strikes up the muzzles, crying: — 
 
 " Don't shoot, Sime ! Hold your fire, Heywood ! His life 
 belongs to me !" 
 
 Strange forbearance ; to the backwoodsmen, incomprehen- 
 sible! But they obey ; and again Richard Darke escapes 
 chastisement for two great crimes he intended, but by good 
 fortune failed to accomplish. 
 
IDOWS BEFO RE. 
 
CHAPTER LXIII. 
 
 AN OATH TO BE KEPT. 
 
 fO pen » <uld pourtray tho feelings of Helen Armstrong, 
 on recognising her rescuer. Charles Clancy alive ! 
 Is she dreaming ? Or is it indeed he whose arms are 
 around, folding her in firm but tender embrace? 
 Under the moonbeams, that seem to have suddenly become 
 brighter, she beholds the manly form and noble features of 
 him she believed dead, his cheeks showing the hue of health, 
 his eyes late glaring in angry excitement, now glowing with 
 ifter light of love. Yes ; it is indeed her lover long 
 nioumed, living, breathing, beautiful as ever ! 
 
 She asks not if he be still true, that doubt has been long- 
 sine* dissipated. It needs not his presence there, nor what 
 he has just done, to reassure her. 
 
 For a time she asks no questions ; neither he. Both are 
 too absorbed with sweet thoughts to care for words. Speech 
 could not heighten their happiness, in the midst of can-esses 
 and kisses. 
 
 On his side there is no backwardness now ; on hers no 
 B, 11 i mock modesty. They come together not as at 
 their last interview, timid sweethearts, but lovers emboldened 
 by betrothal. Fur she knows, that he proposed to her; as 
 he. that her acceptance was sent, and miscarried. It has 
 reached him nevertheless ; he has it upon his person now — 
 both the letter and portrait. About the last are his first words. 
 Drawing it out, and holding it up to the light, he asks play- 
 fully : 
 
 " Helen ; was this meant for me 1" 
 
 ' No," she evasively answers, " it was meant fur me." 
 
 "Oh! the likeness, yes; but tho inscript — these pleasant 
 words written underneath?" 
 
 " Put it back into your pocket, Charles. And now tell 
 me ill. Am 1 dreaming? Or is it indeed reality?" 
 
 X<> wonder sh ■ should so exclaim. Never was transforma- 
 tion quicker, or more complete. But a few seconds before 
 
 19 
 
256 
 
 Mil. l'l.ATH SUOT. 
 
 Bhe was, as it were, in the clutches of the devil ; now an angel 
 is by her side, a Beraph with Boft wings to shelter, and strong 
 amis to protect her. She fei is one, who, long lin 
 at the door of 1 death, has health suddenly and miraculously 
 restored, with the prospect of a prolonged and happy life. 
 
 Clancy replies, by again flinging his arms around, and raptu 
 rously kissing her: perhaps thinking it the best answer fo 
 give. If that be not reality, what is 1 
 
 Jessie has now joined them, and after exchanged congratula 
 tions, there succeed mutual inquiries and explanations. Clancy 
 has commenced giving a brief account of what has occurred 
 to himself, when he is interrupted by a rough, but kindly voice; 
 that of Sime, saying : — 
 
 " Ye kin tell them all that at some other time, Charley; 
 thar aint a minnit to be throwed away now.'' Then drawiug 
 Clancy aside, speaking so as not to be heard by the others. 
 " Thar's danger in dallyin' hyar. I've jest been puttin thet 
 jail bird, B sley, through a bit o' catechism ; an' from what 
 he's told me the sooner we git out o' hyar the better. Who 
 d'ye spose is at the bottom o' all this ? I need'nt -k ye ; ye're 
 boun to guess. I kin see the ugly brute's name bulgin out 
 yur cheeks." 
 
 " Borlasse ! " 
 
 " In course it's he. Bosley's confessed all. Ked'nt well help 
 it, wi' my bowie threetenin' to make a red stream run out o' 
 him. The gang — thar's twenty o' 'em all counted — goed up 
 to the Mission to plunder it — a sort o' burglarious expedishun; 
 Borlasse hevin' a understandin' wi' a treetur that's inside — a 
 sort o' sarviut to the Creole, Dupray, who only late engaged 
 him. Wal; it seems they grupped the gurls, as they war 
 makin' for the house — chanced on 'em outside in the garden. 
 Bosley an' the other hev toated 'em this far, an' war waitin' 
 for the rest to come on wi' the stolen goods. They may be 
 hyar at any minnit; an', wi' Jim Borlasse at thai - head, I 
 needn't tell ye what that means. Four o' its agin twenty — 
 for we can't count on Harkness — it's ugly odds. We'd hev no 
 show, howsomever. It 'ud end in their again grabbin' these 
 pretty critters, an 's like 's not end our own lives.'' 
 
 ( Hancy needs no further speech to convince him of the 
 danger: After what has occurred, an encounter with the rob- 
 bers would, indeed, be disastrous. Richard Darke, leagued 
 with Jim Borlasse, a noted pirate of the prairies ; their dia- 
 bolical plans disclosed, and only defeated by the merest acci- 
 dent of circumstances. 
 
AX OATH TO BE KEPT. 
 
 " You're right, Sime. We must'ut be caught by the 
 scoundrels. As you say, that would be the eud of everything. 
 How are we to avoid them?" 
 
 " By streakin' out o' hyar quick as possible." 
 
 " Do you propose our taking to the timber, and lying hid 
 till they go past ? " 
 
 '■ No. Our better plan '11 be to go on to the Mission, an' 
 get thar soon 's we kin.'' 
 
 '■ But we may meet them in the teeth V 
 
 " We must, ef we take the main road up tother side — pretty 
 sure to meet 'em. We shan't be sech fools. I've thought o' 
 all that, an' a way to get clear of the scrape." 
 
 "What way 1" 
 
 " That road we kim in by, ye see, leads on'ard up the 
 bank this side. I reckin' it goes to the upper crossin', the 
 which air several miles above the buildins. We kin take it, 
 an' roller it 'ithout any fear o' encounterin' them beauties. 
 I've sent Jupe and Harkucss to bring up the hosses. Ned's 
 tother side the tree in charge o' Bosk, 
 
 " You've arranged it right. Nothing could be better. Take 
 the trail up this side. lean trust you for seeing them safe 
 ir father's arms — if he still live." 
 
 Woodley wonders at this speech. He is about to ask ex- 
 planation, when Clancy adds, pointing to the elder sister — 
 
 " I want a word with her before parting. While you are 
 getting ready the horses " 
 
 '.' Before partiu' ! " interrupts Sime with increased surprise. 
 " Sarely you mean goin' along wi' us? " 
 
 " No, I don 
 
 " But why, Charley ? " 
 
 " Well, I've something to detain me here." 
 
 " What somethin' I " 
 
 '• You ought to know without my telling you." 
 
 " Dog-goned ef I do." 
 
 " Richard Darke, then." 
 
 " But he's goed oft'; ye don't intend follerin' him 1. " 
 
 " I do — to the death. If ever I had a fixed determination 
 in my life, 'tis that." 
 
 " Wal, but you won't go all by yerselH Ye'll want some o' 
 us wi' 
 
 " No." 
 
 •■ No! me, nor No 1 f 
 
 '■ Neither. You'll both be needed to take care of them." 
 
 I .- nods towards the sisters, adding : — 
 
25^ THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 " You'll have your hands full enough with Bosley and 
 Barkneas. Both will need looking after — and carefully. 
 Jupe I'll take with me." 
 
 W lley remonstrates, pointing out the danger rf the 
 
 course his comrade inten Is pursuing. He only yields ;is 
 Clancy rejoins, in tone of determination, almost oommand: — 
 
 " You must do as I tell you, Sime ; go on to the Mission, 
 and take them with you. As for me, I've a strong reason for 
 remaining behind by myself; a silly sentiment some might 
 call it, though I don't think you would." 
 
 " What is't ? Let's hear it, an' I'll gie ye my opcenyun 
 an' squar'." 
 
 "Simply, that in this whole matter from first to last. Fve 
 leen making mistakes. So man}-, it's just possible my courage 
 may be called in question ; or, if not that, my ability. Now, 
 do you understand me?" 
 
 " Darned ef I do." 
 
 " Well; a man must do something to prove himself worthy 
 of the name; at least one deed during his lifetime. There's 
 one I've got to do — must do it, before I can think of anything 
 else." 
 
 " That is 1 " 
 
 "Kill Richard Darke. As you know, I've sworn it, and 
 nothing shall come between me and my oath. No, Sime, not 
 even she who stands yonder; though I can't tell how it pains 
 me to separate from her, now." 
 
 " Good Lord ! that will be a painful partin' ! Poor gurl ! 
 1 reckin her heart's been nigh broke arready. She hasn't the 
 peach colour she used to hcv'. It's clean faded out o' her 
 cheeks, an' what your goin' to do now aint the way to bring it 
 back agin." 
 
 '■ I cannot help it, Sime. I hear my mother calling me. 
 Go, now ! I wish it; I insist upon it ! " 
 
 Saying this, he turns towards Helen Armstrong to speak a 
 word, which he knows will bj sad as was ever breathed into 
 the ear of woman. 
 
yyyyy^vyvv-,? 
 
 CHAPTER LXIV. 
 
 A WILD FAREWELL. 
 
 j|N Clancy and the hunter becoming engaged in their 
 serious deliberation, the sisters also exchange 
 thoughts that are troubled. The first bright flash 
 of joy at their release from captivity, with H Ten's 
 added gratification, is once more clouded over, as they think 
 uf what may have befallen their father. Now, knowing 
 who the miscreants are, their hearts are heavy with appre- 
 hension. Jessie may, perhaps, feel it the more, having most 
 — for her dread is of a double nature. There is her 
 affianced, as well as her father ! 
 
 But lor Helen there is also another agony in store, soon to 
 be suffered. Little thinks she, as Clancy coming up takes 
 in i hand, that the light of gladness, which so suddenly shone 
 into her heart, is to be with like suddenness extinguished, and 
 that he who gave is about to take it away. Gently leading 
 lui' apart, and leaving Jessie to be comforted by Sime, he 
 says— 
 
 " Dearest ! we've arranged everything for your being taken 
 back to the Mission. The brave backwoodsmen, Woodlev and 
 Heywooil, will be your escort. Under their protection you'll 
 have nothing to fear. Either would lay down his life for you 
 or your sister. Nor need you be uneasy about your father. 
 From what this fellow, Bosley, says, the ruffians only meant 
 robbery, and if they have not been resisted it will end in that 
 ■nly. Have courage, and be cheered ; you'll find your father 
 aa yon left him." . 
 
 ■• And you ?" she asks in surprise. " Do you not go with 
 us I" 
 
 Be hesitates to make answer, fearing the effect. But it 
 must be made ; and lie at length rejoins, appealingly : 
 
 " Helen ! I hope you won't be aggrieved, or blame me for 
 what I am going to do." 
 
 "WhatV 
 
 " Leave you." 
 
260 TIIK DEATH 
 
 • Leave me!" she exclaims, her eyes interrogating his in 
 wild bewildermi rrl 
 "Only for b time, lovej a very short while." 
 "But why any time! Charles; you are surety jesting with 
 
 me?" 
 
 "No, indeed, t am in earnest. Never more in my life 
 and never more wishing i wiare nut. Ala-.! ' is inevitable!" 
 
 K Inevitable ! I do not understand. What doyou meanl" 
 
 With her eyes fixed op his, in earnest gaze, she anxiously 
 bis answer. 
 
 "Helen Armstrong!" he .says, speaking in a ton 
 solemnity that Bounds strange, almost harsh despite its 
 gentleness; "you are to me the I a m earth I 
 
 need not tell you that, for surely yon know it. Withoul 
 I should not value life, nor are t i live one hou 'long \ T 
 
 love you. with all my heart ami soul, were but to re 
 the assuranc I've already given you. Ah! now more than 
 ever, if that were ; . that I know how true you've 
 
 been, and what youve suffered for my st : 
 another — one far away from here, who clain 
 affections " 
 
 She makes a movement interrupting him. her eyes kindling 
 up with an indescribable Light, hi r bo 
 as though stirred by som ! terrible emotion. 
 
 Perceiving her a though with 
 
 cause, he continues : 
 
 "If this night more than ever I love you. this i. 
 than. iffection for her. The sight of that man, with 
 
 t' thought I've again permitted him to escape, is fresh 
 cause < h— a new cry from the gri un \. c mmanding 
 
 me to avenge my murdered mother." 
 
 Helen Armstrong, relieved, again breathes freely. Stra 
 but natural; in consonance with human passions. For ij 
 jealousy that for the moment held sway in her thoughts. 
 
 med of the suspicion, now known to be unworth; 
 makes an effort to conceal it, saying in calm tone — 
 
 " We have heard of your mother's death." 
 
 " Of her murder," says Clancy, sternly, and through set 
 teeth. " Yes; my poor mother was murdered by th 
 has just gone off. He won't go far, before I overtake him. 
 I've sworn over her grave, she shall be avenged ; his blood 
 will atone for her's. I've tracked him here, shall track him 
 on; never stop, till I stand over him, as he once stood over 
 me, thinking . But I won't tell you more. Enough, 
 
A WILD FAREWELL. 261 
 
 for you to know why I'm now leaving you. I must — I 
 must ! " 
 
 Half distracted, she rejoins : — 
 
 " You love your mother's memory more than you love 
 me!" 
 
 Without thought the reproach escapes— wrung from her in 
 her agony. Soon as made, she regrets, and would recal it. 
 For she sees the painful effect it has produced. 
 
 He anticipates her, saying : — 
 
 " You wrong me, Helen, in word, as in thought. Such 
 could not be. The two are different. You should know 
 that. As I tell you, I've sworn to avenge my mother's death 
 — sworn it over her grave. Is that not an oath to be kept? 
 I ask — I appeal to you ! " 
 
 Her hand, that has still been keeping hold of his, closes 
 upon it with firmer grasp, while her eyes become fixed upon 
 him in look more relying than ever. 
 
 The selfishness of her own passion shrinks before the sacred- 
 ness of that inspiring him, and quick pisses away. With her 
 love is now mingled admiration. Yielding to it, she exclaims : 
 
 " Go — go ! Get the retribution you seek. Perhaps 'tis right. 
 God shielding you, you'll succeed, and come back to me, true 
 as 3'ou've been to your mother. If not, I shall soon be dead." 
 
 " If not, you may know I am. Only death can hinder my 
 return. And now, for a while, farewell!' 
 
 Farewell ! And so soon. Oh ! it is afflicting ! So far she 
 ha- home herself with the firmness derived from a strong, sell- 
 ing nature. But hearing this word — wildest of all — 
 : I Id out no longer. Her strength gives way, and 
 g her-elf on his breast, she pours forth a torrent of 
 tears. 
 
 Come, Helen !" he says, kissing them from her cheeks, 
 " be brave, and don't fear for me. I know my man, and the 
 work cut out for me. By sheer carelessness I've twice let him 
 hav his triumph over me. But he won't the third time. 
 When we next meet 'twill be the last hour of his life. Some- 
 thing whispers this — perhaps the spirit of my mother I Keep 
 up your courage, sweet! Go back with Sime, who'll see 
 you safe into your father's arms. When there, you can offer 
 up a prayer for my safety, and if you like, one for the salva- 
 tion of Dick Darke's soul For sure as I stand here, ere 
 another sun has set it will go to its God." 
 
 With these solemn words the scene ends, only one other 
 exchanged between them — the wild " Farewell ! " 
 
Tin; DEATH BHOT. 
 
 I ins in baste, for at tlio moment Woodley comes forward, 
 exclaiming : — 
 
 " Be quick, Charley ! We must git away from hyar 
 instanter. A minuil more in this gleed, an' some o 1 us may 
 niver leave it ilive." 
 
 Jupiter and Barkness have brought up the horses, and are 
 holding them in readiness. Soon they are mounted, Beywood 
 taking Jessie on his croup, Helen having a horse to herself — 
 that lat ■ belonging to liosley — while the latter is compelled to 
 share 1 the saddle with Barkness. 
 
 Heywood leads o£fj the suspected men ordered to keep close 
 after; while Woodley reserves the rear-guard to himself and 
 his rifle. Before parting, he spurs alongside Clancy, and 
 hoi Is -lit Ins hand, Baying : — 
 
 "Gi'e in" :i squeeze o' yur claws, Oharley. May the 
 Almighty stan' your frien' and keep you out o' Ole Nick's 
 clutches. Don't hcv' any dubiousness 'bout us. Tho' we shed 
 kmii across Satan hisself wi' all his hellniferous host, Sime 
 Woodley '11 take care 'o them sweet gurls, or go to grass 
 try in'." 
 
 With this characteristic wind up, he puts the spur to his 
 horse, and closes upon the rest already parted from the spot. 
 
 Alone remain under the live-oak, Clancy and the mulatto, 
 with hoi se, hound, mid mule. 
 
 Varied the emotions in Clancy's mind, as he stands looking 
 after; but all dark as clouds coursing across a winter's sky. 
 For they are nil doubts and fears; that must felt finding ex- 
 pression in the desponding soliloquy. 
 
 " I may never see her again ! " 
 
 As the departing cavalcade is about to enter among the 
 trees, and the floating drapery of her dress is soon to pat 
 of sight, he half repents his determination, and is almosi 
 inclined to forego it. 
 
 But the white skirt disappears, and the dark thought return- 
 ing, becomes fixed as before. Then, facing towards Jupiter, 
 he directs: — 
 
 " Mount your mule, Jupe. We've only one more journey to 
 make ; I hope a short one. At its end well meet your old 
 master, and you'll see him get what he deserves — his death 
 %hotJ" 
 
 -*££7S$tyg??&2.~- — 
 
§fllll3gll381MM1IS$ 
 
 CHAPTER LXV. 
 
 FOB THE RENDEZVOUS. 
 
 jlTILLNESS is again restored around the crossing of 
 the San Saba, so far as it has boon disturbed by the 
 sound of human voices. Nature has resumed her 
 reign, and only the wild creatures of her kingdom 
 can be heard calling, iu tones that tell not of strife. 
 
 But for a short while does this tranquillity continue. Soon 
 once more upon the river's bank resound rough voices, and 
 rude boisterous laughter, as a band of mounted men coming 
 from the Mission side, spur their horses down into its channel, 
 and head to go straight across. While under the shadow of 
 the fringing timber, no one could tell who these merry 
 riders are; and, even after they have advanced into the open 
 moonlight, it would be difficult to identify them. Seeing 
 their plumed heads with their parti-coloured complexions, 
 a stranger would set them down as Indians ; while a Texan 
 might particularise their tribe, calling them Comancb.es. But 
 one who is no stranger to them — the reader — knows they are 
 not Indians of any kind, but savages who would show skins 
 of a tripe colour, were the pigment sponged off. For it is the 
 band of Borlasse. 
 
 They have brought their booty thus far, en route for their 
 rendezvous. 
 
 Gleeful they are, one and all. Before them on their saddle 
 bows, or behind on the croups, are the boxes of silver coin ; 
 enough, as they know, to give them a grand spree iu the town 
 of San Antonio, whither they intend proceeding in due time. 
 
 But first for their lair, where the spoil is to be partitioned, 
 and a change made in their toilet ; there to cast off the 
 costume of the savage, and resume the garb of civilization. 
 
 Riding in twos across the river, on reaching its bank they 
 make halt. There is barely room for all on the bit of open 
 ground by the embouohure of the ford road ; and they get 
 clumped into a dense crowd — in its midst their chief, Borlasse, 
 conspicuous from his great bulk of body. 
 
 " Boys !" he says, soon as all have gained the summit of the 
 
264 
 
 THE DEATH SHUT. 
 
 slope, and gathered around him, ''it ain'1 no use for all o' us going 
 to where 1 told Quantrell an' Bosley to wait The approach to 
 
 the oak air a bit awkward; therefore, me an' Luke I Ihlsholm 'II 
 slip up thar, whiles the rest o' ye stay hyar till we come back. 
 Yon needn't get out of your saddles. We won't be many 
 minutes, for we mustn't. They'll be a -tin-in' a1 the Mission, 
 though not like to come after us so quick, seeing the traces 
 b re left behind. That'll be a caution to them. 1 take it. 
 And from what our friend here says," Borlassc nods to the 
 half-blood, Fernand, who is seen seated on horseback beside 
 him, "the settlers can't muster over forty fightin' men. Cal- 
 culatin' there's a whole tribe o' us Comanches, they'll be too 
 scared to start out all of a suddint. Besides, they'll not find 
 that back trail by the bluff so eas}'. I don't think they can 
 before mornin'. Still 'twont do to hang about hyar long. Once 
 we get across the upper plain we're safe. They'll never set eyes 
 on these Indyins after. Come, Luke ! let you an me go on to 
 the oak. and pick up the stragglers. An' boys ! see ye behave 
 yourselves till we come back. Don't start nail, or raise lid, 
 from any o' them boxes. If there's a dollar missin', I'll know- 
 it; an by the Eternal — ; well, I guess, you understan' Jim 
 Borlasse's way wi' treeturs." 
 
 Leaving this to be surmised, the robber chief spurs out 
 from their midst, with the man he has selected to accompany 
 him; the rest, as enjoined, remaining. 
 
 Soon he turns into the up-river trace, which none of those 
 who have already travelled it, knew as well as he. Despite his 
 greater size, neither its thorns, nor narrowness, hinders him 
 from riding rapidly along it. He is familiar with its 
 turn and obstruction, as is also Chisholm. Both have been 
 to thi ire, time after time ; have bivouacked, slept 
 
 under it, and beside booty. Approaching it now for a different 
 purpose, they are doomed to disappointment. There is no 
 sign of creature beneath its shade — horse, man, or wornan ! 
 
 Where is Quantrell 1 Where Bosley 1 What has become 
 of them, and their captives'! 
 
 They are not under the oak, or anywhere around it. They 
 are nowln re ! 
 
 The surprise of the robber chief instantly changes to anger. 
 For a suspicion Hashes across his mind, that his late appointed 
 lieutenant has played false to him. 
 
 He knows that Richard Darke has only been one of his baud 
 
 by the exigency of sinister circumstances; knows, also, of the 
 
 and stronger lien that has kept Clancy's as assin attached 
 
FOB THE RENDEZVOUS. 265 
 
 to their confederacy — his love for Helen Armstrong. X ov, 
 that he has her — the sister too — why may he not have taken 
 both off, intending henceforth to cut all connection with the 
 prairie pirates? Bosley would be no bar. The subordinate 
 might remain faithful, and to the death ; still Quautrell could 
 kill him. 
 
 It is all possible, probable: and Borlasse, now better ac- 
 quainted with the character of Richard Darke, can believe it 
 so. Convinced of his lieutenant's treachery, he rages around 
 the tree Lke a tiger deprived of its prey. 
 
 Little cares he what has become of Darke himself, or Helen 
 Armstrong. It is Jessie he misses; madly loving her in his 
 course carnal fashion. He had hoped to have her in his arms, 
 to carry her on to the rendezvous, to make her his wife in 
 the same way as Darke threatened to do with her sister. 
 
 Fortunately for both, tho sky has become clouded, and 
 the moon is invisible ; otherwise he might see that the 
 ground has been trodden by a half-dozen horses, aud discover 
 the direction these have taken. Though Simeon Woodley, 
 with his party, is now a good distance off, it would still be 
 possible to overtake them, the robbers being well mounted and 
 better knowing the way. Woe 1 3 Helen and Jessie Armstrong 
 were the moon shining, as when they parted from that spot ! 
 
 Neither Borlasse nor his confederate have a thought that 
 any one has been under the oak, save Quantrell, Bosley. d I 
 the captives. How could they? And now they think not 
 that these have been there; for, calling their names aloud, 
 they get no response. Little do the two freebooters dream of 
 the series of exciting incidents that in quick succession, and 
 so recently, have occurred in that now silent spot. They have 
 no suspicion of aught, save that Bosley has betrayed his trust, 
 Phil Quantrell instigating him, and that both have forsaken 
 the baud, taking the captives along. 
 
 At thought of their treachery Borlasse's fury goes beyond 
 bounds, and he stamps and storms. 
 
 To restrain him, Chisholm says, suggestingly, 
 
 " Like as not, Cap', they're gone on to head quarters. I 
 guess, when we get there we'll find the whole four." 
 
 " You think so ? " 
 
 " I'm good as sure of it. What else could they do, or 
 would they? Quantrell dam't go back to the States, with that 
 thing you spoke of hangin' over him. Nor is he like to show 
 himself in any o' the settlements of Texas. And what could 
 the two do by themselves out on the wild prairie 1 " 
 
266 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 "True; I reckon you're about right, Luke. In any case 
 we musn't waste more time here. It's getting well on to 
 mornin', and by the earliest glint of day the settlers '11 take 
 trail after us. We must on to the upper plain." 
 
 At this he heads his horse back into the narrow trail ; and, 
 hurrying along it, rejoins his followers by the ford. 
 
 Soon as reaching them, he gives the command for immediate 
 march ; promptly obeyed, since every robber in the ruck lias 
 I leasant anticipation of what is before, with ugly recollection 
 of what is, and fears of what may be, behind him. 
 
 CHAPTER LXVI. 
 
 A SCO0TING PARTY. 
 
 flHROUGHOUT all this time, the scene of wild terror, 
 and phreusied excitement, continues to rage around 
 the Mission. Its walls, while echoing voices of 
 lamentation, reverberate also the shouts of re- 
 venge. 
 
 It is some time ere the oolonists can realize the full 
 extent of the catastrophe, or be sure it is at an end. The 
 gentlemen, who dined with Colonel Armstrong, rushing back 
 to their own homes in fearful anticipation, there find 
 everything, as they left it; except that their families and 
 fellow settlers are asleep. For all this, the fear does not leave 
 their hearts. If their houses are not aflame, as they expected 
 to see them — if their wives and children are not butchered in 
 cold blood — they know not how soon this may be. The Indians 
 — for Indians they still believe them — would not have attack- 
 ed so strong a settlement, unless in force sufficient to destroy it. 
 The ruin, incomplete, may still be impending. True, the 
 interlude of inaction is difficult to understand ; only intel- 
 ligible, on the supposition that the savages are awaiting an 
 accession to their strength, before they assault the rancheria. 
 They may at the moment be surrounding it ? 
 
 Under this apprehension, the settlers are hastily, and by 
 loud shouts, summoned from their beds. Responding to the 
 rude arousal, they are soon out of them, and abroad ; the 
 women and children frantically screaming ; the men more 
 
A SCOUTING PARTY. 267 
 
 calm ; some of them accustomed to such surprises, issuiug 
 forth armed, and ready for action. 
 
 Soon all are similarly prepared, each with gun, pistol, and 
 knife borne upon his person. 
 
 After hearing the tale of horror brought from the Mission 
 building, they hold hasty council as to what they should do. 
 
 Fear for their own firesides restrains them from starting 
 off; and some time elapses before they feel assured that the 
 rancheria will not be attacked, and need defending. 
 
 Meanwhile, they despatch messengers to the Mission; who, 
 approaching it cautiously, find no change there. 
 
 Colonel Armstrong is still roaming distractedly around, 
 searching for his daughters, Dupre by bis side, Hawkins and 
 Tucker assisting in the search. 
 
 The girls not found, and the frantic father settling down to 
 the couviction that they are gone — lost to him forever ! 
 
 Oh ! the cruel torture of the truth thus force 1 upon him ! 
 His children carried off captive, that were enough. But to 
 su h captivity! To be the associates of savages, their slaves, 
 their worse than slaves — ah! a destiny compared with which 
 death were desirable. 
 
 So reasons the paternal heart in this supreme moment of 
 its affliction. 
 
 Alike distressed is he, bereaved of his all but bride. 
 The young Creole is well-nigh beside himself. Never has he 
 known such bitter thoughts; the bitterest of all — a remem- 
 brance of something said to him by his betrothed that very 
 daw A word slight but significant, relating to the half-blood, 
 Fernand ; a hint of some familiarity in the man's behaviour 
 towards her, not absolute boldness, but presumption : for Jessie 
 did not tell all. Still enough to be now vividly recalled to 
 Dupre's memory, with all that exaggeration the circum- 
 ces are calculated to suggest to his fancy and fears. 
 Yes ; his trusted servant has betrayed him, and never did 
 master more repent a trust, or sutler greater pain by its 
 betrayal. 
 
 The serpent he warmed has turned and stung him, with 
 Bting so venomous as to leave little of life. 
 
 Within and around the M'ssion building are other wailing 
 voices, besides those of its owners. Many of the domestics 
 have like cause for lamentation, some even more. Among the 
 massacred, still stretched in their gore, one stoops over a 
 sister; another sees his child; a wife weeps by the side of her 
 husband, her hot tears mingling with his yet warm blood; 
 
THK DEATH SHOT. 
 
 while brother bends down to gaze into the eyes of brother, 
 which, glassy and sightless, cannot reciprocate the sorrowing 
 glance ! 
 
 It is not the time to give way to wild grief. The occasion 
 calls for action, quick, immediate. Colonel Armstrong com- 
 mands it ; Dupre urges it. Soon as their first throes of sur- 
 prise and terror have subsided, despair is replaced by anger, 
 and their thoughts turn upon retaliation. 
 
 All is clear now. Those living at the rancheria have not 
 been molested. The savages have carried off Dupre's silver. 
 Despoiled of his far more precious treasure, what, reeks he of 
 that 1 Only as telling that the object of the attacking party 
 was robber] more than murder; though they have done both. 
 Still it is certain, that, having achieved their end, they 
 are gone off with no intention to renew the carnage of which 
 all can see such sanguinary traces. Thus reasoning, the 
 next thought is pursuit. 
 
 As yet the other settlers are at the rancheria, clinging to 
 their own hearths, in fear of a fresh attack, only a few having 
 (Mine up to the Mission, to be shocked at what they see there. 
 
 Br.t enough for Dupre's purpose ; which receives the sanc- 
 tion of Colonel Armstrong, as also that of the hunters, Hawkins 
 and Tucker. 
 
 it is decided not to wait till all can be ready ; but for a select 
 party to start off at once, in the capacity of scouts ; these to 
 take up the trail of the savages, and send back their report to 
 those oomiug after. 
 
 To this Colonel Armstrong not only gives consent, but 
 deems it the most prudent course, and likeliest to secure 
 success. Despite his anxious impatience, the strategy of the 
 old soldier tells him, that careless haste may defeat its 
 chances. 
 
 In fine, a scouting party is dispatched, Hawkins at its 
 head as guide, the Creole commanding. 
 
 Armstrong himself remains behind, to organise the main 
 body of settlers getting ready for pursuit. 
 

 1 
 
 ill .:'' I' 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 'l| | ,:il 1 
 
 l, 'l3 
 
 III 
 
CHAPTER LXV1I. 
 
 A STRAYING TRAVELLER. 
 
 SI MAX on horseback making his way through a wood. 
 Not on road, or trodden path, or trace of any kind. 
 For it is a tract of virgin forest, in which settler's 
 axe has never sounded, rarely traversed by ridden 
 horse ; still more rarely by pedestrian. 
 
 He, now passing through it, rides as fast as the thick stand- 
 ing trunks, and tangle of undergrowth will allow. The dark- 
 ness also obstructs him ; for it is night. Withal he advances 
 rapidly, though cautiously; at intervalsglancing back, at 
 longer ones, delaying to listen, with chin upon his shoulder. 
 
 His behaviour shows fear ; so, too, his face. Here and 
 there the moonbeams shining through breaks in the foliage, 
 reveal upon his features bewilderment, as well as terror. By 
 their light he is guiding his course, though he does not seem 
 sure of it. The only thing appearing certaiu is, that he fears 
 something behind, and is fleeing from it. 
 
 Once he pauses, longer than usual ; and, holding his horse 
 in check, sits listening attentively. While thus halted, he hears 
 a noise, which he knows to be the ripple of a river. It seems 
 oddly to affect him, calling forth an exclamation, which 
 shows he is dissatisfied with the sound. 
 
 " Am I never to get away from it % I've been over an hour 
 straying about here, and there's the thing still — not a quarter 
 of a mile off, and timber thick as ever. I thought that last 
 shoot would have taken me out of it. I must have turned 
 somewhere. No help for it, but try again." 
 
 Making a half-face round, he heads his horse iu a direction 
 opposite to that from which comes the sound of the water. 
 He has done so repeatedly, as oft straying back towards the 
 stream. It is evident he has no wish to go any nearer; 
 but a strong desire to get away from it. 
 
 This time he is successful. The new direction followed a 
 half mile further shows him clear sky ahead, and in a few 
 minutes more he is at the forest's outmost edge. Before him 
 
 20 
 
-( (J Ull: UEATU SHOT. 
 
 stretches an expanse of plain altogether treeless, but clothed 
 with tall grass, whose culms Stirred by the night breeze, and 
 
 silvered by the moonbeams, sway t<> and fro, like the soft 
 tremulous wavelets of a tropic a a; myriads of fire-flies prink- 
 ling among the spiki b, and emitting a -Nun, as phosphorescent 
 ". make the resemblance complete. 
 
 The retreating horseman has no such comparison in his 
 thoughts, nor any time to contemplate Nature. The troubled 
 expression in his eyes, tells he is in no mood for it. His 
 glance is uot given to the grass, uor the brilliant " lightning 
 bugs," but tn a dark belt discernible beyond, apparently a 
 tract of timber, similar to thai he has just traversed. More 
 carefully scrutinised, it is seen to be rocks, not trees ; in short 
 a continuous line of cliff, forming the boundary of the bottom- 
 land. 
 
 He viewing it, well knows what it is, and intends proceed- 
 ing on to it. He only stays to take bearings tor a particular 
 place, at which he evidently aims. His muttered words 
 specify the poiut. 
 
 "The gulch must be to the right. I've gone up river all 
 the while. Confound the crooked luck! It may throw me 
 behind them going b ok ; and how am ] to find my way over 
 the big plain? If I get strayed there — Ha! I see the pass 
 now; yon sharp shoulder of rock — its there." 
 
 Once more setting his horse in motion, he makes for the 
 point thus identified. Not now in zigzags, or slowly — as when 
 working his way through the timber — but in a straight tail-ou- 
 end gallop, fast as the animal can go. 
 
 And now under the bright moonbeams it may be time to take 
 a closer survey of the hastening horseman. In garb lie is Indian, 
 from the mocassins on his feet to the fillet of stained feathers 
 surmounting his head. But the colour of his skin contradicts 
 the idea of his being au aborginal. His face shows white, but 
 with some smut upon it, like that of a chimney-sweep negli- 
 gently cleansed. And his features are Caucasian, not ill- 
 favoured, except in their sinister expression ; for they are the 
 features of Richard Darke. 
 
 Knowing it is he, it will be equally understood that the San 
 Saba is the stream whose sough is so dissonant in his ears, as 
 also, why he is so anxious to put a wide space between himself 
 ami its waters. On its bank he has heard a name, and caught 
 sight of him bearing it — the man of all others he has most 
 fear. The backwoodsman who tracked him in the forests of 
 Mississippi, now trailing him upon the prairies of Texas, 
 
/. SI3AYIXG TRAVELLER. 
 
 271 
 
 a Woodley ever pursuing hi in ! If iu terror he has been 
 retreating through the trees, not less does he glide over the 
 open ground. Though going iu a gallop, every now and then, 
 as before, lie keeps slewing round in the saddle and gazing 
 back with apprehensiveuess, in fear he may see forms issuing 
 from the timber's edge, and coming ou after. 
 
 None appear, however; and, at length, arriving by the bluffs' 
 base, he draws up under its shadow, darker now, for clouds are 
 beginning to dapple the sky, making the moon's light inter- 
 mittent. Again, he appears uncertain about the direction he 
 .should take; and seated iu his saddle, looks inquiringly along 
 the facade of the cliff, scrutinising its outline. 
 
 X' >t long before his scrutiny is rewarded. A dark disc of 
 triangular shape, the apes inverted, proclaims a break in the 
 escarpment. It is the embouchure of a raviue, in short the 
 pass he has be n searching for, the same already known to the 
 reader. Straight towards it he rides, with the confidence of 
 one who has climbed it before. Iu like maimer he enters 
 between its grim jaws, and spurs his horse up the slope under 
 the shallow of rocks overhanging right and left. He is some 
 twenty minutes in reaching its summit, ou the edge of the 
 upland plain. There he emerges into moonlight; for Lima 
 has again looked out. 
 
 Seated in his saddle he takes a survey of the bottom-laud 
 
 below. Afar off, he can distinguish the dark belt of timber, 
 
 fringing the river on both sides, with here and there a reach 
 
 of water between, glistening in the moon's soft light like 
 
 i silver. His eyes rest not on this, but stray over the 
 
 i meadow land in quest of something there. 
 
 There is nothing to fix his glance, and he uow feels safe, for 
 the first time since starting on that prolonged retreat. 
 
 Drawing a free breath he says, soliloquising : — - 
 
 " No good my going farther now. Besides I don't know 
 the trail. ii"t a foot farther. Xo help fa- it but stay here till 
 B irlasse and the boys come up. They can't be much longer, 
 an] !ss they've had a fight to detain them; which I don't think 
 at all I c what the half-blood told us. In any case 
 
 some of them will be this way. Great God ! To think of 
 Woodley being h re! And after me, sure, for the kill- 
 ing of Clancy! Heywood, too, and Harkness along with 
 If i v is that I wonder? Can they have met my old 
 jailer 1 hi him back to help in tracing 
 
 mel What the devil does it all mean? It l">oks hs if tho 
 very Fates were conspiring for my destruction. 
 
27- TUli DEATU SHOT. 
 
 " And who the follow that laid hold of my horse 1 So like 
 Clancy! I could swear 'twas he, if I was'nt sure of having 
 settled him. If ever gun bullet gave a man his quietus, 
 mine did him. The breath was out of his body before I left 
 him. 
 
 "Sime Woodley*s after me, sure ! D — n the ugly brute of 
 a backwoodsman! lie seems to have been created for the 
 special purpose of pursuing me 1 
 
 " And she in my power, to let her so Blackly go again ! I 
 may never have another such chance. She'll get safe back to 
 the settlements, there to make mock of me ! What a simple- 
 ton I've been to let her go alive ! I should have driven my 
 knife into her. Why didn't I do it ? Ach ! ,; 
 
 As he utters the harsh exclamation there i bl <■' ness onhis 
 brow, and chagrin in his glance; a look, such as Satan may 
 have cast back at Paradise ou being expelled from it. 
 
 With assumed resignation, ho continues : — 
 
 " Xo good my grieving over it now. Regrets won't get her 
 back. There may be another opportunity yet. If I live there 
 shall be, though it cost me all my life to bring it about." 
 
 Another pause spout reflecting what he ought to do next. 
 He has still some fear of being followed by Sime Woodley. 
 Endeavouring to dismiss it, he mutters : — 
 
 " 'Tisn't at all likely they'd find the way up hero. They 
 appeared to be a-foot. I saw no horses. They might have 
 them for all that. But they can't tell which way I took 
 through the timber, and anyhow couldn'1 track me till after 
 daylight. Before then Borlasse will cert inly be along. Just 
 possible he may come across Woodley and his lot. They'll be 
 sure to make for the Mission, and take the road up t'other 
 side. A good chance of our fellows encountering them, 
 unless that begging fool, Bosley, has let all out. Maybe they 
 killed him on the spot? I did'nt hear the end of it, and hope 
 they have." 
 
 With this barbarous reflection he discontinues his soliloquy, 
 bethinking himself, how he may best pass the time till his 
 comrades come on. At first he designs alighting, and lying 
 down: for he has been many hours in the saddle, and feels 
 fatigued. But just as he is about to dismouut, it occurs to 
 him the place is not a proper one. Around the summit of the 
 pass, the plain is without a stick of timbi r, not even a bush to 
 givi shade or concealment, and of this last he now begins to 
 recognise the need. For, all at once, he recals a conversation 
 with Borlasse, in which mention was made of Sime Woodley; 
 
A STRAYING TRAVELLER. 
 
 the robber telling of his having been in Texas before, and out 
 upon the San Saba — the very place where now seen ! There- 
 fore, the backwoodsman will be acquainted with the locality, 
 and may strike for the trail he has himself taken. He re- 
 members Sinie's reputation as a tracker ; he no longer feels 
 safe. In the confusion of his senses, his fancy exaggerates his 
 fears, and he almost dreads to look back across the bottom- 
 land. 
 
 Thus apprehensive, he turns his eyes towards the plain, in 
 search of a better place for his temporary bivouac, or at all 
 events a safer one. He sees it. To the right, and some two 
 or three hundred yards off is a motte of timber, standing 
 solitary on the otherwise treeless expanse. It is the grove of 
 black-jacks, where Hawkins aud Tucker halted that same 
 afternoon. 
 
 "The very place!" says Richard Darke to himself, after 
 scrutinizing it. " There I'll be safe every way ; can see with- 
 out being seen. It commands a view of the pass, and, if the 
 moon keep clear, I'll be able to tell who comes up, whether 
 friends or foes." 
 
 Saying this, he makes for the motte. 
 
 Reaching it, he dismounts, and, drawing the rein over his 
 horse's head, leads the animal in among the trees. 
 
 At a short distance from the grove's edge is a glade. In 
 tins he makes stop, and secures the horse, by looping the 
 bridle around a branch. 
 
 He has a tin canteen hanging over the horn of his saddle, 
 which he lifts off. It is a large one, — capable of holding a 
 half-gallon. It is three parts full, not of water, but of whisky. 
 The fourth part he has drunk during the day, and earlier 
 horn's of the night, to give him courage for the part he had to 
 play. He now drinks to drown his chagrin at having played 
 it so badly. Cursing his crooked luck, as he calls it, he 
 takes a swig of the whisky, and then steps back to the place 
 where he entered among the black-jacks. There taking stand, 
 he awaits the coming of his confederates. 
 
 He keeps his eyes upon the summit of the pass. They can- 
 not come up without his seeing them, much less go on over 
 the plain. 
 
 They must arrive soon, else he will not be able to see them. 
 For he has brought the canteen along, and, raising it repeat- 
 edly to his lips, his sight is becoming obscured, the equilibrium 
 of his body endangered. 
 
 As the vessel grows lighter, so does his head ; while his 
 
27 I THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 limbs refuse to support the weight of his body, which oscil- 
 lates fn>m side to side. 
 
 At length, with an indistinct perception of inability to sus- 
 tain himself erect, and a belief he would feel better in a 
 recumbent attitude, be gropes bis way back to the glade, 
 where, staggering about for a win]-,', ho at length settles down, 
 dad drunk. In ten seconds he is asleep, in slumber so pro- 
 found, thai a camion shot — even the voice of Simeon Woodloy — 
 would scarce awake him. 
 
 CHAPTER LXVII1. 
 
 " BRASFORT." 
 
 RASFORT has caught scent !" 
 
 The speech comes from one of two men making 
 
 l.y&j! their way through a wood, the same across which 
 
 Richard Darke has just retreated, But they are 
 
 not retreating as he ; on the contrary pursuing, him elf the 
 
 object of their pursuit. For they two men are Charles Clancy, 
 
 and Jupiter. 
 
 They arc mounted, Clancy on his horse — a splendid animal — 
 the mulatto astride the mule. 
 
 The hound is with them, not now trotting idly after, but 
 in front, with nose to the earth. They are on Darke's trail. 
 The animal has just struck, and is following it, though not 
 fast. For a strap around its neck, with a cord attached, and 
 held in Clancy's hand, keeps it in check, while another buc led 
 about its jaws hinders it from giving tongue. Roth precau- 
 tions show Clancy's determination to take pains with the game 
 he is pursuing, and not again give it a chance to get away. 
 Twice has his mother's murderer escaped him. It will uot 
 be so a third time. 
 
 They arc trailing in darkness, else he would not need assisi 
 ance from the dog. For it is only a short while since his 
 separation ir >m the party that went on to the Mission. Soon 
 as gi tting into their saddles, Clancy and his faithful follower 
 struck into the timber, at the point where Darke was seen to 
 enter, and they are now fairly on his tracks. In the obscurity 
 they cannot see them ; but the behaviour of the hound tells 
 they are there. 
 
BRASFORT. -75 
 
 " Yes ; Brasfort's ou it uow,'' says Clancy, calling the ani- 
 mal by a name long ago bestowed upon it. 
 
 " He's on it strong, Jupe. I can tell by the way he tugs 
 upon the string." 
 
 "All right, Masser Charle. Give him plenty head. Let 
 him well out. Guess we can keep up with him. An' the 
 sooner we overtake the nigger whipper, the better it be for us, 
 an' the worser for him. Pity you let him go. If you'd 
 loved Mass Woodley to shoot down his boss " 
 
 " Never mind about that. You'll see himself shot down 
 ere long, or " 
 
 " Or what, masser ? " 
 
 " Me ! : ' 
 
 " Lor forbid ! If I ever see that, there's another goes 
 down long side you ; either the slave catcher or the slave." 
 
 " Thauks, my brave f llow ! I know you mean it. But now 
 to our work ; and let us be silent. He may not have gone 
 far, and's still skulking in this tract of timber. If so, he 
 stands a chance to hear us. Speak only in a whisper." 
 
 Thus instructed, Jupe makes a gesture to signify com- 
 pliance ; Clancy turning his attention to the hound. 
 
 By this, Brasfort is all eagerness, as can be told by the 
 quick vibration of his tail, and spasmodic action of the body. 
 A soimd also proceeds from his lips, an attempt at baying ; 
 which, but for the confining muzzle would make the forest 
 echoes ring around. Stopped by this his note can be heard 
 only a short distance off, uot far enough for them to have any 
 fear. If they but get so near the man they are in chase of, 
 they will surely overtake him. 
 
 In confidence the trackers keep ou ; but obstructed by the 
 close standing trunks, with thick underwood between, they 
 make but slow progress. They are more than an hour in 
 getting across the timbered tract; a distance that should not 
 have taken quarter the time. 
 
 At length, arriving on its edge, they make stop ; Clancy draw- 
 ing back the dog. Looking across the plain he sees that, 
 which tells him the instinct of the animal will be no longer 
 needed — at least for a time. 
 
 The moon, shilling upon the meadow grass, shows a list 
 differently shaded; where the tall culms have been bent down 
 and crushed by the hoof of some heavy quadruped, that has 
 made its way amidst them. And recently too, as Clancy, 
 skilled in tracking, can tell ; knowing, also, it is the track of 
 Dick Darke's horse. 
 
THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 •• You see it I" he says, pointing to the lighter shaded line. 
 " That's the assassin's trail. lie's gone out here, and 
 111 across the bottom. He's made for the bluff yonder. 
 From this he's been putting his animal to speed ; gone in a 
 gallop, as the stretch between the tracks show. He may go 
 that way, or any other, 'twill make no difference in the end. 
 He fancies himself clever, but for all his cleverness he'll not 
 escape me now." 
 
 " I hope not, Masser Charle ; an' don't think he will ; don't 
 see how he can." 
 
 " He can't." 
 
 For some time Clancy is silent, appare ntly absorbed in 
 serious reflection. At length, he says to his follower : — 
 
 " Jupe, my boy, in your time you have suffered much your- 
 self, and should know something of what it is to feci vengeful. 
 But not a vengeance like mine. That you can't undertaud, 
 and perhaps may think me cruel." 
 
 " You, Masser Charle !" 
 
 " I don't remember ever having done a harsh thing in my 
 life, or hurt to anyone not deserving it." 
 
 "I am sure you never did, masser." 
 
 "My dealing with this man may seem an exception. For 
 sure as I live, I'll kill him, or he shall kill me." 
 
 " There'd be no cruelty in that. He deserve die, if ever 
 man did." 
 
 " He shall. I've sworn it — you know when and where. My 
 poor mother sent to an untimely grave ! Her spirit seems now 
 speaking to me — iirging me to keep my oath. Let us on!" 
 
 They spur out into the moonlight, and off over the open 
 plain, the hound no longer in the lead. His nose is not 
 needed now. The slot of Darke's gallopin o con- 
 
 spicuous they can clearly see it, though going fast as did he. 
 
 Half an hour at this rapid pace, and they are again under 
 shadow. It is that of the bluff, so dark they can no longer 
 make out the hoof-marks of the retreating horseman. 
 
 For a time they are stayed, while once more leashing the 
 hound, and setting it upon the scent. 
 
 Brasfort lifts it with renewed spirit; and, keeping in advance, 
 conducts them to an opening in the wall of rock. It is the 
 entrance to a gorge going upward. They can perceive a 
 trodden path, upon which are the hoof-prints of many horses, 
 apparently an hundred of them. 
 
 Clancy dismounts to examine them. He takes note, that 
 they are of horses unshod ; though there are some with the 
 
BIUSFORT. -77 
 
 iron on. Most of them are fresh, among others of older date. 
 Those recently made have the convexity of the hoof turned 
 towards the river. Whoever rode these horses came down the 
 gorge, and kept on for the crossing. He has no doubt, but 
 that they are the same, whose tracks were observed in the 
 slough, and at the ford — now known to have been made by the 
 freebooters. As these have come down the glen, in all likeli- 
 hood they will go up it in return. 
 
 The thought should deter him from proceeding farther in 
 that direction. 
 
 But it does not. He is urged on by his oath — by a deter- 
 mination to keep it at all cost. He fancies Darke cannot be 
 far ahead, and trusts to overtaking, and settling the affair, 
 before his confederates come up. 
 
 Reflecting thus, he enters the ravine, and commences 
 ascending its slope, Jupiter and Brasfort following. 
 
 On reaching the upland plain, they have a different light 
 around, from that below on the bottom-land. The moon is 
 clouded over, but her silvery sheen is replaced by a gloaming 
 of grey. There are streaks of bluish colour, rose tinted, along 
 the horizon's edge. It is the dawn, for day is just breaking. 
 
 At first Clancy is gratified by a sight, so oft gladdening 
 hearts. Daylight will assist him in his search. 
 
 Soon, he thinks otherwise. Sweeping his eyes over the up- 
 land plain, he sees it is sterile and treeless. A thin skirting 
 of timber runs along the bluff edge ; but elsewhere all is.open, 
 except a solitary grove at no great distance off. 
 
 The rendezvous of the robbers would not be there, but 
 in> >re likely on the other side of the arid expanse. Noting 
 a trail which leads outwards, he suspects the pursued man to 
 have taken it. But to follow in full daylight may not only 
 defeat all chance of overtaking him, but expose them to the 
 danger of capture by the freebooters coming in behind. 
 
 Clancy c ists h's eye across the plain, then back towards the 
 bottom-land. He begins to repent his imprudence in having 
 ventured up the pass. But now to descend might be more 
 dangerous than to stay. There is danger either way, and in 
 every direction. So thinking, he says : 
 
 " I fear, Jupe, we've been going too fast, and it may be too 
 far. If we encounter these desperadoes, I needn't tell you 
 we'll be in trouble. What ought we to do, think you " 
 
 •• Well Masser Charle, I don't jest know. Fse a stranger on 
 these Texas praries. If 'twar in a Massissip swamp. I might 
 be better able to advise. Hyar I'se all in a quandairy." 
 
27S TIIK DEATB SHOT. 
 
 " If we go back we may meet them in the teeth. Beaidi -, 
 I shan't — can't now. I must keep on, till I've set eyes on 
 ]>ick Darke." 
 
 '■ W'.ll. Masser Charle, a'pose we lie hi'l durin' the 'lay, an' 
 truck him after night? The ole dog sure take up the scent 
 fir good twenty-four hours to come. There's :i bunch '>f trees 
 out yonner, that'll give us a hidin' place ; an' if the thieves go 
 pasi this way. we sure see 'em. They no see us there." 
 
 " But if they go past, it will he all over. I could have little 
 hope of finding him alone. Along with them he would " 
 
 Clancy speaks as if in soliloquy. 
 
 Abruptly changing tone, he continues: — 
 
 "No, Jupe; we must go on, now. I'll take the risk, if 
 you're not afraid to follow me." 
 
 •• Masser Charle, I ain't afraid. I'se told you I follow you 
 anywhere — to death if you need me die. I'se tell you that 
 over again." 
 
 " And again thanks, my faithful friend ! We won't talk of 
 death, till we've come up with l>ick Darke. Then you shall 
 see it one way or other. He, or I, hasn't many hours to live. 
 Come, Brasfort ! you're wanted once more." 
 
 Saying this, he lets the hound ahead, still keeping hold of 
 the cord. 
 
 Before long, Brasfort shows signs that he h:is again caught 
 scent. His ears crisp up, while his whole body quivers along 
 the spinal column from neck to tail. There is a streak of the 
 bloodhound in the animal; and never did dog of this kind 
 make after a man, who more deserved hunting by a hound. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIX. 
 
 SHADOWS BEHIND. 
 
 jjHEN once more upon the trail of the man he intends 
 killing, Clancy keeps on after his hound, witli eager 
 itching every movement of the animal. That 
 Brasfort is dead upon the scent can be told by his 
 excited action, and earnest whimpering. 
 
 All at once he is checked up, his master drawing him back 
 with sudden abruptness. 
 
SHADOWS BLHIXD. 279 
 
 The dog appears surprised at first, so does Jupiter. The 
 latter, looking round, discovers the cause : something which 
 moves upon the plain, already observed by Clancy. Not 
 clearly seen, for it is still dark. 
 
 •• What goes yonder?" he asks, eagerly scanning it, with 
 hands over his eyes. 
 
 "It don't go, Masser Charle, whatever it is. Dat thing 
 'pears comin'." 
 
 " You're right. It is moving in this direction. A dust 
 cloud; something made it. Ah! horses! Are there men on 
 their backs] No. Bah ! it's but a drove of mustangs. I came 
 near taking them for Comanches; not that we need care. Just 
 now the red gentry chance to be tied by a treaty, and are not 
 likely to harm us. We've more to fear from fellows with white 
 skins. Yes. the wild horses are heading our way ; scouring 
 along as ii all the Indians in Texas were after them. What 
 does that signify ? Something, I take it." 
 
 Jupiter cannot say. He is, as he has confessed, inex- 
 perienced upon the prairies, ill understanding their " sign." 
 However well acquainted with the craft of the forest, up in 
 everything pertaining to timber, upon the treeless plains of 
 Texas, an old prarie man would sneeriugly pronounce him a 
 "greenhorn." 
 
 Clancy, knowing this, scarce expects reply ; or, if so, with 
 little hope of explanation. 
 
 He does not wait for it, having himself discovered why the 
 wild horses are going at such a rate. Besides the dust 
 stirred up by their hooves, is another cloud rising in the sky 
 beyond. The black belt juBt looming along the horizon pro- 
 claims the approach of a " norther." The scared horses are 
 heading southward, in the hope to escape it. 
 
 They come in full career towards the spot where the two 
 have pulled up — along a hue parallel to the trend of the cliff, 
 at some distance from its edge. Neighing, snorting, with 
 tossed manes, and streaming tails, they tear past, and are 
 soon wide away on the other side. 
 
 Clancy keeping horse and hound in check, waits till they 
 are out of sight. Then sets Brasfort back upon the scent, from 
 which he so unceremoniously jerked him. 
 
 Though without dent of hoof on the dry parched grass, the 
 hound easily retakes it, straining on as before. 
 
 But he is soon at fault, losing it. They have come upon 
 the tracks of the mustangs, these having spoiled the scent — 
 killed it. 
 
280 THE DKATI1 Slid. 
 
 Clancy, halting, sits dissatisfied in the saddle ; Jupiter 
 sharing hie dissatisfaction. 
 
 What arc they to do now? The mulatto suggests crossing 
 the ground trodden bj the mustangs, and trying on the other 
 side. 
 
 To this Clancy consents. It is the only course that seems 
 rational. 
 
 \ in ring forward, thej pass over the beaten turf; aud, 
 
 Letting Brasfort alone, look to hint. The hound strikes ahead, 
 quartering. 
 
 Not long till the vibration of his tail tells he is once more 
 on the scent. 
 
 Now .stiller than ever, and leading in a straight line. He 
 goes direct for the copse of timber, which is now only a very 
 short distance off, 
 
 Again Clancy draws the dog in, at the same time reining up 
 his horse. 
 
 Jupe has done the same with his mule; and both bend their 
 eyes upon the copse — the grove of black-jack oaks — scanning 
 it with glances of inquiry. If Clancy but knew what is within, 
 how in a glade near its centre, is the man they are seeking, 
 lie would no longer tarry for Brasfort's trailing, but letting g 
 the leash altogether, and leaping from his horse, rush in among 
 the trees, and bring to a speed} - reckoning him, to whom 
 he owes so much misery. 
 
 Richard Darke dreams not of the danger so near him. He 
 is in a deep sleep — the dreamless, helpless slumber of intoxi 
 cation. 
 
 But alike near danger threatens Clancy himself, of which he 
 is uneonscious. With face towards the copse, aud eyes eagerly 
 scrutinizing it, he thinks not of looking behind. 
 
 By the way his hound still behaves, there must be some- 
 thing within the grove. What can it be? He does not 
 ask the question. He suspects — is, indeed, almost certain — 
 his enemy is that something. Muttering to the mulatto, who 
 has come close alongside, he says : — 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder, Jupe, if we've reached our journey's 
 end. Look at Brasfort ! See how he strains 1 There's man 
 or beast among those black-jacks — both I take it." 
 
 "Looks like, masser." 
 
 "Yes; I think we'll there find what we're searching fir. 
 Strange, too, his makiug no show. I can't see sign of a move- 
 ment." 
 
 " No more I." 
 
SHADOWS BEHIND. 281 
 
 " Asleep, perhaps ? It won't do for us to go any nearer, 
 till sure. He's had the advantage of me too ofteu before. I 
 can't afford giving it again. Ha ! what's that 1 ?" 
 
 The dog has suddenly slewed round, and sniffs in the oppo- 
 site direction. Clancy and Jupe, turning at the same time, see 
 that which draws their thoughts from Richard Darke, driv- 
 ing him altogether out of their minds. 
 
 Their faces are turned towards the east, where the Aurora 
 re Idena the sky, and against its bright background several 
 horsemen are seen en silhouette, their number each instant 
 increasing. Some are already visible from crown to hoof; 
 others show only to the shoulders; while the heads of others can 
 just be distinguished surmounting the crest of the cliff. In 
 the spectacle there is no mystery, nor anything that needs 
 explanation. Too well does Charles Clancy comprehend it. 
 A troop of mounted men approaching up the pass, to all ap- 
 pearance Indians, returning spoil-laden from a raid on some 
 frontier settlement. But in reality white men, outlawed des- 
 peradoes, the band of Jim Borlassc, long notorious throughout 
 Soul h-Western Texas. 
 
 One by one, they ascend en echellon, as fiends through a 
 stage-trap in some theatric scene, showing faces quite as 
 Satanic. Each, on arriving at the summit, rides into line 
 alongside their leader, already up and halted. And on they 
 come, till nineteen can be counted upon the plain. 
 
 Clancy does not care to count them. There could be no- 
 thing gained by that. He sees there are enough to make 
 resistance idle. To attempt it were madness. 
 
 And must he submit 1 There seems no alternative. 
 
 There is for all that; one he is aware of — flight. His horse is 
 strong and swift. For both these qualities originally chosen, 
 and later designed to be used for a special purpose — pursuit. 
 Is the noble animal now to be tried in a way never intended 
 — retreat ? 
 
 Although that dark frowning phalanx, at the summit of the 
 pass, would seem to answer "yes," Clancy determines " no." 
 Of himself he could still escape — and easily. In a stretch 
 over that smooth plain, not a horse in their troop would stand 
 the slightest chance to come up with him, and ho could soon 
 leave all out of sight. But then, he must needs also leave be- 
 hind the faithful retainer, from wh se lips has just issued a 
 declaration of readiness to follow him to the death. 
 
 He cannot, will not; and if he thinks of flight, it is instinc- 
 tively, and but for an instant ; the thought abandoned as he 
 
282 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 turns towards the mulatto, and gives a glance at the mule. 
 On his horse he could yet ride away from the robbers, hut the 
 slow-footed hybrid bars all hope fur Jupiter. The absconding 
 slave were certain to be caught, now; and slave or free, the 
 colour of his skin would ensure him cruel treatment from the 
 lawless crew. 
 
 But what better himself taken 1 How can he protect p«or 
 Jupe, his own freedom -his life — equally imperilled 1 For 
 he has no doubt but that Borlasse will remember, and 
 rec gnize, him. It is barely twelve months since he stood 
 beside that whipping-post in the town of Nacogd'iches, and 
 saw the ruffian receive chastisement for the stealing of his 
 horse — the same he is now sitting upon. No fear of the horse- 
 thief having forgotten that episode of his life. 
 
 He can have no doubt but that Borlasse will retaliate; that 
 this will be his 6rst thought, soon as seeing him. It needs 
 not for the robber chief to knuw what has occurred by the 
 big oa.k ; that Bosley is a prisoner, Quantrell a fugitive, their 
 prisoners released, and on their way back to the Mission. It 
 is not likely he dues know, as yet. But too likely he will 
 soon learn. For Darke will be turning up ere long, and every- 
 will be made clear. Then to the old anger of Borlasse 
 for i lie affair of the scourging, will be added new rage, while 
 that of Darke himself will be desperate. 
 
 In truth, the prospect is appalling; and Charles Clancy, 
 almost as much as ever in his life, feels that life in peril. 
 
 Could he look into the courtyard of the San Saba Mission, 
 
 ill see what is there, he might think it even more so. 
 
 Without that, there is sufficient to shake his resolution about 
 
 standing his ground; enough to make him spur away from 
 
 the spot, and leave Jupiter to his fate. 
 
 " No — never !" he mentally exclaims, closing all reflection. 
 " As a coward I could not live. If I must die, it shall be 
 bravely. Fear not, Jupel We stand or fall together I'' 
 
 t>c>Gs<5"<M!fcS>'c>-=>^»-J 
 
CHAPTEB I.XX. 
 
 SURROUNDED AND DISARMED. 
 
 jjORLASSE, riding it the head of his band, has been 
 the first to arrive at the upper end of the gorge. 
 
 Perceiving some figures upon the plain, lie sup- 
 poses them to be Quantrell and Bosley with the 
 captives. For his face is toward the west, where the sky is 
 still night-shadowed, and he can but indistinctly trace the 
 outlines of horses and men. As their number corresponds to 
 that of his missing comrades, he has no thought of its being 
 other than they. How could he, as none other are likely to 
 be encountered there ? 
 
 Congratulating himself on his suspicions of the lieutenant's 
 defection proving unfounded, and that he will now clutch the 
 prize 1 i. he jives his horse the spur, and rides 
 
 gaily out of the gorge. 
 
 Not till then does he perceive that the men before him are 
 in civilized costume, and that but one is on horseback, the 
 other bestriding u mule. And they have no captives, the 
 only other thing seen beside them being a dog ! 
 
 They ari t Qu utrell and Bosley ! 
 
 " Who can they be?" he asks "f (,'hisholm, who has closed 
 up behind him. 
 
 "Hanged if I know, cap. Judgiu' by their toggery, they 
 must be whites; though 'gainst that dark sky one can't make 
 sure about the colour of their hides. A big dog with them. 
 A couple of trappers I take it: or, more likely, Mexican mus- 
 t angers." 
 
 " Not at all likely, Luke. There's noneo' them 'bout here ; 
 at least I've not heard of any since we came this side the Colo- 
 rado. Cannot be that. I wonder who " 
 
 " No use wonderin', cap. We can soon settle the point by 
 questioning them. As there's but the two, they'll have to tell 
 who they are. or t;ike the consequences." 
 
 By this, the other robbers have come up out of the ravine. 
 Baited in a row, abreast, they also scan the two figures in 
 
 21 
 
28-1 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 front, interrogating one another as to who and what they are. 
 All are alike surprised at men there, mounted or afoot; more 
 especially white men, as by their garb they musl be. But 
 they have no apprehension at the encounter, seeing there are 
 so few. 
 
 The chief, acting on Chishohn's suggestion, moves confi- 
 dently forward, the others, in like confidence, following. 
 
 In less than sixty seconds they are up to the spot occupied 
 by Clancy and Jupiter. 
 
 Borlasse can scarce believe his eyes ; and rubs them to 
 make sure they are no! deceiving him. If not they, 
 thing else has been — a newspaper report, and a tale told by 
 one confessing himself a murderer, boastfully proclaiming it. 
 And now, before him is the murdered man, on horseback, 
 firmly seated in the saddle, apparetuly in perfect health ! 
 
 The desperado is speechless with astonishment — only mut- 
 tering to himself: — "What the devil's this \" 
 
 Were the question addressed to his comrades, they cotdd 
 not answer it ; though none of them share his astonishment, 
 or can tell what is causing it. All they know is that two men 
 are in their midst, one white, the other a mulatto, but who 
 either is they have not the slightest idea. They see that the 
 white man is a handsome young fellow — evidently a gentle- 
 man — bestriding a steed which some of them already regard 
 with covetous glances ; while he on the mule has the bearing 
 of a body-servant. 
 
 None of them has ever met or seen Clancy before, nor yet 
 the fugitive slave. Their leader alone knows the first, too 
 much of him, though nothing of the last. But no matter 
 about the man of yellow skin. He with the white one is his 
 chief concern. 
 
 Recovering from his first surprise, he turns his thoughts to- 
 wards solving the enigma. Ho is not long before reaching its 
 solution. He remembers that the newspaper report said : 
 '■ the body of the murdered man has not been found." Ergo, 
 Charles Clancy hasn't been killed after all ; for there he is, 
 alive, and life-like as an}- man among them; mounted upon a 
 steed which Jim Borlasse remembers well — as well as he does 
 its master. To forget the animal would be a lapse of memory- 
 altogether unnatural. There are weals on the robber's back, 
 — a souvenir of chastisement received for stealing that horse, 
 — scai-s cicatrized, but never to be effaced. 
 
 Deeper still than the brand on his body has sunk the record 
 into his soul. He was more than disappointed — enraged — on 
 
SURROUNDED AND DISARMED. 285 
 
 heaving that Richard Darke had robbed him of a premeditated 
 vengeance. For be knew Clancy was again returning to 
 Texas, and intended taking it on his return. Now, discover- 
 ing he has not been forestalled, seeing his prosecutor there, 
 unexpectedly in his power, the glance he gives to him is less 
 like that of man than demon. 
 
 His followers take note that there is a strangeness in his 
 manner, but refrain from questioning him about it. He 
 in one of his moods, when they know it is not safe to 
 intrude upon, or trifle with him. In his belt he carries a 
 •■ Colt," which more than once has silenced atoo free-speakiug 
 subordinate. 
 
 Having surrounded the two strangers, in obedience to his 
 gesture, they await further instructions how to deal with them. 
 
 His first impulse is to make himself known to Clancy; then 
 indulge in an ebullition of triumph over his prisoner. But 
 a thought restraining him, he resolves to preserve his incog- 
 nito a little longer. Under his Indian travestie he fancies 
 Clancy cannot, and has not, recognized him. Nor is it likely 
 he weiuld have done so, but for the foreknowledge obtained 
 through Bosley. Even now only by his greater bulk is the 
 guishable among his subordinates, all their 
 faces being alike fantastically disfigured. 
 
 Drawing back behind his followers, he whispers some words 
 to Chisholni, instructing him what is to be done, as also to 
 take direction of it. 
 
 " Give up yer guns !" commands the latter, addressing him- 
 self to the strangers. 
 
 " Why should we V asks Clancy. 
 
 "We want no cross-questionin', Mister. 'Tain't the place 
 for sech, nor the time, as you'll soon lam. Give up yer guns ! 
 Right quick, or you'll have them taken from ye, in a way you 
 won't like." 
 
 Clancy still hesitates, glancing hastily around the ring of 
 mounted men. He is mad at having permitted himself to be 
 taken prisoner, for he knows he is this. He regrets not having 
 galloped off while there was yet time. It is too late now. 
 There is not a break in the enfilading circle through which he 
 make a dash. Eveu if there were, what chance ulti- 
 mately to escape? None whatever. A score of guns and 
 la are around him, ready to be discharged should he 
 attempt to stir from the spot. Some of them are levelled, 
 heir barrels bearing upon him. It would be instant death, 
 nd madness in him to seek it so. He but says : — 
 
286 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 " Wli.it have we done, thai j >u should disarm usl Von 
 appi ir to be Indians, yet talk the white man's tongue. In 
 ise, and whoever you are. we have no quarrel with you. 
 Why should you wish bo make us prisoners'!" 
 
 "We don't do anything of the sort. That would be wastin' 
 wishes, You're our pris'ners already." 
 
 It is Chisholm who thus facetiously speaks, adding in 
 sterner tone : — 
 
 " Let go yer guns, or, by G— l out i if y >ur 
 
 saddles. Hoys! in upon 'em, and take the 
 
 Ar the command several of the robb 
 forward, and, closing upon Clancy, seize him from all 
 others serving Jupiter the same. Bo istance 
 
 were worse than folly — sheer insanity — and thai there is no 
 alternative but submit. 
 
 Their arms are wrested from them, tl Mowed 
 
 to retain possession of their animals. Tha re I it 
 
 in their saddles — compelled to stay in them by ropes rove 
 1 their ankles, attaching them to the stirrup-leathers. 
 
 Whatever punishment awaits them, that is not the place 
 where they are to sillier it. For, sooni 
 secured, the band is again formed into files, 
 it to continue the march, so unexpectedly, aud to him satisfac- 
 torily, interrupted. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXI. 
 
 A PATHLESS PLAIN. 
 
 j|HE plain across which the freebooters are now jour- 
 neying, on return to what they call their "rendy- 
 voo," is one of a kind common in South-western 
 Texas. An arid steppe, or table-land, by the Mexi- 
 cans termed mesa; for the most part treeless, or only with 
 such arborescence as characterises the American desert. 
 " Me^quite," a. name bestowed on several trees of the acacia 
 kind, " black-jack," a dwarfed species of oak, with Prosopis, 
 Fouqyiera, and other spinous shrubs, are here and there found 
 in thickets called " chapparals," interspersed with the more 
 succulent vegetation of cactus and agave, as also the yucca, or 
 dragon-tree of the Western Hemisphere. 
 
A PATHLESS PLAIN. 
 
 287 
 
 In this particular section of it almost every tree and plant 
 thorns. Even certain grasses are armed with prickly 
 . and sting the hand that touches them ; while the 
 reptiles crawling among thorn are of the most venomous 
 es ; scorpions and centipedes, with snakes having ossi- 
 fied tails, and a frog furnished with horns! The last, how- 
 ever, though vulgarly believed to be a batrachian, is in reality 
 1 crd — the Agam 
 
 This plain, extending over thirtj miles from east to west, 
 and twice the distance in a longitudinal direction, has on one 
 side the valley of the San Sal creeks 
 
 tributary to the Colorado. On one of these the prairie pirates 
 home, or haunt, to which they retire only on particular 
 Hid for special pur loses. 
 this kind they are now en routt for it. 
 
 Its locality has been selected with fety. which 
 
 it serves to perfection. A marauding party pursued from the 
 lower settlements of the ( 'he valley of 
 
 i. and then taking plain, 
 
 would be sure to throw too pursuers oil' their tracks, since 
 on the table-land none are Kit throughout long stretches 
 even the iron heel of a horsi ao dent in the dry 
 
 turf, nor leaves the slightest imprint. At one place in parti- 
 cular, just after striking this plain from the San Saba side, there 
 is a broad belt, altogether with' i pon its 
 
 surface, the ground being covered witi whal 'In 1 trappers call 
 "cui rock," presenting the appearance of a freshly macadamised 
 road. Extending for more than a mile in width, and ten times 
 a- much lengthways, it is a tract no traveller would c 
 
 enter on who has aiiv solicitude aboul th ! hooves of his horse. 
 But just for this reason is it in every respect suitable to 
 the prairie pirates. The}- may cross it empty-handed, 
 anil recross laden with spoil, without the pursuers being 
 able to discover whence they came, or whither they have 
 
 ral times has this happened ; settlers having come up 
 the Colorado in pursuit of a marauding party — supposed to be 
 
 i '.. I:.: i' tracked them into the San Sabs bottom- 
 
 ed on over the blufi there to lose their trail, and retire 
 : from the pursuit. 
 
 Across this stony stretch proceed the freebooters, leaving no 
 mor • trace behind, than one would walking on a shingled sea- 
 beach. 
 
 Dili i Age they make stop to take bearings. For 
 
288 1 III-. DEATH SHOT. 
 
 although they have more than once passed thai way 1" :■ 
 
 mte w bicb alwaj a i be 1 raver ed w il h caution. 
 
 To gel strayed on the inhospitable steppe would be atto 
 inger, and might result in d< ath. 
 
 In clear weather, to those acquainted with the trail, there 
 is little chance of losing it. For midway between the 
 courses runs a ridge, bisecting the steppe in a longitudinal 
 direction : and on the crest of this is a tree, which can b 
 from afar off on i ither 3ide. The ridge is of no greal 
 in, n, and would scai rvablebutfoi I I level 
 
 from which it rise mi comb upon the plain, such 
 known northward by the term coteau de prairi — a title 
 bestowed by trappers of French descent. 
 
 The tree stands le a tiny spring, which hubbies 
 
 tween its ri its. This, trickling off, soon sinks into the 
 desert sand, disappearing within a few yards ol thi '.'here 
 
 it has burst forth. 
 
 In such situation both tree and fountain are strange; 
 _li the one will account for the other, the fo] 
 o the latter. But still another agency is needed to 
 explain the existence i f the tree. For it is a " cottonwood " — 
 a species not found elsewhere upon the same plain : il 
 no doubl transported thither by some straying bird. Dropped 
 by the side of the spring in soil congenial, it has sprouted up, 
 flourished, and become a tall tree. Conspicuotis for long 
 leagues around, it serves the prairie pirates as a finger-post to 
 direct them across the sti pp£ ; for by chance it stands right 
 on their route, it is visible from the edge of the p< ' 
 strewn tract, but only when there is a cloudless sky and shin- 
 ing sun. Now, the one is clouded, the other unseen, and the 
 tree cannot be distinguished. 
 
 For some minutes the robbers remain halted, but without 
 dismounting. Seated in the saddle, they strain their eyes 
 along the horizon to the west. 
 
 The Fates favour them; as in this world is too often the 
 case with wicked men, notwithstanding man}- saws to the 
 contrary. The sun shoots from behind a cloud, scattering his 
 golden gleams broad and bright over the surface of the plain. 
 
 Only for an instant, but enough to show the cottonw 1 
 
 standing solitary on the crest of the ridge. 
 
 "Thank the Lord for that glimp o' light!" exclaims Bor- 
 lasse, catching sight of the tree " Now, boys ; we see our 
 beacon, an' let's straight to it. When we've got thar I'll 
 show ye a bit of sport as '11 make ye laugh till there wont 
 
THE PRAIRIE STOCKS. 289 
 
 lie ;i whole rib left in your bodies, nor a button on your coats 
 — if ye bad coats on." 
 
 With this absurd premonition he presses on — his scattered 
 troop reforming, an 1 following. 
 
 — z^a-XSPS** — 
 CHAPTER LXXII. 
 
 THE PRAIRIE STOCKS. 
 
 ITLEXT is Clancy, sullen as a tiger just captured and 
 encaged. As the moments pass, and he listens to 
 the lawless speech of his captors, in. ire than ever is 
 he vexed with himself for having so tamely sub- 
 mitted to be taken. 
 
 Though as yet no special inhumanity has been shown him, 
 he knows there will ere long. Coarse jests bandied between 
 the robbers, whispered inuendos, forewarn him of some fearful 
 punishment about to be put upon him. Only its a 
 remains unknown. 
 
 He does not think they intend killing him outright. He 
 has overheard one of his guards muttering to the other, that 
 such is not the chief's intention, adding some words which 
 make the assurance little consolatory. "Worse than death" 
 is the fragment of a sentence borne ominously to his ears. 
 
 Worse than death ! Is it to be torture? 
 
 During all this time Borlasse has not declared himself, or 
 given token of having recognised his prisoner. But Clancy 
 can tell he has done so. He saw it in the Satanic glance of 
 his eye as they tirst came face to face. Since, the robber has 
 studiously kept away from him, riding at the head of the line, 
 place in its centre. 
 
 On arrival at the underwood, all dismount; but only to 
 slake their thrist, as that of their horses. The spring is un- 
 approachable by the animals ; and leathern buckets are called 
 into requisition. With these, and other marching apparatus, 
 the freebooters are provided. While one by one the horses 
 are being watered, Borlasse draws off to some distance, 
 beckoning Chisholm to follow him; and for a time the two 
 seem engaged in earnest dialogue, as if in discussion. The 
 chief promised his followers a spectacle, — a " bit of sport " 
 
290 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 as ho facetiously termed it. Clancy baa been forecasting 
 ire, but in his worst fear of it could not conceive any so 
 terrible as that in Btore for him. It is in truth a cruelty in- 
 conceivable, worthy .1 savage, or Satan himself. Made known 
 t 1 ( 'In holm, though hardened this outlaw's hi art, he at first 
 shrinks from assisting in its execution — even venturing to 
 
 But Borlassi is inexorable. He has no feel 
 I 1 the man who was once the cause oi made 
 
 to wince under the whip. His vengeance is implacable : and 
 will only b ed b '1 that flesh 
 
 can. By devilish ingenuity ho has contrived a scheme to 
 intent, and will carry it out regardless of consequei 
 
 So says he, in answer to the somewhat niild remonstrance of 
 his subordinate. 
 
 "Well, cap," rejoins the latter, yielding, "if yo 
 determined to have it that way. why, have it. But let 
 leetle privater than you'vi By makin' it a public 
 
 spectacl in' all our fellars into your feelins, e 
 
 'cm mightn't be so much amused. An some might get to 
 blabbin about it afterwards, in such a way as to breed trouble. 
 The originality an' curiousness o' the thing would be sure to 
 
 1' the report o't would run throu h all T. : 
 like a prairie on fire. "I'v. I 1 as lot there's a 
 
 left in the land; and sure as sho .tin we'd have the 
 
 Regulators hot after us. Tin 
 bit 0' interment, take my advice, and let the ceremony 
 be confined to a few friends as can be trusted wi' a 
 
 For some seconds Borlasse is silent, pondering upon what 
 Chisholm has said. Then responds : — 
 
 "Guess you're about right, Luke. I'll do as you suggest. 
 Best way will be to send the boys on ahead. There's three 
 can stay with us we can trust — Watts, Stocker. and Dri 1 ill. 
 They'll be enough to do the gravedigging. The n 31 can go 
 on to the rendezvous. Comrades!" he adds, moving hick 
 towards his men, who have just finished watering their horses, 
 " I spoke o' some sport I intended givin' you here. On second 
 thinkin' it'll be better defarred till we get to head-quarters. 
 So into your saddles and ride on thar — takin' the yeller fellow 
 along wi' ye. The other I'll look after myself. You, Luke 
 Chisholm,' star; with Watts, Stocker, and Driscoll: I've got a 
 reason for remaining here a little longer. We'll soon be 
 after, like enough overtake ye 'fore you can reach the creek. 
 It not, keep on to camp without us. An', boysj once more, I 
 
THE PRAIRIE STOCKS. 291 
 
 warn yc about openin' them boxes. I know what's in them 
 •liar. Fernand! you'll sec to that." 
 The half-blood, of taciturn habit, nods assent, Borlasse 
 
 2 : — 
 ■• Now, you d — d rascals! jump into your saddles and be off. 
 Jong. Leave the white gentleman in better 
 him." 
 With a yell of laughter at the coarse sally, the freebooters 
 spring upon their horses. Then, separating Clancy from 
 Jupe, they ride off. taking the latter. On the ground arc 
 left only the chief. Chisholm, and the trio chosen to assist at 
 some ceremony, mysteriously spoken of as an ' ; interment." 
 After all it is m it to be there. ( >n reflection, Borlasse deems 
 it befitting. The grave he is about to dig must not 
 be disturbed, nor the body he intends burying disinterred. 
 
 Though white traveller never passes that solitary tree, red 
 ones sometimes seek relaxation under its shade. Just possi- 
 ble a party of Comanches may some along; and though 
 irts might still be humane enough to frus- 
 trate the nefarious scheme of a white man more savage than 
 guard against such contingency Borlasse has be- 
 _ht him of some change in his programme, which he 
 ivn to Chisholm, saying: — 
 •• I won't bury him here, Luke. Some strayin' redskin 
 come along, and help him to resurrection. By G — d ! 
 he shan't have that, till he hear- I labrii I's trumpet. To make 
 ' him in a safer place." 
 Can I fer, cap 1 " 
 
 i ertainly we can." 
 ■• Bui - i. , 
 
 ■ Anywhare out o' sight of here. We shall take him to some 
 e off, so's they can't see him from the spring. Up 
 11 do." 
 nts to a part of the plain northward, adding: — 
 all alike which way, so long's we go far enough." 
 ■All right!" rejoins Chisholm, who has surrendered his 
 scruples about the cruelty of what they intend doing, and 
 only thinks of its being done without danger. 
 
 •■ Boys !" shouts Borlasse to the men in charge of Clancy, 
 '•'bring on your prisoner! Wer'e going to make a leetle 
 deflection* from the course — a bit o' a pleasure trip — only a 
 short on." 
 
 So saying, he starts off in a northerly direction, nearly 
 at right angles to that they have been hitherto travelling. 
 
292 THK DEATH SHOT. 
 
 After proceeding about a mile, the brigand 
 riding with Chisholm in the advanc •, comes to a halt, i 
 
 back to the others to do the same — also directing th 
 dismount their prisoner. 
 
 Clancy is unceremoniously jerked out of his saddle; and, 
 after having his arms pinioned, and limbs lashed together, laid 
 prostrate along the earth. This leaves them free foi 
 infernal task, they are now instructed to perform. Oni 
 Watts, stays with the prisoner; the other two, al the 
 chiefs command, coming on to where he and Chisholm have 
 halted. Then all four cluster around a Bpoi he points 
 giving directions what they are to do. 
 
 With the point of his spear Borlasse truces a circle 
 the turf, some twenty inches in diameter; then tells them to 
 dig inside it. 
 
 Stocker and Uriscoll draw their tomahawks, and commence 
 hacking at the ground; which, though hard, yields to 
 harder steel of hatchets manufactured forthe cutting of skulls. 
 As they make mould, it is removed by Chisholm with the 
 broad Made of his Comanche spear. 
 
 As all prairie men are accustomed to making ■ 
 are expert at this; and soon sink a shaft that would do 
 credit to the " crowing" of a South African Bosjesman, h 
 cylinder full five feet in depth, with a diameter of less than two. 
 
 I |i to this time its purpose has not been declared to either 
 Stocker, or Driscoll, though both have their conjectures. 
 They guess it to be the grave of him who is lying along the 
 earth — his living tomb ! 
 
 At length, deeming it deep enough, Borlasse commands 
 them to leave off work, adding, as he points to the prisoner : 
 
 " Now, plant your saplin ! If it don't grow there it ought 
 to." 
 
 The cold-blooded jest extorts a smile from the others, as 
 they proceed to execute the diabolical order. 
 
 And they do it without show of hesitation — rather with 
 alacrity. Not one of the five has a spark of compassion in his 
 breast — not one whose sou] is unstained with blood. 
 
 Clancy is dragged forward, and plunged feet foremost into 
 the cavity r . Standing upright, his chin is only an inch or 
 two above the surface of the ground. A portion of the loose 
 earth is pushed in, and packed around him, the ruffians 
 trampling it firm. What remains they kick and scatter aside : 
 the monster, with horrible mockery, telling them to make a 
 " neat job of it." 
 
TIIE PRAIRIE STOCKS. 
 
 293 
 
 During all this time Brasfort has been making ■wild demon- 
 
 os, struggling to tree himself, as if to rescue his master. 
 
 For he is also id to the stirrup of one of the robber's 
 
 Cut the behaviour of the faithful animal, instead of 
 
 Stirling them to compassion, only adds to their fiendish mirth. 
 
 The interment complete, Borlasse makes a sign totherest to 
 : then, placing himself in front, with arms akimbo, stands 
 looking i lancy straight in the face. No pen could paint that 
 glance. It can only be likened to that of Lucifer. 
 
 For a while he speaks not. but in silence exults over his 
 victim. Then, bending down and tossing back his plumed 
 bonnet, he asks. 
 
 " D'ye know me, Charley Clancy'?" 
 
 Receiving no reply, he continues, " I'll lay a hundred dollars 
 to one, ye will, after I've told ye a bit o' a story, the which re- 
 lates to a circumstance as happened jest twelve months ago. 
 The scene o' that affair was in the public square o' Xacodosh, 
 whar a man -was tied to a post an' 
 
 •• Whipped at it, as he deserved." 
 
 •• Ha ! " exclaims Borlasse, surprised, partly at being recog- 
 . hut as much by the daring avowal, " You do remember 
 thai Little matter 1 And me tool" 
 
 '• Perfectly ; so you may spare yourself the narration. You 
 are .Tim Boilasse, the biggest brute and most thorough 
 sci lundrel in Texas." 
 
 "Curse you!" cries the ruffian enraged, poising his spear 
 till its point almost touches Clancy's head, ' ; I feel like driving 
 this through your skull." 
 
 '•' Do so ! " is the defiant and desperate rejoinder. It is 
 what Clancy desires. He has no hope of life now. He 
 wishes death to come at once, and relieve him from the long 
 agony he will otherwise have to endure. 
 
 Q lick catching this to be his reason, Borlasse restrains him- 
 self, ami tosses up the spear, saying : — 
 
 •• No, Mister; ye don't die that eesy way — not if I know it. 
 You and yours kept me two days tied like a martyr to the 
 stake, to say nothin' of what came after. So to make up for't 
 111 give you a spell o' confinement that'll last a leetle longer. 
 You shall stay as ye are, till the buzzarts peck out your eyes, 
 an' the wolves peel the skin from your skull — aye, till the 
 worms go crawlin' through your flesh. How'll ye like that, 
 Charley Clancy?" 
 
 " There's no wolf or vulture on the prairiss of Texas ugly as 
 yourself. Dastardly dog ! " 
 
294 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 "Ah! you'd like to gel me angry? Bui you can't. I'm 
 
 1 as a cowkumber — ainl I I Your dander's up, I 
 
 Keep it down. No g ! your gettin' excited. I pose 
 
 like me to spit in your face. Well, here go 
 
 At t lii- he jtoo] '!"" ii and does as said Uterperpeti 
 tlio .nil rage, lie adds : — 
 
 " Why don't ye take oul pour haudkercher an' wipe ii 
 It's a pity t.. see such a handsome fellow wi 1 his face in that 
 fashion. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 His four confederates, standing apart, spectators of the 
 sci Me. echo his fiendish laughter. 
 
 ••Well, well, my proud gentleman;" he resum s, "to 
 man spit in your face without resentin' it ! 1 im s 
 to see you sunk so low. Humilitated up to the neck- I 
 chin! Ha ! ha! ha!" 
 
 Again rings out the brutal cachiunation, chorused by hi 
 followers. 
 
 In like manner the monster continues to taunt his hi 
 victim ; so long, oue might fancy his spite would be spei i 
 vengeance sated. 
 
 But no — not yet. There is still another arrow in his quiver 
 — a last shaft to lie shot — which he knows will carry a sting 
 keener than any yet sent. 
 
 When his men have remounted, and are ready to ride otf, he 
 returns to Clancy, and, stooping, hisses into his ear : — 
 
 "Like enough you'll be a goodish while alone here, an' 
 tharfore left to your reflections. Afore partin' company, let 
 me say somethiu' that may comfort you. Dick Darke's got your 
 girl; 'bout this time has her in his arms ! " 
 
 CHAPTER LXXIII. 
 
 HELPLESS AND HOPELESS. 
 
 " God ! " 
 
 Charles Clancy thus calls upon his Maker. Hitherto sus- 
 tained by indignation, now that the tormentor has left him, 
 the horror of his situation, striking into his soul in all its dread 
 reality, wrings from him the prayerful apostrophe. 
 
 A groan follows, as his glance goes searching over the plain. 
 For there is nothing to gladden it. His view commands the 
 half of a circle — a great circle such as surrounds you upon the 
 
HELrLESS AND HOPELESS. 29"> 
 
 sea; though not as seen from the cbck of a ship, but by one 
 lying along the thwarts of a boat, 01 afloat upon ;i raft. 
 
 The robbers have ridden out of sight, and lie knows they 
 will nut return. They have left him to die a lingering death, 
 almost as if entombed alive. Perhaps better he were enclosed 
 in a coffin : for theu Ids sufferings would sooner end. 
 
 He has not the slightest hope of being succoured. There is 
 no likelihood of human creature coming that way. It is a 
 sterile waste, without game to tempt the hunter, and though 
 a trail rims across it, Borlasse, with fiendish forethought, has 
 placed him so far from this, that no one travelling along it 
 could possibly see him. He can just descry the lone cotton- 
 wood afar off, outlined against the horizon like a ship at sea. 
 It is the only tree in sight : elsewhere not even a bush to 
 break the drear monotony of the desert. 
 
 He thinks of Simeon Woodley, Ned Heywood, and those 
 who may pursue the plunderers of the settlement. But 
 with hopes to" faint to be worth entertaining. For he has 
 been witness to the precautions taken by the robbers to blind 
 their trail, and knows that the most skilled tracker cannot 
 discover it. Chance alone could guide the pursuit in that 
 direction, if pursuit there is to lie. But even this is doubtful. 
 For Colonel Armstrong having recovered his daughters, and 
 i nly some silver stolen, the settlers may be loath to take 
 after the thieves, or postpone following them to some future 
 time. Clancy lias no knowledge of the sanguinary drama that 
 has been enacted at the Mission, else he would not reason 
 thus. Ignorant of it, he can •■nly be sure, that Sime Woodley 
 and Ned Heywood will come in quest of, but without much 
 likelihood of their finding them. No doubt they will search 
 for days, weeks, months, if need be; and in time, but too late, 
 discover — what ? His head 
 
 "Ha!" 
 
 His painful reflections are interrupted by that which but 
 intensifies their painfulness : a shadow he sees flitting across 
 the plain. 
 
 His eyes do not follow it. but. directed upward, go in search 
 of the thing which is causing it. 
 
 "A vulture !" 
 
 The foul bird is soaring aloft, its black body and broad 
 expanded wings outlined against the azure sky. For this is 
 again clear, the clouds and threatening storm having drifted 
 off without bursting. And now, while with woe in his look 
 he watches the swooping bird, well knowing the sinister signi- 
 
29G THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 ce of its flight, he sirs another; and another, and yet 
 >■■ r. till the firmament seems filled with tl 
 
 Again he groans out, "0 God !" 
 
 A new agony threatens, a new horror is upou him. Vain 
 the attempt to depict his feelings, as he regards the movements 
 of the vultures. They are as those of one swimming in the 
 amidst sharks. Fur, although the birds do not yet fly 
 towards him, he knows they 1 will soon I e there. He aees them 
 sailing in spiral curves, descending at each gyration, slowly 
 but surely stooping lower, and coming nearer. He can hear 
 tl wish of their wings, like the sough of an approaching 
 storm, with now and then a raucous utterance from their 
 throats — the signal of some leader directing the preliminaries 
 of the attack, soon to take place. 
 
 At length they are so close, he can see the ruff around 
 their naked necks, bristled up; the skin reddened as with rage,. 
 and their beaks, stained with bloody flesh of some other banquet, 
 getting ready to feast upon his. Soon he will feel them 
 striking against his skull, pecking out his eyes. 0, heavens ! 
 can horror be felt further 1 
 
 Not by him. It adds not to his, when he perceives that 
 the birds threatening to assail him will be assisted by beasts. 
 For he now sees this. Mingling with the shadows flitting over 
 the earth, are things more substantial — the bodies of wolves. 
 As with the vultures, at first only one; then two or three; 
 their number at each instant increasing, till a whole pack of 
 the predatory brutes have gathered upon the ground. 
 
 Less silent than their winged allies — their competitors, if it 
 come to a repast. For the coyote is a noisy creature, and 
 those now assembling around Clancy's head — a sight strange 
 to them — give out their triple bark, with its prolonged whine, 
 in sound so lugubrious, that, instead of preparing for attack, 
 one might fancy them wailing a defeat. 
 
 Clancy has often heard that cry, and well comprehends its 
 meaning. It seems his death-dirge. While listening to it, 
 no wonder he again calls upon God — invokes Heaven to help 
 him ! 
 
CHAPTER LXXIV. 
 
 COYOTE CREEK. 
 
 STREAM coursing through a cafioned channel, 
 whoae banks rise three hundred feet above its bed. 
 They are twin cliffs that front one another, their 
 fagadea not half so far apart. Rough with project- 
 ing points of rock, and scarred by water erosion, they look 
 like angry giants with grim visages frowning mutual defiance. 
 Iu places they approach, almost to touching; then, diverging, 
 sweep round the opposite sides of an ellipse; again closing 
 like the curved handles of callipers. Through the spaces 
 thus opened the water makes its way, now rushing in hoarse 
 torrent, anon gently meandering through meadows, whose 
 vivid verdure, contrasting with the sombre colour of the en- 
 closing cliffs, gives the semblance of landscape pictures set in 
 rustic frame. 
 
 The traveller who attempts to follow the course of the 
 stream in question will have to keep upon the cliffs above : 
 for no nearer can he approach its deeply-indented channel. 
 And here he will see only the sterile treeless plain; or, if 
 trees meet his eye, they will be such as but strengthen the 
 impression of sterility — some scrambling mezquite bushes, 
 clumps of cactacew, perhaps the speroidal form of a melo- 
 cactus, or yucca, with its tufts of rigid leaves — the latter re- 
 sembling bunches of bayonets rising above the musket 
 "stacks" on a military parade ground. 
 
 He will have no view of the lush vegetation that enlivens 
 the valley a hundred yards below the hoofs of his horse. He 
 will not even get a glimpse of the stream itself; unless by 
 going close to the edge of the precipice, and craning his neck 
 over. And to do this, he must needs diverge from his route 
 to avoid the transverse rivulets, each trickling adown the 
 bed of its own deep-cut channel. 
 
 There are many such streams in South-Western Texas; but 
 the one here described is that called Arroyo de Coyote — Anglice, 
 "Coyote Creek" — a tributary of the Colorado. 
 
298 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 In part it forms the western boundary of the table-land, 
 already known to the reader, in part intersecting it. Ap- 
 proaching it from the San Saba side, there is a stretch of 
 twenty miles, where its channel cannot be reached, except by 
 a single lateral ravine leading down to it al right angles, the 
 entrance to which is concealed by a thick chapparal of thorny 
 mczquite trees. Elsewhere, the traveller may arrive on the 
 bluff's brow, but cannot go down to the stream's edge. He 
 may see it far below, coursing among trees of everj hade of 
 green, from clearest emerald to darkest olive, here in straight 
 reaches, there sinuous as a gliding snake. Birds of brilliant 
 plumage flit about through the foilage upon its banks, 
 some disporting themselves in its pellucid wave; some mak- 
 ing the valley vocal with their melodious warblings, and 
 others filling it with harsh, stridulous cries. Burning with 
 thirst, and faint from fatigue, he will fix his gaze on the 
 glistening water, to be tortured as Tantalus, and descry the 
 cool shade, without being able to rest his weary limbs be- 
 neath it. 
 
 But rare the traveller, who ever strays to the bluffs 
 bounding Coyote Creek: rarer still, those who have occasion 
 to descend to the bottom-land through which it meanders. 
 
 Some have, nevertheless, as evinced by human sign observ- 
 able upon the stream's bank, just below where the lateral 
 ravine leads down. There the cliffs diverging, and again 
 coming near, enclose a valley of ovoidal shape, for the most 
 part overgrown with pecan trees. On one side of it is a 
 thick umbrageous grove, within which several tents are seen 
 standing. They are of rude description, partly covered by 
 the skins of animals, partly scraps of old canvas, here and 
 there eked out with a bit of blanket, or a cast coat. No one 
 would mistake them for the tents of ordinary travellers, while 
 they are equally unlike the wigwams of the nomadic aboriginal. 
 To whom, then, do they appertain? 
 
 Were their owners present, there need be no difficulty in 
 answering the question. But they are not. Neither outside, 
 nor within, is soul to be seen. Nor anywhere near. No 
 human form appears about the place; no voice of man, woman, 
 or child, reverberates through the valley. Yet is there every 
 evidence of recent occupation. In an open central space, are 
 the ashes of a huge fire still hot, with fagots half-burnt, and 
 scarce ceased smoking; while within the tents are implements, 
 utensils, and provisions — bottles and jars of liquor left un- 
 corked, with stores of tobacco unconsumed. What better 
 
COYOTE CREEK. 
 
 209 
 
 proof that they are only temporarily deserted, and not aban- 
 doned ? Certainly their owners, whether white men or 
 Indians, intend returning to them. 
 
 It need scarce be told who these are. Enough to say, that 
 Coyote Creek is the head-quarters of the prairie pirates, who 
 assaulted the San Saba settlement. 
 
 Just as the suu is beginning to decline towards the western 
 horizon, those of them sent on ahead arrive at their rendez- 
 vous; the chief, with Chisholm and the other three, not yet 
 having come up. 
 
 On entering the encampment, they relieve their horses of 
 the precious loads. Then unsaddling, turn them into a 
 " corral " rudely constructed among the trees. A set of bars, 
 serving as a gate, secures the animals against straying. 
 
 This simple stable duty done, the men betake themselves 
 to the tents, re-kindle the fire, and commence culinary opera- 
 tions. By this, all are hungry enough, and they have the 
 wherewithal to satisfy then- appetites. There are skilful 
 hunters among them, and the proceeds of a chase, that came 
 off before starting out on their less innocent errand, are seen 
 hanging from the trees, in the shape of bear's hams and 
 haunches of venison. These taken down, are spitted, and 
 soon frizzling in the fire's blaze; while the robbers gather 
 around, knives in hand, each intending to carve for himself. 
 
 As they are about to commence their Homeric repast, 
 
 Borlasse and the others ride up. Dismounting and striding 
 
 in among the tents, the chief glances inquiringly around, his 
 
 glance soon changing to disappointment. What he looks for 
 
 ' here ! 
 
 •• Quantrell and Bosley," he asks, "ain't they got here?" 
 
 '■ No. wers one. " They hain't showed yet." 
 
 " And you've seen nothin' of them?" 
 
 •' .Vary thing." 
 
 His i up with angry suspicion. Again doubts he 
 
 the fidelity of Darke, or rather is he now certain that the 
 lieutenant is a traitor. 
 
 Uttering a fearful oath, he steps inside his tent, taking 
 Chisholm along with him. 
 
 " What can it mean, Luke V he asks, pouring out a glass of 
 brandy, and gulping it down. 
 
 " Hanged if I can tell, cap. It looks like you was right in 
 supposin' they're gin us the slip. Still it's queery too, whar 
 they could a got 1, and wharfore they should." 
 
 "There's nothing so strange about the wherefore; that's 
 
300 THE DEAT1I SHOT. 
 
 clear enough to me. I suspect* d Richard Darke, alias Phil 
 Quantrell, would play me false some day, though I didn't ex- 
 pect it so soon. He don't want his beauty brought here, lest 
 some of the boys might be takin' a fancy to her. That's one 
 reason, but not all. There's another — to a man like him 'most 
 as strong. He's rich, leastaways his dad is, an' he can get as 
 much out o' the old 'un as he wants, — will have it all in time. 
 He guesses I intended squeezin' him ; an' thar he was about 
 right, for 1 did. I'd lay o Ids that's the main thing has moved 
 him to cut clear o' us." 
 
 " A darned mean trick if it is. You gied him protection 
 when he was chased by the sheriffs, an' now " 
 
 "Now, he won't need it; though he don't know that; 
 can't, I think. If he but knew he ain't after all a murderer! 
 See here, Luke; he may turn up yet. An' if so, for the life 
 o' ye, ye mustn't tell him who it was we dibbled into the 
 ground up thar. I took care not to let any of them hear his 
 name. You're the only one as knows it." 
 
 " Ye can trust me, cap. The word ( flancy won't pass 
 through my teeth, till you gie me leave to speak it." 
 
 "Ha!" exclaims Borlasse, suddenly struck with an appre- 
 hension. " I never thought of the mulatto. He may have 
 let it out ? " 
 
 " He mayn't, however!" 
 
 " If not, he shan't now. I'll take care he don't have the 
 chance." 
 
 " How are ye to help it, ? You don't intend killin' him 1" 
 
 "Not yet; thar's a golden egg in that goose. His silence 
 can be secured without resortin' to that. He must be kep' 
 separate from the others." 
 
 "But some o' them '11 have to look after him, or he may 
 cut away from us V 
 
 " Fernandez will do that. I can trust him with Clancy's 
 name, — with anything. Slip out, Luke, and see if they've got 
 it among them. If they have, it's all up, so far as that game 
 goes. If not, I'll fix things safe, so that when we've spent 
 Monsheer Dupre's silver, we may still draw cheques on the 
 bank of San Antouio, signed Ephraim Darke." 
 
 Chisholm obeying, brings back a satisfactory report. 
 
 " The boys know nothin' o' Clancy's name, nor how we dis- 
 posed o' him. In coorse, Watts, Stocker, an' Driscoll, baint 
 sayed anythin' 'bout that. They've told the rest we let him 
 go, not earin' to keep him ; and that you only wanted the 
 yellow fellow to wait on ye." 
 
A TRANSFORMATION. 301 
 
 " Good ! Go again, and fetch Fernandez here." 
 
 Chisholm ouce more turns out of th-3 tent, soon aftu re- 
 entering it. the half-blood behind him. 
 
 •• Nandy," says Borlasse ; calling the latter by a name mutu- 
 ally understood. " I want you to take charge of that mulatto, 
 and keep him under your eye. You musn't let any of the 
 boys come nigh enough to hold speech wi' him. You go, 
 Luke, and give them orders they're not to." Chisholm retires. 
 
 ■• And, Nandy, if the nigger mentions any name — it may be 
 that of his master — mind you it's not to be repeated to any 
 one. You understand me ? " 
 
 " I do, capitan." 
 
 " All serene. I know I can depend on ye. Now, to your 
 duty." 
 
 Without another word, the taciturn mestizo glides out of 
 the tent, leaving Borlasse aloue. Speaking to himself, he 
 says : — 
 
 " If Quantrell's turned traitor, thar's not a comer in Texas 
 whar he"ll be safe from my vengeance. I'll sarve the whelp 
 as I've done 'tother, — a hound nobler than he. An' for sweet 
 Armstrong, he'll have strong arms that can keep her 
 out o" mine. By heavens ! I'll hug- her yet. If not, hell 
 may take me !" 
 
 Thus blasphemously delivering himself, he clutches at the 
 bottle of brandy, pours out a fresh glass, and drinking it at a 
 gulp, sits down to reflect on the next step to be taken. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXY. 
 
 A TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 SalGHT has spread its sable pall over the desert plain, 
 darker in the deep chasm through which runs 
 Coyote Creek. There is light enough in the en- 
 campment of the prairie pirates ; for the great fire 
 kindled for cooking their dinners still burns, a constant supply 
 of resinous pine knots keeping up the blaze, which illuminates a 
 kirge circle around. By its side nearly a score of men are seated 
 in groups, sonic playing cards, others idly carousing. No one 
 would suppose them the same seen there but a few hours be- 
 since there is not the semblance of Indian among them. 
 id, they are all white men, and wearing the garb of 
 
302 THE DEATII SHOT. 
 
 civilization ; though scai-ce two are costumed alike. There 
 are coats of Kentucky jeans, of honic-wovc cop] 
 of blanket-cloth in the three colours, red, blue, and 
 there arc blouses of brown linen, ami buckskin dyed 
 dogwood ooze; there are Creole jackets of Attakapos "col 
 ti nade," and Mexican ones of cotton velveteen. Alike varied 
 is the !ie:i'l. leg, ami i'nol wear. Tin re arc hats of every shape 
 and pattern ; pantaloons of many a cut and material, most 
 of them tucked into boots with legs o : ngths, from 
 
 ankle to mid-thigh. Only in the under garment is there any 
 thing like uniformity ; nine out of ten w aring shii 
 scarlet flannel — the fashion of the frontier. 
 
 A stranger entering the camp now, would suppose its occu- 
 pants to be a party of hunters; one aecquainti 
 customs of South Western Texas, might pronounce 
 mustangers men who make their living by the taking and 
 taming of wild horses. And if those around the fire were 
 questioned about their calling, such would be the answer. 
 
 In their tents are all the paraphernalia usi d in ties pu 
 lazoes for cat hing the horses; halters and hopples for confin- 
 ing them; bits for breaking, and the like ; by is a 
 "corral" in which to keep the animals when caught. 
 
 All counterfeit ! There is not a real mustanger among 
 these men, nor one who is not a robber ; scarce 0:1 
 lay his hand upon his heart, and say he has not, 31 
 other in his life, committed murder ! For though ch m ; d in 
 
 appearance, since lasi they are the 
 
 the camp laden with Luis Dupre's money -fresh from the 
 
 massacre of his slaws. The transfoi 
 
 as they snatched a hasty meal. Then all hurried do 
 
 the creek, provided with pieces of soap: and plunging in, 
 
 washed the paint, from their hands, arms, and 
 
 The Indian costume has not only been east aside, but 
 secreted, with all its equipments. 
 
 If the encampment were searched now, no stained leathers 
 would be found; no bead I of wampum; no breech- 
 
 clouts, bows, or quivers; no tomahawks or spears. All 
 been "cached" in a cave among the rocks ; there to remain 
 till needed for some future maraud, or massacre. 
 
 Around their camp-fire the freebooters are in full tide of 
 enjoyment. The dollars have been divided, and each has his 
 thousands. Thrse at the cards are not contented, but are 
 craving more. They will be richer, or poorer. And soon; 
 playing "poker" at fifty dollars an "ante." 
 
A TRANSFORMATION, 303 
 
 Gamesters and lookers on alike smoke, drink, and make merry. 
 They hare no fear now, not the slightest apprehension. If 
 
 pursued, the pursuers cannot find the way to Coyote creek. 
 If they did, what would they see there? Certainly not the 
 red-skinned savages, who plundered the San Saba mission, but 
 a party of innocent horse hunters, all Texans. The only one 
 resembling an Indian among them is the half-breed — Fernand. 
 But he is also so metamorphosed, that his late master could 
 not recognise him. The others have changed from red men 
 to white ; in reverse, he has become to all appearance a pure- 
 blooded aborginal. 
 
 Confident in their security, because ignorant of what has 
 taken place under the live-oak, they little dream that one of 
 their confederates is in a situation, where he will be forced to 
 tell a tale sure to thwart their well-constructed scheme, casting 
 it down as a house of cards. Equally are they unaware of the 
 revelation which their own prisoner, the mulatto, could make. 
 They suppose him and his master to be but two travellers 
 encountered by accident, having no connection with the 
 San Saba settlers. Borlasse is bettei informed about this, 
 though not knowing all. He believes Clancy to have been 
 ite for the new settlement, but without having reached 
 it. He will never reach it now. 
 
 In hope of getting a clearer insight into many things still 
 clouded, while his followers are engaged at their games, he 
 seeks the tent to which Jupiter has been consigned, and where 
 he is now under the surveillance of the half-blood, Fernand. 
 
 Ordering the mestizo to retire, he puts the prisoner through 
 a course of cross-questioning. 
 
 The mulatto is a man of no ordinary intelligence. He had 
 the misfortune to be born a slave, with the blood of a freeman 
 in his veins; which, stirring him to discontent with his ignoble 
 lot, at length forced him to become a fugitive. With a 
 sublet',- partly instinctive, but strengthened by many an act 
 of injustice, he divines the object of the robber captain's visit. 
 
 Not much does the latter make of him, question as he 
 may. .Tnpe knows nothing of any Phil Quantrell, or any 
 Richard Darke. He is the slave of the young gentleman who 
 has been separat d from him. lie makes no attempt to 
 conceal his master's name, knowing that Borlasse is ah 
 acquainted with Clancy, and must have recognised him. 
 They were on their way to join the colony of Colonel 
 Armstrong, with a party from the SI ites. They came up from 
 the Colorado the night before, camping in the San Saba bottom, 
 
304 THE DEATH BHOT. 
 
 where he believi - them to be still. Early in the morning, his 
 master left the camp for a limit, and the hound had tracked 
 a bear up the j_ r ull v. That was whj 1I1 v were on the upper 
 plain: they were trying for the track of the hear, when taken. 
 
 The mulatto has no great liking for his master, from whom 
 he has had many a severe flogging. In proof he tells the 
 robber chii f t» turn up his shirt, and see how his back has 
 
 been scored by thi whide. Borlasse does so; and sure 
 
 enough there are the scars, somewhat similar to those he carries 
 himself. 
 
 If not pity, the Bight begets a sortofcoai-.se sympathy, such 
 as the convict feels for his fellow; an emotion due to the free- 
 masonry of crime. Jupiter takes care to strengthen it, by 
 harping on the cruelty of his master — more than hinting that 
 he would like to leave him, if any other would but buy him. 
 Indeed he'd be willing to run away, if he saw the chance. 
 
 " Don't trouble yerself 'bout that," says the bandit, as the 
 interview comes near its end, "maybe, I'll buy ye myself. 
 At all events. Mister Clancy ain't likely to flog you any 
 more. How'd ye like mc for yer master 1 " 
 
 " I'd be right glad, boss." 
 
 " Are ye up to takin' care of horses?" 
 
 "That's just what Masser Clancy kept me for." 
 
 " Well ; lie's gone on to the settlement without you. As he's 
 left you behind that careless way,, ye can stay with us, an' 
 look after my horse. It's the same ye've been accustomed to. 
 1 swopped with your master 'fore we parted company." 
 
 Jupe is aware that Clancy's splendid steed is in the camp. 
 Through a chink in the tent he saw the horse ridden m, 
 Borlasse on his back ; wondering why his master was not along, 
 and what they had done with him. He has no faith in the 
 tale told him, but a fear it is far otherwise. It will not do to 
 show this, and concealing his anxiety, he rejoins : — 
 
 'All right, masser. I' try do my best. Only hope you 
 not a gwine where we come cross Masser Clancy. If he see 
 me, he sure have me back, and then I'seget the cowhide right 
 smart. He flog me dreadful." 
 
 "You're in no danger. I'll take care he never sets eye on 
 you again. "Here, Naudy!" he says to the mestizo, sum- 
 moned back. "You can remove them ropes from your prisoner. 
 Give him somethin' to eat and drink. Treat him as ye would 
 one o' ourselves. He's to be that from this time forrard. 
 Spread a buffler skin, an' get him a bit o' blanket for his bed. 
 Same time, for safety's sake, keep an eye on him." 
 
MESTIZO AND MULATTO. 305 
 
 The caution is spoken sotto voce, so that the prisoner may 
 not hear it. After which, Borlasse leaves the two together, 
 congratulating himself on the good speculation he will make, 
 not by keeping Jupe to groom his horse, but selling him as a 
 slave to the first man met willing to purchase him. 
 
 In the fine able-bodied mulatto, he sees a thousand dollars 
 cash — soon as he can come across a cotton planter. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXVI. 
 
 MESTIZO AND MULATTO. 
 
 j]HILE their chief has been interrogating his prisoner, 
 the robbers around the fire have gone on with their 
 poker-playing, and whisk}- drinking. 
 
 Borlasse joining in the debauch, orders brandy 
 to be brought out of his tent, and distributed freely around. 
 He drinks deeply himself; in part to celebrate the occasion of 
 such a grand stroke of business done, but as much to drown 
 his disappointment at the captives not yet having come in. 
 
 The alcohol has its effect ; and ere long rekindles a hope, 
 which Chisholm strengthens, saying, all will yet be well, and 
 the missing ones turn up, if not that night, on the morrow. 
 
 Somewhat relieved by this expectation, Borlasse enters into 
 the spirit of the hour, and becomes jovial and boisterous as 
 any of his subordinates. The cards are tossed aside, the play 
 abandoned ; instead, coarse stories are told, and songs sung, 
 fit only for the tars of such a God-forsaken crew. 
 
 The saturnalia is brought to a close, when all become 
 so intoxicated they can neither tell story nor sing song. Then 
 some stagger to their tents, others dropping over where they 
 sit, and falling fast asleep. 
 
 By midnight there is not a man of them awake, and the 
 camp is silent, save here and there a drunken snore dis- 
 turbing its stillness. 
 
 The great central fire, around which some remain lying 
 astretch, burns on, but no longer blazes. There is no one to 
 tend it with the pitchy pine-knots. Inside the tents also, the 
 lights are extinguished — all except one. This, the rude skin 
 shieling which shelters the mestizo and mulatto. The t> i 
 
306 
 
 THI DEATH - 
 
 half-bloode, of different st r.un, are vet awake, and sitting up. 
 Thej are also drinking, hobnobbing with one another. 
 
 Finland has supplied tlie liquor freely and without stint. 
 Pretending to fraternize with the new confederate, he haa filled 
 the Liter's glasa at least a half score of times, doing the same 
 with his own. Both have emptied them with like rapidity, and 
 yet neither seems at all overcome. Each thinks the other the 
 hardest case at a drinking bout he has ever come across; 
 wondering he is not dead drunk, though knowing why he is 
 himself sober. The Spanish moss plucked from the adjacent 
 trees, and littering the tent floor, could tell — if it had the 
 power of speech. 
 
 Jupiter has had many a w] in the woods of 
 
 Mississippi, but never has he encountered a convive who could 
 stand so much of it, and still keep his tongue What 
 
 can it mean? Is the mestizo's de of steel ? 
 
 While perplexed, and despairing of being able to get Fer- 
 nand intoxicated, an explanation suggests itself. His fellow 
 tippler may be shamming, as hii 
 
 Pretending to look out of the tent, he twists his eyes awry, 
 so far, that, from the front, little else than their whites can be 
 seen. But enough of the retina is uncovered t • receive an 
 impression from behind: this showing the mestizo tilting his 
 cup, and spilling i I a imng the moss ! 
 
 He now knows he is I uarded. 
 
 And of his vigilant sentinel there seems but one way to dis- 
 embarass himself. 
 
 As the thought of it flits across his brain, his eyes flash with 
 
 a feverish light, such as when one intends attacking by 
 
 th, and with the determination to kill. For he must 
 
 either kill the man by his side, or give up what is to himself 
 
 worth more than such a life — his own liberty. 
 
 It ma) - be his beloved master yet lives, and there is a 
 chance to succour him. If dead, be will find his body, and 
 give it burial. He remembers the promise that morning 
 mutually declared between them — to stand and fall together. 
 He will keep his part of it. If Clancy has fallen, others will 
 go down too ; in the end, if need be, himself. But not till he 
 has taken, or tried to take, a terrible and bloody vengeance. 
 To this he has hound himself, by an oath sworn in the secret 
 recesses of his : 
 
 Its prelude is nigh, and the death of the Indian half-breed 
 is to initiate it. For the fugitive slave knows the part this vile 
 caitiff has played, and will tot scruple to kill him : the less 
 
MESTIZO A>'D MULATTO. 307 
 
 that it is now an inexorable necessity. He but waits for the 
 opportunity — has been seeking it for some time. 
 
 It offers at length. Turning suddenly, and detecting the 
 mestizo in his act of deception, he asks laughingly why he 
 should practice such a trick. Then stooping forward, as if 
 to verify it, his right arm is seen to lunge out with something 
 that glitters in his hand. It is the blade of a bowie knife. 
 
 In an instant the arm is drawn back, the glittering gone 
 off the blade, obliterated by blood ! For it has been between 
 the ribs, and through the heart of the mestizo; who, slip- 
 ping from his scat, falls to the floor, without even a groan ! 
 
 Grasping Clancy's gun, which chances to be in the tent, and 
 then blowing out the light, the mulatto moves off, leaving but 
 a dead body behind him. 
 
 Once outside, he looks cautiously around the encamp- 
 ment, scanning the tents and the ground adjacent to them. 
 He sees the big tire still red, but not flaming. He can make 
 out the forms of men lying around it — all of them, for him for- 
 tunately, asleep. 
 
 Stepping, as if on eggs, and keeping as much as possible in 
 shadow, he threads his way tin. mgh the tents until he is 
 quite clear of the encampment. But he does not go directly 
 off. Instead, he makes a circuit to the other side, where 
 Brasfort is tied to a tree. A cut of his red blade releases the 
 hound, that follows him in silence, as if knowing it necessary. 
 
 Then on to the corral where the horses are penned up. 
 
 Arriving at the fence he finds the bars, and there stopping, 
 speaks some words in undertone, but loud enough to be heard 
 by the animals inside. As if it were a cabalistic speech, one 
 separates from the rest, and comes towards him. It is the 
 -teed of Clancy. Protruding its soft muzzle over the rail, it is 
 stroked by the mulatto's band,. which soon after has hold of 
 the forelock. Fortunately the saddles are close by, astride the 
 fence, with the bridles hanging to the branches of a tree. 
 Jupiter easily recognises those he is in search of, and soon has 
 tiie horse caparisoned. 
 
 At length he leads the animal not mounting till he is 
 well away from the camp. Then, climbing cautiously into 
 the saddle, he continues on, Brasfort after; man, horse, 
 and hound, making no more noise, than if all three were but 
 shadows. 
 
CHAPTER LXXVIL 
 
 A STRAYED TRAVELLER. 
 
 j]ALE, trembling, with teeth chattering, Richard Darke 
 awakes from his drunken slumber. 
 
 He sees his horse tied to the tree, as he left him, 
 but making violent efforts to get loose. For coyotes 
 have come skulking around the copse, and their cry agitates 
 the animal. It is this that has awakened the sleeper. 
 
 He starts to his feet in fear, though not of the wolves. 
 Their proximity has nought to do with the shudder which 
 passes through his frame. It comes from an apprehension 
 he has overslept himself, and that, meanwhile, his confederates 
 have passed the place. 
 
 It is broad daylight, with a bright sun in the sky ; though 
 this he cannot see through the thick foliage intervening. But 
 his watch will tell him the time, lie takes it out and glances 
 at the dial. The hands appeal - not to move ! 
 
 He holds it to his ear, but hears no ticking. Now, he 
 remembers having neglected to wind it up the night before. 
 It has run down ! 
 
 Hastily returning it to his pocket, he makes for open 
 ground, where he may get a view ot the sun. By its height 
 above the horizon, as far as he can judge it should be about 
 nine of the morning. This point, as he supposes, settled, 
 does not remove his apprehension, on the contrary but increases 
 it. The returning marauders would not likely be delayed so 
 late 1 In all probability they have passed. 
 
 How is he to be assured? A thought strikes him : he will 
 step out u; on the plain, and see if he can discern their tracks. 
 He does so, keeping on to the summit of the pass. There he 
 finds evidence to confirm his fears. The loose turf around 
 the head of the gorge is torn and trampled by the hoofs of 
 many horses, all going off over the plain. The robbers have 
 returned to their rendezvous ! 
 
 Hastening back to his horse, he prepares to start after. 
 
A STRAYED TRAVELLER 309 
 
 Leading the animal to the edge of the copse, he is connonted 
 by what sends a fresh thrill of fear through his heart. The 
 sun is before his face, but not as when he last looked 
 at it. Instead of having risen higher, it is now nearer the 
 horizon ! 
 
 "Great God ! " he exclaims, as the truth breaks upon him. 
 ' ; It's setting, not rising; evening 'stead of morning !" 
 
 Shading his eye with spread palm, he gazes at the golden 
 orb, in look bewildered. Not long, till assured, the sun is 
 sinking, and night nigh. 
 
 The deduction drawn is full of sinister sequence. More 
 than one starts up in his mind to dismay him. He is little 
 acquainted with the trail to Coyote Creek, and. may bo unable 
 to find it. Moreover, the robbers are certain of being pursued, 
 and Sime Woodley will be one of the pursuers; Bosley forced 
 to conduct them, far as he can. The outraged settlers may 
 at any moment appear coming up the pass ! 
 
 He glances appreheusively towards it, then across the plain. 
 
 His face is uuw towards the sun, whose lower limb just 
 touches the horizon, the red round orb appearing across the 
 smooth surface, as over that of a tranquil sea. 
 
 He regards it, to direct his course. He knows that the 
 camping place on Coyote Creek is due west from where he is. 
 
 And at length, having resolved, he sets his foot in the stirrup, 
 vaults into the saddle, and spurs off, leaving the black-jack 
 srrove behind him. 
 
 He does not proceed far, before becoming uncertain as to his 
 c "Urse. The sun goes down, leaving heaven's firmanent in 
 darkness, with only some last lingering rays along its 
 western edge. These grow fainter and fainter, till scarce any 
 difference can be noted around the horizon's ring. 
 
 He now rides in doubt, guessing the direction. Scanning 
 the stars he searches for the Polar constellation. But a mist 
 has meanwhile sprung up over the plain, and, creeping across 
 the northern sky, concealed it. 
 
 In the midst of his perplexitv, the moon appears; and 
 taking bearings by this, he once more makes westward. 
 
 But there are cumulous clouds in the sky; and these, ever 
 and anon drifting over the moon's disc, compel him to pull up 
 till they pass. 
 
 At length he is favoured with a prolonged interval of light, 
 during which he puts his animal to its best speed, and 
 adrances many miles in what he supposes to be the right 
 direction. As yet he has encountered no living creature, nor 
 
310 IM M .MM Mini. 
 
 object of any kind, lie is in hopes to gel Bight ol thi solitary 
 tree; for b yond it the trail to Ooyoti Creel i asily taken. 
 
 While scanning the moonlit expanse be descries a group 
 of figures; apparently quadrupeds, though 6i whal Bpecieshe 
 cannot tell. They appear too large for wolves, and yet are 
 not like wild horses, deer, or bufialoes. 
 
 On drawing nearer, lie discovers them to be but coyotes; 
 the film, refracting the moon's light, having deceived him 
 their size. 
 
 What can they be doing out there? Perhaps coll' 
 around some animal they have hunted down, and killed — pos- 
 sibly a prong-horn antelope I It is uot with any purpose he 
 approaches them. Ee only does so because they are in the 
 line of his route. But before reaching the spol where they 
 are assembled, he sees something to excite his curiosity, 
 at the same time, baffling all conjecture what it can be. On 
 his coming clo er, the jackals scatter apart, exposing it to 
 view; then, loping ofl, leave it behind them. Whatever it be, 
 it is evidently the lure that has brought the predatory beasts 
 teg' ther. It i- not the dead body of deer, antelope, or animal 
 of any kind; but a thing of rounded shape. Bet upcii a short 
 shank, or stem. 
 
 " What the devil is it 1" he asks himself, first pausing, and. 
 then spurring on towards it. " Looks ior all the world like a 
 man's head ! " 
 
 At that moment, the moon emitting one of her brightest 
 lie. nus, shows the object still clearer, causing him to add in 
 exclamation, " By heavens, it is a head ! " 
 
 Another instant and he sees a face, which sends the blood 
 back to his heart, almost freezing it iu his veins. 
 
 Horror stricken he reins up, dragging his horse upou the 
 haunches; and in this attitude remains, his eves rolling as 
 though they would start from their sockets. Then, shouting 
 the words, " Great God, Clancy ! " followed by a wild shrkk, 
 he wrenches the horse around, and mechanically spurs into 
 desperate speed. 
 
 In his headlong flight he hears a cry, which comes as 
 from out the earth — his own name pronounced, and after it, 
 the word "murderer!" 
 
 -"c^wrs^ 
 
CHAPTER LXXVIII. 
 
 HOUES OF AGONY. 
 
 j|CT of the earth literally arose that cry, so affrighting 
 Richard Darke ; since it came from Charles Clancy. 
 Throughout the live-long day, on to the mid hours 
 of night, has he been en luring agony unspeakable. 
 
 Alone with but the companionship of hostile creatures — 
 wolves that threaten to gnaw the skin from his skull, and 
 vultures ready to tear his eyes out of their sockets. 
 
 Why has he not gone mad I 
 
 There are moments when it comes too near this, when his 
 reason is well nigh unseated. But manfully he struggles 
 against it; thoughtfully, with reliance on Him, whose name 
 he has repeated and prayerfully invoked. And God, in His 
 mercy, sends something to sustain him — a remembrance. 
 
 In his most despairing hour he recalls one circumstance 
 seeming favourable, and which in the confusion of thought, 
 consequent on such a succession of scenes, had escaped him. 
 He now remembers the other man found along with Darke 
 under the live oak. Bosley will be able to guide a pursuing 
 party, and with Woodley controlling, will be forced to do it. 
 lie can lead them direct to the rendezvous of the robbers; 
 where Clancy can have no fear but that they will settle things 
 satisfactorily. There learning what has been done to him- 
 self, they would lose no time in coming after him. 
 
 This train of conjecture, rational enough, restores his hopes, 
 and again he believes there is a chance of his receiving 
 succour. About time is he chiefly apprehensive. They may 
 come i"" late? 
 
 He will do all he can to keep up : hold out as long as life 
 itself may last. 
 
 So resolved, h ■■ ■ d efforts to fight off the wolves, 
 
 and frighten the vulture-. 
 
 Fortunately for him the former are but coyotes, the latter 
 turkey buzzards ■ both cowardly creatures, timid as hares, 
 
 23 
 
312 TIIK DEATH SHOT. 
 
 except when tho quarry is helpless. They must not know he 
 is this; and to deceive them he shakes his head, ro'ls hi- eyes, 
 and shouts at the high st pitch <>f his voice. But only at 
 intervals, when they appeal- t<>o threateningly ne r. He 
 knows the necessity of economising his cries and gestures. 
 By too frequent repetition they might, erase to avail him. 
 
 Throughout the day he has the double i nemy to deal with. 
 But night disembarrases him of the birds, leaving only the 
 beasts. 
 
 He derives little benefit from the change; for the coyotes, 
 but jackals in daylight, at night become wolves, emboldened 
 by the darkness. Besides, they have been too long gazing at 
 the strange thing, and listening to the shouts which have 
 proceeded from it, without receiving hurt or harm, t" fear it 
 as before. The time has como for attack. 
 
 Blending their unearthly notes into one grand chorus 
 they close around, filially resolved to assault it. 
 
 And, again, Clancy calls uponGod — upon Heaven, to help him. 
 
 His prayer is heard; for what he sees seems an answer t" it. 
 The moon is low down, her disc directly before his face, and 
 upon the plain between a shadow is projected, reaching to his 
 chin. At the same time, he sees what is making it — a man 
 upon horseback! Simultaneously, he hears a sound — the 
 trampling of hoofs upon the hard turf. 
 
 The coyotes catching it, too, are scared, changi- from 
 their attitude of attack, and dropping tails to the ground. 
 As the shadow darkening over them tells that the horseman 
 is drawing nigh, they scatter off in retreat. 
 
 Clancy utters an ejaculation of joy. He is about to hail tnv 
 approaching horseman, when a doubt restrains him. 
 
 " Who can it be ? " he asks himself with mingled hope and 
 apprehension. " Woodley would not be coming in that way, 
 alone? If not some of the settlers, at least Heywood would 
 be along with him? Besides, there is scarce time for them to 
 have reached the Mission and returned. It cannot be either. 
 Jupiter '. Has he escaped from the custody of the outlawed 
 crew !" 
 
 Clancy is accustomed to seeing the mulatto upon a mule. 
 This man rides a horse, and otherwise looks not like Jupiter. 
 It is not he. Who, then ? 
 
 During all this time tho horseman is drawing nearer, though 
 slowly. When first heard, the tramp told him to be going at 
 a gallop; but he has slackened speed, and now makes approach, 
 apparently with caution, as if reeonnoitering. Ho has descried 
 
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 313 
 
 the jackals, and comes to see what they are gathered about. 
 These having retreated, Clancy can perceive that the eyes of 
 the stranger are fixed upon his own head, and that he is evi- 
 dently puzzled to make out what it is. 
 
 For a moment the man makes stop, then moves on, coming 
 closer and closer. With the moon behind his back, his face is 
 in shadow, and cannot be seen by Clancy. But it is not 
 needed for his identification. The dress and figure are suffi- 
 cient. Cut sharply against the sky is the figure of a plumed 
 Bavage; a sham one Clancy knows, with a thrill of fresh 
 despair, recognising Richard Darke. 
 
 It will soon be all over with him now; La another instant 
 his hopes, doubts, fears, will be alike ended, with his life. He 
 has no thought but that Darke, since last seen, has been in 
 communicatiuu with Borlasse; and from him learning all, has 
 returned for the life he failed to take before. 
 
 Meanwhile the plumed horseman continues to approach, till 
 within less than a length of his horse. Then drawing bridle with 
 a jerk, suddenly comes to a stop. Clancy can see, that he is 
 struck with astonishment— his features, now near enough to be 
 distinguished, wearing a bewildered look. Then hears his 
 own name called out, a shriek succeeding ; the horse wheeled 
 round, and away, as if Satan had hold of his tail ! 
 
 For a long time is heard the tramp of the retreating horse 
 going in full fast gallop— gradually less distinct — at length 
 dying awn/ in the iistance. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXIX. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED VISITOF. 
 
 [0 Clancy there is nothing strange in Darke's sudden 
 and terrified departure. With the quickness of 
 thought itself, he comprehends its cause. In 
 their encounter under the live-oak, in shadow and 
 silence, his old rival has not recognised him. Nor can he 
 since have seen Corlasse, or any of the band. Why he is 
 behind them, Clancy cannot surmise; though he has a sus- 
 picion of the truth. Certainly Darke came not there by any 
 design, but only chance-conducted. Had i, been otherwise, 
 he would not have gone off in such wild affright. 
 
314 THE DE\rn SHOT. 
 
 All this Clancy intuitively perceives, >n the instant of hia 
 turning to retreut. And partly to make this more 
 though also stirred by indignation he cannot restrain, he 
 sends forth that shout, causing the scared wretch to flee 
 fasti r : nd farther. 
 
 Now that he is gone, Clancy is again lefi to his reflections, 
 but little less ;loomj than before. From only one docs he 
 derive satisfaction. The robber chief musl have lied. Helen 
 Armstrong has not been in the arms of Richard Darke. He 
 may hope she has reached her home in safety. 
 
 All else is as ever, and BOOn likeh to be WOrSC. For lie 
 
 feels as one who has only had a respite, believing it will he 
 but short. Darke will from his scare. For he 
 will now go to the rendezvous, and there, getting an explana- 
 tion of what lias caused it me back to glut his delayed ven- 
 
 geance, more terrible from long accumulation. 
 
 Will the wolves wait for him 1 
 
 "Ha! there they are again !" 
 
 So exclaims the wretched man, as he sees them once more 
 making approach. 
 
 And now they draw nigh with increased audacity, their 
 ravenous instincts bu< strengthened by the cheek. The 
 enemy late dreaded has nol molested them, but gone off, 
 leaving their prey unprotected. They are again free to assail, 
 and this time will surely devour it. 
 
 Once more their melancholy whine breaks the stillness of 
 the night, as they come loping up one after another. Soon 
 all are re-assembled round the strange thing, which through 
 their fears has long defied them. More familiar, they fear it 
 less now. 
 
 Renewing their hostile demonstration, they circle about it, 
 gliding from side to side in ckassez-croissez, as through 
 the mazes of a cotillon. With forms magnified under the 
 moonlight, they look like were-wolves dancing around a 
 "Death's Head," — their long-drawn lugubrious -wails making 
 appropriate music to the measure ! 
 
 Horror for him who hears, hearing it without hope. Of this 
 not a ray left now, its last lingering spark extinguished, and 
 before him but the darkne.s of death in all its dread certainty 
 — a death horrible, appalling ! 
 
 Putting forth all his moral strength, exerting it to the 
 utmost, he tries to resign himself to the inevitable. 
 
 In vain. Life is too sweet to be so surrendered. He cannot 
 calmly resign it, and again instinctively makes an effort to 
 
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 315 
 
 fright oft' his hideous assailants. His eyes rolling, scintillating 
 in their sockets — his lips moving — his cries sent fioin between 
 them — are all to no purpose now. The coyotes come nearer 
 and nearer. They are within three feet of his face. He can 
 see their wolfish eyes, the white serrature of their teeth, the red 
 panting tongues ; can feel their fetid breath blown against 
 his brow. Their jaws are agape. Each instant he expects 
 them to i lose around his skull ! 
 
 Why did he shout, sending Darke away 1 He regrets having 
 • lone it. Better his head to have been crushed or cleft by ;i 
 tomahawk, killing him at once, than torn while still alive, 
 gnawed, mumbled over, by those frightful fangs threatening 
 so near ! The thought stifles reflection. It is of itself excru- 
 ciating torture. He cannot bear it much longer. Xo man 
 could, however strong, however firm his faith hi the Almighty, 
 Even yet he has not lost this. The teachings of early life, the 
 precepts inculcated by a pious mother, stand him in stead 
 now. And though sure he must die, and wants death to come 
 quickly, he nevertheless tries to meet it resignedly, mentally 
 exclaiming : — 
 
 "Mother! Father! I come. Soon shall I join you. Helen, 
 my love! Oh, how I have wronged you in thus throwing my 
 life away ! God forgive " 
 
 His regrets are interrupted, as if by God Himself. He has 
 been heard by the All Merciful, the Omnipotent; for seemingly 
 no other hand could now succour him. While the prayerful 
 thoughts are still passing through his mind, the wolves suddenly 
 cease their attack, and he sees them retiring with c'osed jaws 
 and fallen tails! Not hastily, but slow and skulkingly ; 
 ceding the ground inch by inch, as though reluctant to leave it. 
 
 What can it mean? 
 
 i . i - 1 i 1 1 Li" his eyes outward, he sees nothing to explain the 
 behaviour of the brutes, nor account for their changed de- 
 meanour. 
 
 He listens, all ears, expecting to hear the hoof stroke of a 
 hors ili hi he late saw reined up in front of him, with 
 Richard Darke upon his back. The ruffian is returning sooner 
 than anticipated. 
 
 There is no Such S lind. Instead, one softer, which, but for 
 he hollow cretaceous rock underlying the plain and acting as a 
 conductor, would not be conveyed to his ears. It is a patter- 
 i '.I some animal's paws, going in rapid gait, lie cannot 
 imagine what sort of creature it may be; in truth he has no 
 time to think, before hearing the sound close behind his head, 
 
THE DEATH BHOT. 
 
 the animal approaching from thai direction. Soon after hi 
 '■' l- a hoi breath strike against his brow, with something still 
 warmer touching Ins cheek. It is the tongue of a dog ! 
 
 •• Brasforl !" 
 
 Brasfort it is, cowering before his face, filling his ears with 
 
 a soft whimpering, sweel as any sj sh ever heard. For he 
 
 has seen the jackals retreat, and knows they will not return. 
 His strong staghound is more than a match for the whole park 
 of cowardly creatures. As easily as it b s scattered, can it 
 destroy them. 
 
 Clancy's firsl feeling is one of mingled pleasure and sur- 
 prise. For h«' fancies himself Buccoured, released from his 
 earth bound prison, so near to have 1 a his 
 
 The glad emotion is alas! short-lived; departing as he 
 perceives it to be onlj a fancy, and his perilous situation, but 
 little changed or improved. For what ran the dog do for him? 
 True he may keep off the coyotes, but that will not saw his 
 life. Death must come all the same. A little later, and in 
 less horrid shape, but it must come. Hunger, thirst, one or 
 lioth will bring it, surely if slowly. 
 
 " My brave Brasfort ! faithful fellow!" he says apostrophis- 
 ing the hound; "You cannot protect me from them. But 
 how have you got here?" 
 
 The question is succeeded liy a train of conjecture, as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 "They took the dog with them. I saw one lead him away, 
 they've let him loose, and he has scented back on the trail? 
 That's it. Oh I if Jupiter were but with him! No fear of 
 their letting him off — no." 
 
 During all this time Brasfort has continued his caresses, 
 fondling his master's head, affectionately as a mother her 
 child. 
 
 Again Clancy speaks, apostrophising the animal. 
 
 " Dear old dog ! you're but come to see me die. Well ; it's 
 something to have you here — like a friend beside the death- 
 bed. And you'll stay with me long as life holds out, and 
 protect me from those skulking creatures? I know you will. 
 Ah ! You won't need to stand sentry long. I feel growing 
 fainter. When all's over you can go. 1 shall never see her 
 more ; but some one may find, and take you there. She'll 
 care for, and reward you for this fidelity." 
 
 The soliloquy is brought to a close, by the hound suddenly 
 changing attitude. All at once it has ceased its fond demon- 
 strations, and stands as if about to make an attack upon its 
 
A RESURRECTIONIST. 317 
 
 master's head ! Very different the intent. Yielding to a 
 simple canine instinct, from the strain of terrier in its blood, 
 it commences scratching up the earth around his neck ! 
 
 For Clancy a fresh surprise, as before mingled with pleasure. 
 For the h 'iind's instinctive action shows him a chance of get- 
 ting relieved, by means he had never himself thought of. 
 
 He continues ta'king to the animal, encouraging it by 
 speeches it can comprehend. On it scrapes, tearing up the 
 and casting them in showers behind. 
 
 Despite tire firmness with which the earth is packed, the 
 hound s on makes a hollow around its master's neck, exposing 
 his shoulder — the right one — above the surface. A little more 
 mould removed, and his arm will be free. With that his 
 whole body can be extricated by himself. 
 
 Stirred by the pleasant anticipation, he continues speaking 
 encouragement to the dog. But Brasfort needs it not, work- 
 ing away in silence and with determined earnestness, as if 
 knowing that time was an element of success. 
 
 Clancy begins to congratulate himself on escape, is almost 
 sure of it, when a sound 1 i eaks upon his ear, bringing back all 
 his apprehensions. Again the hoof-stroke of a horse ! 
 
 Richard Darke is returning ! 
 
 "Too late, Brasfort ! " says his master, apostrophising him 
 in speech almost mechanical, "Too late your help. Soon 
 you'll see me die." 
 
 CHAPTER LXXX. 
 
 A RESURRECTIONI8T. 
 
 UBELY the end has come ! " 
 
 So reflects Clancy, as with keen apprehension 
 he listens to the tread of the approaching 
 horseman. Fur to a certainty he approaches, 
 the dull distant thud of hooves gradually growing more 
 distinct. Nor has he any doubt of its being the same steed 
 late reined up in front of him, the fresh score of whose calkers 
 are there within a few feet of his face. 
 
 The direction whence comes the sound, is of itself signifi- 
 cant ; that in which Darke went off. It is he returning — can 
 be no other. 
 
 Yes; surely his end has come — the last hour of his life. 
 
318 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 And so near being saved! Ten minutes more, and Brasfort 
 
 would have disinterred him. 
 
 Turning his eyes downward, he can see the cavity enlarged, 
 and getting larger. For the dog continues to drag out the 
 earth, as if not hearing, or disregarding the hoof-stroke. Al- 
 ready its paws are within a few inches of his elbow. 
 
 Is it possible for him to wrench out his arm! With it free 
 he might do something to defend himself. And the great 
 stag hound will help him. 
 
 With hope half resuscitated, ho makes an effort to extri- 
 cate the arm, heaving his shoulder upward. In vain It is 
 held as in a vice, or the clasp of a giant. There is no alterna- 
 tive — he must submit to his fate. And such a fate ! Once 
 more he will see the sole enemy of his life, his mother's 
 murderer, standing triumphant over him; will hear his 
 taunting speeches — almost a repetition of the scene undi c thi 
 cypress ! And to think that in all his encounters with this 
 man, he has been unsuccessful ; too late — ever too late ! 
 The thought is of itself a torture. 
 
 Strange the slowness with which Darke draws nigh ! Can 
 he still be iii dread of the unearthly] No, or he would not 
 be there. It may be that sure of his victim, he but delays 
 the last Mow. scheming some new horror before he strike it ? 
 
 The tramp of the horse tells him to be going at a walk; 
 unsteady too, as if his rider were not certain about the way, 
 but seeking it. Can this be so? Has he not yet seen the 
 head and hound? The moon must be on his back, since it is 
 behind Clancy's own. It may lie that Brasfort — a new figure 
 in the oft changing tableau — stays his advance. Possibly the 
 unexplained presence of the animal has given him a sur- 
 prise, and hence lie approaches with caution ? 
 
 All at once, the hoofstroke ceases to be heard, and stillness 
 reigns around. No sound save that made by the claws of the 
 dog, that continues its task with unabated assiduity — not yet 
 having taken any notice of the footsteps it can scarce fail 
 to hear. 
 
 Its master cannot help thinking this strange. Brasfort is 
 not wont to be thus unwatchful. And of all men Richard 
 Darke should be the last to approach him unawares. What 
 may it mean ? 
 
 While thus interrogating himself, Clancy again hears the 
 "tramp-tramp," the horse no longer in a walk, but with pace 
 quickened to a trot. And still Brasfort keeps on scraping! 
 Only when a shadow darkens over, does he desist; the 
 
A RESURRECTIONIST. 319 
 
 horseman being now close behind Clancy's head, with his image 
 reflected in front. But instead of rushing at him with savage 
 growl, as he certainly would were it Richard Darke, Brasfort 
 but raises his snout, and wags his tail, giving utterance to a 
 note of fniendly salutation ! 
 
 Clancy's astonishment is extreme, changing to joy, when 
 the horseman after making the circuit of his head, comes to a 
 halt before his face. In the broad bright moonlight he be- 
 holds, not his direst f >e, bui hia faithful servitor. There upon 
 his own horse, with his own gun in hand, sits one who causes 
 him mechanically to exclaim — 
 
 " Jupiter !" adding, " Heaven lias heard my prayer !" 
 
 " An' myen," says Jupiter, soon as somewhat recovered 
 from his astonishment at what he sees ; "Yes, Masser Charle; 
 Fse been prayiu' for you ever since they part us, though never 
 spected see you 'live 'gain. But Lor' o' mercy, masser ! what 
 dis mean? I'se see nothin' but you head ! Wharever is you 
 bodv i What have dem rascally ruffins been an' done to 
 ye?" 
 
 "As you see — buried me alive.'' 
 
 "Better that than bury you dead. You sure, masser," he 
 asks, slipping down from the saddle, and placing himself vis-a- 
 vis with the face so strangely situated. "You sure you ain't 
 wounded, nor otherways hurt?" 
 
 '• Not that I know of. I only feel a little bruised and 
 faint-like : but I think I've received no serious injury. I'm 
 now suffering from thirst, more than aught else." 
 
 " That won't be for long. Lucky I'se ftran' you ole canteen , 
 on the saddle, an' filled it 'fore I left the creek. I'se got 
 somethin' besides '11 take the faintness 'way from you ; a drop 
 o' corn juice, I had from that Spanish Indyin they call the 
 half-blood. Not much blood in him now. Here 'tis, Masser 
 Charle." 
 
 While speaking, he has produced a gourd, in which some- 
 thing gurgles. Its smell, when the stopper is taken out, tells 
 it to be whiskey. 
 
 Inserting the neck between his master's lips, he pours 
 some of the spirit down his throat ; and then, turning to the 
 horse near by, he lifts from off the saddle-horn a larger gourd 
 — the canteen, containing water. 
 
 In a few seconds, not only is Clancy's thirst satisfied, but 
 he feels his strength restored, and all faintness passed away. 
 
 " Up to de chin I declar' ! " says Jupiter, now more particu- 
 larly taking note of his situation, "Sure enough, all but 
 buried 'live. An' Brasfort been a tryin' to dig ye out ! 
 
320 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 Geehorum ! Ain* that cunnin' o' the ole dogl He have prove 
 himself a faithful critter." 
 
 " Like yourself, Jupe. But say ! How have you escaped 
 from the rohbers 1 Brought my horse and gun too ! Tell me 
 all I " 
 
 "Not so fass, Miisser Charle. It's something o' a longish 
 story, an' a bit strangish too. You'll be better oui o' that fix 
 afore hearin' it. Though your ears aiut Btopped, yez not in 
 a position to lissen patient or comfortable. First let me 
 finish what Brasfort's begun, and get out the balance o' your 
 body." 
 
 Saying this, the mulatto sets himself to the task proposed. 
 
 Upon his knees with knife in hand, he loosens the earth 
 around Clancy's breast and shoulders, cutting it carefully, 
 then clawing it out. 
 
 The hound helps him, dashing in whenever it sees a chance, 
 with its paws scattering the clods to rear. The animal seems 
 jealous of Jupiter's interference, half angry at not having all 
 the credit to itself. 
 
 Between them the work progresses, and the body of their 
 common master will soon be disinterred. 
 
 All the while, Clancy and the mulatto continue to talk, 
 mutually communicating their experiences since parting. Those 
 of the former, though fearful, are neither many nor varied, and 
 require but few words. What Jupiter now sees gives him a 
 clue to nearly all. 
 
 His own narrative covers a greater variety of events, and 
 needs more time for telling than can now be conveniently 
 spared. Instead of details, therefore, he but recounts the 
 leading incidents in brief epitome — to be more particularly 
 dwelt upon afterwards, as opportunity will allow. He relates, 
 bow, after leaving the lone cotton-wood, he was taken on 
 across the plain to a creek called Coyote, where the robbers 
 have a camping place. This slightly touched upon, he tells 
 of his own treatment ; of his being carried into a tent at 
 first, but little looked after, because thought secure, from 
 their having him tightly tied. Through a slit in the skin cover 
 he saw them kindle a fire and commence cooking. Soon 
 after came the chief, riding Clancy's horse, with Chisholm and 
 the other three. Seeing the horse, he supposed it all over 
 with his master. 
 
 Tien :hc feast, al fresco, succeeded by the transformation 
 scene — the red robbers becoming white ones — to all of which 
 he was witness. After that the card-playing by the camp 
 
A RKSIKKECTIONIST. 
 
 321 
 
 fire, during which the chief came to his tent, and did what he 
 could to draw him. In this part of his narration, the mulatto 
 with modest naivety, hints of his own adroitness; how he 
 threw his inquisitor oft' the scent, and became at length dis- 
 embarrassed of him. He is even more reticent about au in- 
 cident, soon after succeeding, but referred to it at an early 
 part of his explanation. 
 
 On the blade of his knife, before beginning to dig, Clancy 
 observing some blotches of crimson, asks what it is. 
 " Only a little blood. Masser Charle," is the answer. 
 
 " Whose ? " 
 
 " You'll hear afore I get to the end. Nuf now to say it's 
 the blood of a bad man." 
 
 Clancy does not press him further, knowing he will be told 
 all in due time. Still, is he impatient, wondering whether it 
 be the blood of Jim Borlasse, or Richard Darke; for he sup- 
 poses it either one or the other. He hopes it may be the 
 former, and fears its being the latter. Even yet, in his hour 
 of uncertainty, late helpless, and still with only a half hope of 
 being able to keep his oath, he would not for all the world 
 Dick Darke's blood should le shed by other hand than his 
 own ! 
 
 He is mentally relieved, long before Jupiter reaches the end 
 of his narration. The blood upon the blade, uow clean 
 scoured off, was not that of Richard Darke. 
 
 For the mulatto tells him of that tragic d scene within the 
 tent, speaking of it without the slightest romorse. 
 
 The incidents succeeding he leaves for a future occasion ; 
 how he stole out the horse, and with Brasfort's help, was 
 enabled to return upon the trail as far as the cotton-wood; 
 thence on, the hound hurriedly leading, at length leaving him 
 behind. 
 
 But before coming to this, he has completed his task, and 
 laying hold of his master's shoulders, he draws him out of the 
 ground, as a gardener would a gigantic carrot. 
 
 Once more on the earth's surface stands Clancy, free of 
 body, unfettered in limb, strong in his sworu resolve, deter- 
 mined as ever to keep it. 
 
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 CHAPTER LXXXJ. 
 
 THE VOICE OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 [[EVER did man believe himself nigher death, or ex- 
 perience greater satisfaction at being saved from it, 
 than Charles Clancy. For upon his life so near 
 lost, and as if miraculously preserved, depend issues 
 dear to him as that life itself. 
 
 And these, too, may reach a successful termination ; some- 
 thing whispers him they will. 
 
 But though grateful to God for the timely succour just re- 
 ceived, and on Him still reliant, he does not ask God for guidance 
 in what he intends now. Rather shuns he the thought, as 
 though fearing the All-merciful might not be with him. For 
 he is still determined on vengeance, which alone belongs to the 
 Lord. 
 
 Of himself, he is strong enough to take it ; and feels so, 
 after being refreshed by another drink of the whiskey. The 
 spirit of the alchohol, acting on his own, reinvigorates, and 
 makes him ready for immediate action. He but stays to think 
 what may be his safest course, as the surest and swiftest. 
 His repeated repulses, while making more cautious, have done 
 nought to daunt, or drive him from his original purpose. Re- 
 calling his latest interview with Helen Armstrong, and what 
 he then said, he dares not swerve from it. To go back leaving 
 it undone, were a humiliation no lover would like to confess 
 t<. his sweetheart. 
 
 But he has no thought of going back, an 1 only hesitates, 
 reflecting on the steps necessary to ensure success. 
 
 He now knows why Darke retreated in such wild affright. 
 Some speeches passing between the robbers, overheard by 
 .Jupiter, and by him reported, enable Clancy to grasp the 
 situation. As he had conjectured, Darke was straying, and by 
 chance came that way. No wonder at the way he went. 
 
 It is not an hour since he lied from the spot, and in all like- 
 lihood he is still straying. If so. he cannot be a great way 
 off; but, far or near. Brasfort can find him. 
 
THE VOICE Of VENGEANCE, 323 
 
 It is but a question of whether he can bs overtaken before 
 reaching the rendezvous. For the only danger of which 
 Clancy has dread, or allows himself to dwell upon, is from 
 the other robbers. Even of these he feels not much fear. But 
 for the mulatto and his mule, he would never have allowed 
 them to lay hand on him. And now with his splendid horse 
 once more by his side, the saddle awaiting him, he knows he 
 will be safe from any pursuit by mounted men, as a bird upon 
 the wing. 
 
 For the safety of his faithful follower he has already con- 
 ceived measures. Jupiter is to make his way back to 
 the San Saba, and wait for him at their old camp, near the 
 crossing. Failing to come, he is to proceed on to the 
 settlement, and there take his chances of a reception. Though 
 the fugitive slave may be recognised, under Sime Woodley's 
 protection he will be safe, and with Helen Armstrong's patron- 
 age, sure of hospitable entertainment, 
 
 Withall thismentallyarranged, though not yet communicated 
 to Jupe, Clancy gives a look to his gun to assure himself 
 it is in good order ; another to the caparison of his horse ; and, 
 satisfied with both, he at length leaps into the saddle. 
 
 The mulatto has been regarding his movements with un- 
 easiness. There is that in them which forewarns him of still 
 another separation. 
 
 He is soon made aware of it, by the instructions given him, 
 in accordance with th.> plan sketched out. On Clancy telling 
 him, he is to return to the San Saba alone, with the reasons 
 why he should do so, he listens in pained surprise. 
 • Sure you don't intend leavin' me, Masser Charle 1 " 
 '• I do — I must," 
 " But whar you goin' youself? " 
 
 ■• Where God guides — it may be His avenging angel. Yes, 
 Jupe ; I'm off again, on that scoundrel's track. This shall be 
 mv last trial. If it turn out as hitherto, you may never see 
 me more — you, nor any one else. Failing, I shan't care to 
 face human kind, much less her 1 love. Ah ! I'll more dread 
 meeting my mother — her death unavenged. Bah ! There's no 
 fear, one way o.' the other. So don't you have any uneasiness 
 about the result ; but do as I've directed. Make back to 
 the river, and wait there at the crossing. Brasfort goes 
 with me ; and when you see us again, I'll have a spare horse 
 to carry you on to our journey's eud : that whose shoes ma le 
 those scratches — just now, I take it, between the legs of Dick 
 Darke." 
 
324 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 " Dear masser," rejoins Jupiter, in earnest protest. " Why 
 need ye go worryin' after that man now? You'll have plenty 
 opportunities any day. He aiut likely to leave Texas, long's 
 that young lady stays in it. Besides, them cut-throats at the 
 creek, sure come after me. They'll be this way soon's they 
 find me gone, an' set their eyes on that streak o' red colour I 
 left ahind me in the tent. Take my advice, MaBser Charle, 
 an' let's both slip out o' thar way, by pushin' straight for the 
 settlement." 
 
 " No settlement, till I've settled with him ! He can't have 
 got far away yet. Good, Brasfort ! you'll do your best to help 
 me find him [" 
 
 The hound gives a low growl, and rollicks around the legs 
 of the hors:, seeming to say : — 
 
 " Set me on the scent ; I'll show you." 
 
 Something more than instinct appears to inspire the Molos- 
 sian. Though weeks have elapsed since in the cypress 
 swamp it made savage demonstrations against Darke, when 
 taking up his trail through the San Saba bottom it behaved 
 as if actuated by the old malice, remembering the smell of 
 the man ! And now conducted beyond the place trodden by 
 Borlasse and the others, soon as outside the confusion of 
 scents, and catching his fresher one, it sends forth a cry 
 strangely intoned, altogether unlike its ordinary bay while 
 trailing a stag. It is the deep sonorous note of the sleuth- 
 hound on slot of human game ; such as oft, in the times >A' 
 Spanish American colonization, struck terror to the heart of the 
 hunted aborginal. 
 
 As already said, Brasfort has a strain of the bloodhound in 
 him ; enough to make danger for Richard Darke. Under the 
 live oak the hound would have pulled him from his saddle, 
 torn him to pieces on the spot, but for Jupiter, to whom it 
 was consigned, holding it hard back. 
 
 Clancy neither intends, nor desires, it to do so now. All he 
 wants with it, is to bring him face to face with his hated 
 foeman. That done, the rest he will do himself. 
 
 Everything decided and settled, he hastily takes leave of 
 Jupiter, and starts off along the trail, Brasfort leading. 
 
 Both are soon far away. 
 
 On the wide waste the mulatto stands alone, looking after — 
 half reproachfully for being left behind — regretting his master's 
 rashness — painfully apprehensive he may never see him more. 
 
CHAPTER LXXXII. 
 
 A HAN NEARLY MAD. 
 
 BM I still drunk? Am I dreaming?" 
 
 So Richard Darke interrogates himself, retreat- 
 ing from the strangest apparition human eyes ever 
 saw. A head without any body, not lying as after 
 careless decapitation, but as though still upon shoulders, the 
 eyes glancing and rolling, the lips moving, speaking — the 
 whole thing alive ! The head, too, of one he supposes him- 
 self to have assassinated, and for which he is a felon and fugi- 
 tive. No wonder he doubts the evidence of his senses, and at 
 first deems it fancy — an illusion from dream or drink. But a 
 suspicion also sweeps through his soul, which, more painfully 
 impressing, causes him to add still another interrogatory : 
 
 " Am I mad ? : * 
 
 He shakes his head and rubs his eyes, to assure himself he is 
 awake, sober, and sane. He is all three ; though he might 
 well wish himself drunk or dreaming — for, so scared is he, 
 there is in reality a danger of his senses forsaking him. He 
 to account for the queer thing, but cannot. Who could, 
 circumstanced as he >. From that day when he stooped over 
 ( 'laney, holding Helen Armstrong's photograph before his face, 
 and saw his eyes film over in sightless gaze, the sure fore- 
 runner of death, he has ever believed him dead. No rumour 
 haa reached him to the contrary— no newspaper paragraph, 
 from which he might draw his deductions, as Borlasse has 
 done. True, he observed some resemblance to Clancy in the 
 man who surprised him undar the live-oak; but, recalling that 
 scene under the cypress, how could he have a thought of its 
 being he ? He could not, cannot, does not jet. 
 
 But what about the head? How is he to account for that? 
 And the cries sent after him — still ringing in his ears — his 
 own name, with the added accusation he himself believes true, 
 the brand, " murderer " ! 
 
 "Am I indeed mad?" he again asks himself, riding on reck- 
 lessly, without giving guidance to his horse. His trembling 
 
 24 
 
326 THE DEATH SUOT. 
 
 hand can scarce retain Ii<>1<1 "f therein; and the animal, un- 
 controlled, is left 1" take its course — only, it must not stop or 
 Every time it shows Bign of lagging, he kicks mechani- 
 cally against its ribs, urging it on, on, anywhere away from 
 that dread damnable apparition. 
 
 It is some time bi 'ore hi recovers sufficient coolness to 
 reflect— then only with vague comprehensiveness; nothing 
 clear save thefacl thai he has completely lost himself, and 
 his way. To g on were mere guesswork. True, the moon 
 tells him the west, the direction of Coyote creek. But west- 
 ward he will not go, dreading to again encounter that 
 ■ Ih -il\ thing ; for he thinks it was there he saw it. 
 
 Better pull tip. and await the surer guidance of the sun, 
 with its light, less mystical. 
 
 So deciding, he slips out of the saddle; and letting his 
 horse out on the trail-rope, lays himself down. Regardless of 
 the animal's needs, he leaves all its caparison on, even to the 
 l.i't lut ween its teeth. What cares he for its comforts, or for 
 aught else, thinking of that horrible head? 
 
 He makes no endeavour to snatch a wink of sleep, of which 
 he has had enough ; but lies cogitating on the series of 
 st ranee incidents and Bights which have late occurred to him, 
 but chiefly the last, so painfully perplexing. He can think of 
 nothing to account for a phenomenon so abnormal, so outside 
 all laws of nature. 
 
 While vainly endeavouring t<> solve the dread enigma, a 
 sound strikes upon his ear, abruptly bringing his conjectures 
 to a close. Jt is a dull thumping, still faint and far off; but 
 distinguishable as the tramp of a horse. 
 
 Starting to his feet, he looks in the direction whence it pro- 
 - rilv. As expected, he sees a horse; and something more, a 
 man upon its back, both coming towards him. 
 
 Could it, perchance, be Bosky? Impossible! He was 
 their prisoner under the live-oak. They would never let him 
 go. Far more like it is Woodley — the terrible backwoodsman, 
 as ever after him? Whoever it be, his guilty soul tells him 
 the person approaching can be no friend of his, but an enemy, 
 a pursuer. And it may be another phantom ! 
 
 Earthly fears, with unearthly fancies, alike urging him to 
 
 flight, he stays not to make sure whether it be ghost or 
 
 human ; but, hastily taking up his trail-rope, springs to the 
 
 back of his horse, and again goes oft' in wild terrified retreat. 
 
 * * # * * 
 
 it scarce needs telling, that the horseman who has dis- 
 
A MAN" XKARLV J1AD. 
 
 327 
 
 turbed Richard Darke"s uncomfortable reflections is Charles 
 Clancy. Less than an hour has elapsed since his starting on 
 the trail, which he has followed fast ; the fresh scent enabling 
 Brasfort to take it up in a ran. From the way it zigzagged, 
 and circled about, Clancy could tell the tracked steed had 
 been going without guidance, as also guess the reason. The 
 rider, fleeing in affright, has given no heed to direction. All 
 this the pursuer knows to be in his favour; showing that the 
 pursued man has not cone to Coyote creek, but will still be 
 on the steppe, possibly astray, and perhaps not far off. 
 
 Though himself making quick time, he is not carelessly 
 pursuing; on the contrary taking every precaution to ensure 
 success. He knows that on the hard turf his horse's tread 
 can be heard to a great distance: and to hinder this he has 
 put the animal to a " pace " — a gait peculiar to Texas and the 
 South Western States. This, combining speed with silence, 
 has carried him on quickly as in a canter. The hound he has 
 once more muzzled, though not holding it in leash ; and the 
 two have gone gliding along silent as spectres. 
 
 At each turn of the trail, he directs looks of inquiry ahead. 
 
 One is at length rewarded. He is facing the moon, whose 
 disc almost touches the horizon, when alongside it he perceives 
 something dark upon the plain, distinguishable as the figure 
 of a horse. It is stationary with head to the ground, as if 
 grazing, though by the uneven outline of its back it bears 
 something like a saddle. Continuing to scrutinize, he sees it 
 is this ; and, moreover, makes out the form of a man, or what 
 resembles one, lying along the earth near by. 
 
 These observations take only an instant of time; and, while 
 making them he has halted, and by a word, spoken low, called 
 his hound off the trail. The well-trained animal obeying, 
 turns back, and stands by his side waiting. 
 
 The riderless horse, with the dismounted rider, are still a 
 good way off, more than half a mile. At that distance he 
 could not distinguish them, but for the position of the moon 
 favouring his view. Around her rim the luminous sky makes 
 more conspicuous the dark forms interposed between. 
 
 He can have no doubt as to what they are. If he had, it 
 is soon solved. For while yet gazing upon them — not in 
 conjecture, but as to how he may best make approach — he 
 perceives the tableau suddenly change. The horse tosses 
 up its head, while the man starts upon his feet. In an 
 instant they are together, and the rider in his saddle. 
 
 And now Clancy is quite sure : for the figure of the horseman, 
 
328 
 
 Tin: m:\in SHOT. 
 
 outlined against the background of moonlit sky, clear-edged 
 medallion, shows the feathered circlet surmounting his 
 head. To all appearance a red Bavage, in reality a whit one 
 bard Darke. 
 
 Clancy stays ool to think further. If he did he would lose 
 distance. For soon as in the saddle, Dark- < in full 
 
 headlong gallop. In like gait follows the avenger, forsaking 
 the cautious pace, and no Longer oaring for silence. 
 
 .Still there is no noise, save thai of the hammering ho 
 n<>\\ and then a clink, as their iron shoeing strikes a 
 Otherwise .silent, pursuer and pursued. But with very 
 different reflections ; the former terrified, half-frenzied, 
 seeking to escape from whom he knows not; the Latter, 
 cool, courageous, trying to overtake one he knows too well 
 
 Clancy pursues bui with one thought, to punish the 
 
 murderer of his mother. And stive he will succeed now. 
 
 Already is the space shortened between them, growing less 
 
 with every leap of his horse. A few strides in. ire and 
 
 rd Darke will be within range of his rifle. 
 
 Letting drop the reins, he takes tinner grasp on his gun. 
 Ilis horse needs no guidance, but goes on as before, still 
 gaining. 
 
 He is now within a hundred lengths of the retreating foe, 
 but still toe. far oft' for a sure shot. Besides, the moon is 
 in front, her light dazzling his eyes, the man he intends to- 
 take aim at going direct for her disc, as if with the design to 
 vide into it. 
 
 While he delays, calculating the distance, suddenly the 
 moon becomes obscure 1, the chased horseman simultaneously 
 disappearing from his sight ! 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXIII. 
 
 AT LENGTH THE " DEA I B Ml" I.' 
 
 j|CARCE for an instant is Clancy puzzled by the sud- 
 den disappearance of him pursued. That is ac- 
 counted for by the simplest of causes; a large rock 
 vising above the level of the plain, a loose bouldev, 
 whose breadth interposing, covers the disc of the moon. A 
 slight change of direction has brought it between; Davke 
 having deflected from his course, and stvuck towards it. 
 
AT LENGTH THE "DEATH SHOT." 329 
 
 Never did hunted fox, close pressed by hounds, make more 
 ly for cover, or seek it sj despairingly as he. He has 
 li ing ago been aware that the pursueris gaining upon him. At 
 anxious glance cast over his shoulder, he sees the dis- 
 tance decreased, while the tramp of the horse behind sounds 
 clearer and closer. 
 
 He is in doubt what to do. Every moment he may hear 
 the report of a gun. and have a bullet into his back. He 
 knows not the instant he may be shot out of his saddle. 
 
 Shall he turn upon the pursuer, make stand, aud meet him 
 lace to face ? He dares not. The dread of the unearthly is 
 ■still upon him. It may be the Devil ! 
 
 The silence, too, awes him. The pursuing horseman has 
 not yet hailed — has not spoken word, or uttered exclamation. 
 Were it not for the heavy tread of the hoof he might well 
 believe him a spectre. 
 
 If Darke only knew who it is, he would fear him as much, 
 or more. Knowing not, he continues his flight, doubting, 
 distracted. He has but one clear thought, the instinct 
 common to all chased creatures — to make for some shelter. 
 
 A copse, a Tree, even were it but a bush, anything to 
 conceal him from the pursuer's sight — from the shot he ex- 
 pects soon to be sent after him. 
 
 Ha ! what is that upon the plain? A rock! And large 
 enough to screen both him and his horse. The very thing ! 
 
 Instinctively he perceives his advantage. Behind the rock 
 he can make stand, and without hesitation he heads his horse 
 for it. 
 
 It is a slight change from his former direction, aud he loses 
 a little ground ; but recovers it by increased speed. For en- 
 iged by the hope of getting under shelter, he makes a 
 lit, urging his animal to the utmost. 
 He is soon within the shadow of the rock, still riding to- 
 wards it. 
 
 It is just then that Clan - of him, as of the moon. 
 
 But he is now also near enough to distinguish the huge 
 
 ; aud, while scanning its outlines, he sees the chased 
 
 horseman turn around it, so rapidly, and at such distance, he 
 
 I la his shot, fearing it may fail. 
 
 Between pursued and pursuer the chances have changed; 
 
 as the latter reins up to consider what lie should do, he 
 
 sees something glisten above the bi. aider, clearly distiuguish- 
 
 >S the barrel of a gun. At the same instant a voice 
 
 ■ no, Ig : — 
 
330 
 
 THE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 "I don't know who, or what you are. But I warn you t . 
 "■ nearer, [fj lo, I'll .send a bullet -Great God !" 
 
 With the profane exclamation, the Bpeaker suddenly inter 
 rupta himself, his voice having changed from its tone of 
 menace to trembling. For the moonlight is full upon the 
 face "i' him threatened ; he can trace every feature distinctly. 
 I* is the same he lit.' -aw on the sun ice of the plain ! 
 
 It can he no dream, nor freak o! fancy. Clancy is still 
 ■ lllil '■; or if dead he, Darke, is looking upon his wraith ! 
 
 To his unfinished speech lie receives instant rejoinder: — 
 
 " 'Ion don't kiiou who 1 am? Learn then ! I'm the man 
 you tried to assassinate in a Mississippian forest — Charles 
 Clancy — who means to kill you, fairer fashion, here on this 
 Texan plain. Dick Darke ! if you have a prayer to say, 
 soon ; for. sure as you stand behind that rock, I intend taking 
 your 1)1. ." 
 
 Thi' threat is spoken in a calm, determined tone, as if 
 
 surely to he kept. All the more terrible to Richard Darke, 
 
 who cannot yet realize the fact of Clancy's being alive. But that 
 
 stern summons must have come from mortal lips, and the 
 
 '"fore him is no spirit, but living flesh and blood. 
 
 Terror-stricken, appalled, shaking as with an ague, the gun 
 almost drops from his grasp. But with a last desp 
 resolve, and effort mechanical, scarce knowing what he does, 
 he raises the piece to his shoulder, and tin-. 
 
 Clancy sees the flash, the jet. the white smoke puffin:; sky- 
 ward ; then hears the crack. He has no fear, know inn' him- 
 self at a safe distance. For at this has he halted. 
 
 He does not- attempt to return the fire, nor rashly rush on. 
 Darke carries a double-barrelled gun, and has still a bullet 
 left. Besides, he has the advantage of position, the protecting 
 rampart, the moon behind his back, and in the eyes of his 
 assailant, everything in favour of the assailed. 
 
 Though chafing in angry impatience, with the thirst of 
 vengeance unappeased, Clancy restrains himself, measuring 
 the ground with his eyes, and planning how he may dislodge 
 his skulking antagonist. Must he lay siege to him, and stay 
 there till — 
 
 A low yelp interrupts his cogitations. Looking down he 
 sees Brasfort by his side. In the long trial of speed between 
 the two horses, the hound had dropped behind. The halt has 
 enabled it to get up, just in time to be of service to its master, 
 who has suddenly conceived a plan for employing it. 
 
 Leaping from his saddle, he lays holds of the muzzle strap, 
 
AT LENGTH THE "DEATH SHOT." 331 
 
 quickly unbuckling it. As though divining the reason, the dog 
 
 dashes on for the rock; soon as its jaws are released, giving 
 out a fierce angry growl. 
 
 Darke sees ir approaching in the clear moonlight, can dis- 
 tinguish its markings, remembers them. Clancy's staghound! 
 Surely Nemesis, with all hell's hosts, arc let loose on him ! 
 
 He reealls how the animal once set upon him. 
 
 Its hostility then is nought to that now. For it has 
 reached the rock, turned it, anil open-mouthed, springs at him 
 like a panther. 
 
 In vain he endeavours to avoid it, and still keep undercover. 
 While shunning its teeth, he has also to think of Clancy's 
 gun. 
 
 He cannot guard against both, if either. For the dog has 
 caught hold of his right leg, ami fixed its fangs in the flesh. He 
 tries to beat it off, striking with the butt of his gun. To no 
 purpose now. For his horse, excited by the attack, and 
 madly prancing, lias parted from the rock, exposing him to 
 the aim of the pursuer, who has. meanwhile, rushed up within 
 rifle range. 
 
 Clancy sees his advantage, and raises his gun, quick as for 
 the shooting of a snipe. The crack comes; and, simultaneous 
 with it, Richard Darke is seen to drop out of his saddle, and 
 fall face foremost on the plain — his horse, with a wild neigh, 
 bolting away from him. 
 
 The fallen man makes no attempt to rise, nor movement 
 of any kind, save a convulsive tremor through his frame ; 
 the last throe of parting life, which precedes the settled 
 stillness of death. For surely is he dead. 
 
 Clancy, dismounting, advances towards the spot; hastily, to 
 hinder the dog from tearing him, which the enraged animal 
 seems determined to do. Chiding it off, he bends over the 
 prostrate body, which he perceives has ceased to breathe. A 
 sort of curiosity, some impulse irresistible, prompts him to 
 look for the place where his bullet struck. In the heart, as 
 he can see by the red stream still flowing forth ! 
 
 " Just where he hit me ! After all, not strange — no coin- 
 cidence; I aimed at him there." 
 
 For a time he stands gazing down at the dead man's face. 
 Silently, without taunt or recrimination. On his own there is 
 ii of savage triumph, no fiendish exultation. Far from 
 his thoughts to insult, or outrage the dead. Justice has had 
 requital, and vengeance been appeased. It is neither his rival 
 in love, nor his mortal enemy, who now lies at his feet ; but a 
 
332 TOE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 breathless body, a lump of senseless clay, all the passions lute 
 
 ood and bad, g 
 
 A*, be stand n .... Darki Feal ores, in their death 
 pallor showing livid by the moon's mystic ligh of sad 
 
 is oi er In- "^ H, mill be says in subdued soliloquy : — 
 
 "Painful to think 1 have taken a man's lite— even his ! I 
 «ish it could have been otherwise. It could nol -I was com- 
 pelled to it. And surely God will forgive me. for ridding the 
 world of such a wretch 1 " 
 
 Then raising himself t«. an erect attitude, with eyes up- 
 turned to heaven — as when in the cemetery over his mother's 
 - be made that solemn vow— remembering it, he now 
 adds in like solemnal tone — 
 
 •■ fix kept my oath. Mother; tlwu art avenged!" 
 
 c trscss>""?s-j 
 
 CHAPTER LXXX1V. 
 
 THE SCOUT's KEPORT. 
 
 j|HILE these tragic incidents are occurring on Coyote 
 ('reek and the plain between, others alrno t as 
 exciting bui of less sanguinary character, take place 
 in the valley of the San Saba. 
 
 As the morning sun lights up the ancient Mission-house, its 
 walls still reverberate wailing cries, mingled with notes of 
 preparation for the pursuit. Then follows a forenoon of 
 painful suspense, no word yet from the scouters sent out. 
 
 Colonel Armstrong, and the principal men of the settlement, 
 have ascended to the azoteo to obtain a better view; and there 
 remain gazing down the valley in feverish impatience. Just 
 us the sun reaches meridian their wistful glances are rewarded; 
 but by a sight which little relieves their anxiety; cm the con- 
 trary, increasing it. 
 
 A horseman emerging from the timber, which skirts the 
 river's bank, comes on towards the Mission building. He is 
 alone, and riding at top speed — both circumstances having 
 sinister significance. Has the scouting party been cut off, 
 and he onlj < scaped to tell the tale! Is it Dupre, Hawkins, 
 or who] lie is yet too far off to be identified. 
 
 As he draws nearer, Colonel Armstrong through a telescope 
 makes him out to be Oris Tucker. 
 
 Why should the young hunter be coming back alone? 
 
the scout's report. 333 
 
 After a mutual interchange of questions and conjectures, 
 they leave off talking, and silently stand, breathlessly, await ng 
 his arrival. 
 
 in as he is within hailing distance, several unable to re- 
 strain themselves, call out, inquiring the news. 
 
 "Not bad, gentlemen! Rayther good than othcrways," 
 shouts back Iris. 
 
 His i :n their hearts, and in calmer 
 
 mood they await further information. In a short time 
 the scout presents hiuisvi ilonel Armstrong, around 
 
 whom the others cluster, all alike eager to hear the report. 
 For they are still under anxiety about the character of the 
 ders, having as yet no reason to think them other than In- 
 diana. Nor does Tucker's account contradict this idea : though 
 one thing he has to tell begets a suspicion to the contrary. 
 
 Rapidly and briefly as possible the young hunter gives 
 details of what has happened to Dupre's party, up to the tune 
 iting from it : first making their minds easy by- 
 assuring them it was then safe. 
 
 They were delayed a long time in ! i the trail of 
 
 the robbers, from these having taken a bye-path Leading along 
 the base of the bluff. At length having found the route of 
 their retreat, they followed it over the lower ford, and there 
 
 gn to convince them that the Indians — still sir. i 
 them such — hud gone on across the bottom, and in all proba- 
 1 lility up the bluff beyond — thus identifying them with the baud 
 which the hunters had seen and tracked down. Indeed no 
 one doubted this, nor could. Hut. while the scouters were 
 examining the return tracks, they came upon others less 
 intelligible — in short, perplexing. There were the hoof-marks 
 of four horses and a mule — all shod; first seen upon a side 
 .a the main ford-road. Striking into and 
 following it for a few hundred yards, they came upon a place 
 where men had encamped and stayed ae — perhaps 
 
 slept. The grass bent down showed where their bodies had 
 been astretch. And these men must have been white. Frag- 
 ments of biscnit, with other debris of eatables, not known to 
 Indians, were evidence of this. 
 
 Returning from the abandoned bivouac, with the intuition 
 to ride straig 'he Mission, the SC upon 
 
 leading out on the op hie ford 
 
 road, and up the river. On to 
 
 the shod hoi them the footprints of a 
 
 large : 
 
334 
 
 Till: 0KATU. SHOT. 
 
 Taking this second trace it conducted them to a glade, with 
 a grand tree, a live oak, standing in its centre. The sign 
 told of the party having stopped there also. While o© 
 in examining their traces, and much mystified by tl 
 they picked up an article, which, instead of making matters 
 clearer, tended to mystify them more — a wig! Of all things 
 in the world this in such a place! 
 
 Still, not so strange either, seeing it was the counter- 
 feit of an Indian chevelwe — the hair long and black. I 
 from the tail of a horse. 
 
 For all, it had never belonged to, or covered a red man's skull 
 — since it was that worn by Bosley, and torn from his head when 
 Woodley and Heywood were stripping him for examination. 
 
 The SCOUterS, "f course, could not know of this ; and. while 
 inspecting the queer waif, wondering what it could mean, two 
 others were taken up : one a sprig of cypress, the other an 
 orange blossom; both showing as if but lately plucked, and 
 alike out of place there. 
 
 Dupre, with some slight botanic knowledge, knew that no 
 orange-tree grew near,ni ir yet any cypress. But he remembered 
 having observed both in the Mission-garden, into which the 
 girls had been last seen going. Without being able to guess 
 why they should have brought sprig or flower along, he was 
 sure they had themselves been under the live oak. Where 
 were they now 1 
 
 In answer, Hawkins had cried: "Gone this way! Here's 
 the tracks of the shod horses leading up stream, this side. 
 Let's follow them !" 
 
 So they had done, after despatching Tucker with the report. 
 
 It is so far satisfactory, better than any one expected: and 
 inspires Colonel Armstrong with a feeling akin to hope. Some- 
 thing seems to whisper him his lost children will be recovered. 
 
 Long ere the sun has set over the valley of the San Saba 
 his heart is filled, and thrilled, with joy indescribable. For 
 his daughters are by his side, their arms around his neck, 
 tenderly, lovingly entwining it, as on that clay when told they 
 must forsake their stately Mississippian home for a hovel in 
 Texas. All have reached the Mission ; for the scouting party 
 having overtaken that of Woodley, came in along with it. 
 
 No, not all, two are still missing — Clancy and Jupiter. 
 About the latter Woodley has made no one the wiser; though 
 he tells Clancy's strange experience, which, while astounding 
 his auditory, fills them with keen apprehension for the young 
 man's fate. 
 
A CHANGE OF PROGRAMME. 335 
 
 Keenest is that in the breast of Helen Armstrong. Herself 
 saved, she is now all the more solicitous about the safety of her 
 Her looks bespeak more than anxiety — anguish. 
 
 But there is that being done to binder her from despair- 
 ing. The pursuers are rapidly getting ready to start out, 
 and with zeal unabated. For, although circumstances 
 changed by the recovery of the captives, there is sufficient 
 motive for pursuit — the lost treasure to be re-taken — the out- 
 laws chastised — Clancy's 1 fetobe saved, or his death avenged. 
 
 \V [ley's words have tired them afresh, and they are im- 
 patient to set forth. 
 
 Their im] latience reaches its climax, when Colonel Armstrong, 
 with head uncovered, his white hair blown up by the evening 
 breeze, addresses them, saying: — 
 
 " Fellow citizens ! We have to thank the Almighty that 
 our dear ones have escaped a -rem danger. But while grate- 
 ful to G"d, let us remember there is a man also deserving grati- 
 tude. A brave young man. we all believed dead — murdered. 
 He is still alive, let us hope so. Simeon Woodley has told us 
 of the danger he is now in — death if he fall into the hands of 
 these desperate outlaws; Friends, and fellow citizens ! 
 I need not appeal to yon on behalf of this noble youth. 
 I know you are all of erne mind with myself, that come what 
 will, cost what it may, Charles ( 'lancy must be saved." 
 
 The enthusiastic shout, sent up in response to the old 
 soldier's speech, tells that the pursuit will be at least energetic 
 and earnest. 
 
 Helen Armstrong, standing retired, looks more hopeful now. 
 And with her hope is mingled pride, at the popularity of him 
 to whom she has given heart, and promised hand. Some- 
 thing more to make her happy ; she now knows that, in the 
 bestowing of both, she will have the approval of her father. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXW. 
 
 A CHANGE OF PROGRAMME. 
 
 jN the far frontier of Texas, still unsettled by civilized 
 man. no chanticleer gives note of the dawn. In- 
 stead, the meleagris salutes the sunrise with a cry 
 equally high-toned, and quite as home-like. For 
 
336 Till. DEATH SHOT. 
 
 obbling of the wild turkey-cook is scarcely distinguish- 
 able from thai of Ins domesticated brother of the farmyard. 
 
 A gang of thcso great birds 1ms rousted in the p 
 grove, close to where the prairie pirates are encamped. At 
 daylight's approach, they fly up to the tops of the trees; the 
 mules, as is their wont in the spring months of the year, 
 mutually sounding their sonorous challenge. 
 
 It awakes the robbers from the shnnher succeeding their 
 drunken debauch ; their chief first of any. 
 
 Coming forth from his tent, he calls upon the others to get 
 up — ordering several horses to be saddled. He designs de- 
 spatching a party to the upper plain, in search of (JuantreU 
 and Bosley, not yet come to camp. 
 
 He wants another word with the mulatto; and steps towards 
 the tent, where he supposes the man to be. 
 
 At its entrance he sees blood — inside a dead body ! 
 His cry, less of sorrow than anger, brings his followers 
 around. One after another peering into the tent, they see 
 what is there. There is no question about how the thing oc- 
 curred. It is clear to all. Their prisoner has killed his 
 guard; as they say, assassinated him. Has the assassin 
 escaped 1 
 
 They scatter in search of him, by twos and threes, rushing 
 from tent to tent. Some proceed to the corral, there to see 
 that the bars are down, and the horses out. 
 
 These are discovered in a strip of meadow near by, one 
 only missing. It is that the chief had seized from their white 
 prisoner, and appropriated. The yellow one has replevined it ! 
 The ghastly spectacle in the tent gives them no horror. 
 They are too hardened for that. But it makes them feel, 
 notwithstanding; first auger, soon succeeded by apprehension. 
 The dullest brute in the baud has some perception of danger 
 as its consequence. Hitherto their security has depended on 
 keeping up their incognito by disguises, and the secrecy of 
 their camping place. Here is a prisoner escaped, who knows 
 all ; can tell about their travesties ; guide a pursuing party to 
 the spot ! They must remain no longer there. 
 
 Borlasse recognising the necessity for a change of pro- 
 gramme, summons his following around him. 
 
 "Boys ! " he says, " I needn't point out to ye that this ugly 
 business puts us in a bit o' a fix. We've got to clear out o' 
 hyar right quick. I reckon our best way '11 be to make tracks 
 for San Antone, an' thar scatter. Even then, we won't be 
 too safe, if yellow skin turns up to tell his story about us. 
 
A CHANGE OF PROGRAMME. 337 
 
 Lucky a nigger's testyruony don't count for much in a Texan 
 court ; an' thar's still a chance to make it count for nothin' 
 Dy our knocking him on the head." 
 
 All look surprised, their glances interrogating " How 1 " 
 
 " I see you don't understan' me," pursues Borlasse in expla- 
 nation. " It's easy enough ; but we must mount at once, an' 
 make after him. He won't so readily find his way acrosst 
 the cut-rock plain. An' I tell yez, boys, it's our only chance." 
 
 There are dissenting voices. Some urge the danger of going- 
 back that way. They may meet the outraged settlers. 
 
 "No fear of them yet." argues the chief, "but there will 
 lie it the nigger meets them. We needn't go on to the .San 
 Saba. If we don't overtake him 'fore reachin' the cotton- 
 wood, we'll hev' to let him slide. Then we can hurry back 
 hyar, an' go down the creek to the Colorado." 
 
 The course counselled, seeming best, is decided on. 
 
 Hastily saddling their horses, and stowing the plunder in a 
 place where it will be safe till their return, they mount, and 
 start off for the upper plain. 
 
 Silence again reigns around the deserted camp ; no human 
 voice there — no sound, save the calling of the wild turkeys, 
 that cannot awake that ghastly sleeper. 
 
 * # * # # # 
 
 At the same hour, almost the very moment, when Borlasse 
 and his freebooters, ascending from Coyote Creek, set foot on 
 the table plain, a party of mounted men, coming up from the 
 San Saba bottom, strikes it on the opposite edge. It is 
 scarce necessary to say that these are the pursuing settlers. 
 Dupre at their head. Hardly have they struck out into 
 the sterile waste, before getting bewildered, with neither trace 
 nor track to give them a clue to the direction. But they 
 have with them a surer guide than the foot-prints of men, or 
 the hoof-marks of horses — their prisoner Bill Bosley. 
 
 To save his life, the wretch told all about his late associates, 
 and is now conducting the pursuers to Coyote Creek. 
 
 Withal, he is not sure of the way; and halts hesitatingly. 
 
 Woodley mistaking his uncertainty for reluctance, puts a 
 pistol to his head, saying : — 
 
 " Bill Bosley ! altho' I don't make estimate o' yur life as 
 more account than that o' a cat, it may be, I spose, precious 
 to yurself. An' ye kin only save it by takin' us strait to 
 whar ye say Jim Borlasse an' his beauties air. Show sign o' 
 precvarication, or go a yurd's length out o' the right track, 
 an' — wal, I won't shoot ye, as I'm threetenin'. That 'ud 
 
338 THE I'l Mil SHOT, 
 
 be a deal b too good for sech .is you. But I promise ye'll gi t yer 
 neck streetched on the nearest, tree ; an' if no tree turn up, 
 I'll tie ye to the tail o' my horse, an' bang ye that way. So, 
 take yur choice. If ye want to chaw any more com, don't 
 'tempt playin' possum." 
 
 "1 hain't no thought of it," protests Bosley, "indeed I 
 hain't, Sime. I'm only puzzled 'boul the trail from here. 
 Tho' I've been accrosl tins plain several times, I never took 
 much notice, bcin' with the others. 1 only know there's a 
 tree stands by itself. \( we can reach that, the road's easier 
 beyont. I think it's out yonnerways." 
 
 He points in particular direction. 
 
 " Wal, we'll try that way," says Sime, adding : "Ef yer 
 story don't prove strait, there'll come a crik in yur neck, Boon's 
 it's diskivered to be crooked. So w;istc no more words, bul 
 strike for the timmer ye speak o'." 
 
 The alacrity with which Bosley obeys tells he is sincere. 
 
 Proof of his sincerity is soon after obtained in the tree 
 itself being observed. Far off they descry it outlined against 
 the clear sky, solitary as a ship at sea. 
 
 " Yonner it air, sure emit'!'' says Woodley first sighting- 
 it. "I reck'n the skunk's tellin' us the truth, 'bout that 
 stick o' timber being a finger post. Tharfor, no more dilly- 
 dallyin', but on to't quick as our critters can take us. Tliar's 
 a man's life in danger: one that's dear to inc. as I reckon he'd 
 be to all o' ye, ef ye knowed him, same's I do. Ye heerd 
 what the old kuruel saved, as we war start in' out: Sost what il 
 iiiout, Charley Clancy air to be saved. So put the prod to your 
 eiitters, an' let's on !" 
 
 Saying this, the hunter spurs his horse to its best speed ; 
 and soon all are going at full gallop in straight course 
 for the cottonwood. 
 
CHAPTER LXXXVI. 
 
 ALONE WITH THE DEAD. 
 
 IESIDE the body of his fallen foe stands Charles 
 Clancy, but with no intention there to tarry long. 
 The companionship of the dead is ever painful, 
 whether it be friend or enemy. With the latter, 
 alone, it may appal. Something of this creeps over his 
 spirit while standing there; for he has now no strong pas- 
 sion to sustain him, not even anger. 
 
 After a few moments, he turns his back on the corpse, 
 
 calling Brasfort away from it. The dog yet shows hostility ; 
 
 and, if permitted, would mutilate the lifeless remains. Its 
 
 canine instinct has no generous impulse, and is only re- 
 
 strained by scolding and threats. 
 
 The sun is beginning to show above the horizon, and Clancy 
 perceives Darke's horse tearing about over the plain. He is 
 reminded of his promise made to Jupiter. 
 
 The animal does not go clear off, but keeps circling round, 
 as if it desired to come back again ; the presence of the 
 other horse attracting, and giving it confidence. Clancy calls 
 to it, gesticulating in a friendly manner, and uttering excla- 
 mations of encouragement. By little and little, it draws 
 nearer, till at length its muzzle is in contact with that of his 
 own steed ; and, seizing the bridle, he secures it. 
 
 Casting a last looi at the corpse, he turns to the horses, 
 
 intending bo take departure from the spot. So little time 
 
 has been spent in the pursuit, and the short conflict succeed- 
 
 t occurs to him lie may overtake Jupiter, before the 
 
 latter has reached the San Saba. 
 
 Scanning around to get bearings, his eye is attracted to an 
 object, now familiar — -the lone cottonwood. It is not much 
 over two miles off. Ou Darke's trail he must have ridden at 
 least leagues. Its crooked course, however, explains the 
 tree's proximity. The circles and zig-zags have brought both 
 pursuc'l and pursuer nigh back to the starting point. 
 
 Since the cottonwood is there, ho cannot be so far from the 
 
340 TIIK DEATH SHOT. 
 
 other place, lie has such reason to remember j and, again 
 
 r unning his eye around, he lookfi fur it. 
 
 He sees it not, as there is nothing now to be seen, except 
 some scattered mould (indistinguishable at a distance. In- 
 stead, the rising sun lights up the figure of a man, afoot, aud 
 more than a mile off. Not standing still, hut in motion; as 
 lie can see, moving towards himself It is Jupiter! 
 
 Thus concluding, he is about to mount and meet him, 
 when stayed by a strange reflection. 
 
 " I'll let Jupe have a look at his old master," he mutters 
 to himself. " lie too had old scores to settle with him — 
 many a one recorded upon his skin. It may give him satis- 
 faction to know how the thing has ended." 
 
 Meanwhile the mulatto — for it is he — comes on; at first 
 slowly, and with evident caution in his approach. 
 
 Soon he is seen to quicken his step, changing it to a run; 
 at length arriving at the rock, breathless as one who reaches 
 the end of a race. The sight which meets him there gives 
 him but slight surprise. He has been prepared for it. 
 
 In answer to Clancy's inquiry, he briefly explains his pre- 
 ■ me upon the spot. Disobedient to the instructions given 
 him, instead of proceeding towards the San Saba bottom, he 
 had remained upon the steppe. Not stationary, but following 
 his master as fast as he could, and keeping him in view so 
 long as the distance allowed. Two things were in his favour 
 — the clear moonlight and Darke's trail doubling back upon 
 itself. Fur all, he had at length lost sight of the tracking 
 horseman, but not till he had caught a glimpse of him 
 tracked, tleeing before. It was the straight tail-ou-eud-chasc 
 that took both beyond reach of his vision. Noting the direc- 
 tion, he still went hastening after, soon to hear a sound which 
 told him the chase had come to a termination, aud strife com- 
 menced. This was the report of a gun, its full, round boom 
 proclaiming it a smooth-bore fowling-piece. Remembering 
 that his old master always carried this — his new one never 
 — it must be the former who fired the shot. And, as for a long 
 while no other answered it, he was in despair, believing the 
 latter killed. Then reached his ear the angry bay of the 
 bloodhound, with mens' voices intermingled ; ending all the 
 clear, sharp crack of a rifle ; which, from the stillness that suc- 
 ceeded continuing, he knew to be the last shot. 
 
 " An' it war the last, as I can see," he says, winding up his 
 account, and turning towards the corpse. " Ah ! you've 
 gi'n him what he thought he'd guv you — his death-shot." 
 
ALONE WITH THE DEAD. 341 
 
 " Yes, Jupe. He's got it at last ; and strange enough in 
 the very place where he hit me. You see where my bullet 
 has struck him?" 
 
 The mulatto, stooping down over Darke's body, examines the 
 wound, still dripping blood. 
 
 " You're right, Masser Charle ; it's in de adzack spot. 
 Well, that is curious. Seems like your gun war guided by de 
 hand of that avengiu' angel you spoke o'." 
 
 Saving thu- delivered himself, the fugitive slave becomes 
 silent and thoughtful, for a time, bending over the body of his 
 once cruel master, now no more caring for his cruelty, or in 
 fear of being chastised by him. 
 
 With what strange reflections must that spectacle inspire 
 him! The outstretched arms lying helpless along the earth — 
 the claw-like fingers now stiff' and nerveless — he may be think- 
 ing how they once clutched a cow-hide, vigorously laying it on 
 his own back, leaving those terrible scai-s. 
 
 "Come, Jupe!" says Clancy, rousing him from his reverie; 
 " we must mount, and be off." 
 
 Soon they are in their saddles, ready to start; but stay yet 
 a little longer. For something has to be considered. It is 
 necessary for them to make sure about their route. They 
 must take precautions against getting strayed, as also another 
 and still greater danger. Jupiter's escape from the robbers' 
 den, with the deed that facilitated it, will by this have been 
 discovered. It is more than probable he will be pursued; 
 indeed almost certain. And the pursuers will come that war; 
 at any moment they may appear. 
 
 This is the dark side of the picture presented to Clancy's 
 imagination, as he turns his eyes towards the west. Facing 
 in the opposite direction his fancy summons up one brighter. 
 For there lies the San Sal a Mission-house, within whose walls 
 he will find Helen Armstrong. He has now no doubt that she 
 has reached home in safety; knows, too, that her father still 
 lives. For the mulatto has learnt as much from the outlaws. 
 While en route to Coyote Creek, and during his sojourn there, 
 he overheard them speak about the massacre of the slaves, as 
 also the immunity extended to their masters, with the reason 
 for it. It is glad tidings to Clancy. His bretrothed, restored 
 to hi ' ms, will not the less affectionately open her 
 
 own to receive him. The long night of their sorrowing has 
 : the morn of their joy comes; its daylight is already 
 dawning. He will have a welcome, sweet as ever met man. 
 
 " What's that out yonner 1 " exclaims Jupiter, pointing west. 
 
342 TnE DKATH SHOT. 
 
 Clancy's rapture ifl interrupted— hifl bright dream dissipated 
 — suddenly, as when a oloud drifts over the disc of the sun. 
 
 And it is the sun which causes the change, or rather the 
 reflection of its rays from something seen afar off, over the 
 plain. Several points sparkle, appearing and disappearing 
 through a semi-opaque mass, whose dun colour shows it to 
 be dust. 
 
 Experienced in prairie-sign he can interpret this; and does 
 easily, but with a heaviness at his heart. The things that 
 sparkle are guns, pistols, knives, belt-buckles, bitts, and 
 stirrups ; while that through which they intermittingly shine 
 is the stoor tossed up by the hooves of horses. It is a bodj 
 of mounted men in march across the steppe. 
 
 Continuing to scan the dust-cloud, he peri de it a 
 
 darker nucleus, evidently horses and men, though he is unable 
 to trace the individual forms, or make out their number. No 
 mattes for that; there is enough to identify them without. 
 They are coming from the side of the Colorado — from Coyote 
 Creek. Beyond doubt the desperadoes ! 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXVII. 
 
 HOSTILE COHORTS. 
 
 IERFECTLY sure that the band is that of Borlasse, 
 which he almost instantly is, Clancy draws his 
 horse behind the rock, directing Jupiter to do like- 
 wise. Thus screened, they can command a view of 
 the 'horsemen, without danger of being themselves seen. 
 
 For greater security both dismount ; the mulatto holding 
 the horses, while his master sets himself to observe the move- 
 ments of the approaching troop. 
 Is it approaching? 
 
 Yes ; but not direct for the rock Its head is towards the 
 tree, and the robbers are evidently making to reach this. 
 As already said, the topography of the place is peculiar ; the 
 lone cottonwood standing on the crest of a couteau de prairie, 
 whose sides slope east and west. It resembles the roof of a 
 houge, but with gentler declination. Similarly situated on 
 the summit of the ridge, is the boulder, but with nearly a 
 league's length between it and the tree. 
 
HOSTILE COHORTS. 343 
 
 Soon as assured that the horsemen are heading for the 
 latter, Clancy breathes freer breath. But without being 
 satisfied he is safe. He knows they will not stay there ; 
 and where next ? He reflects what might have been his fate 
 were he still in the prairie stocks. Borlasse will be sure to pay 
 that place a visit. Not finding the victim of his cruelty, he will 
 seek elsewhere. Will it occur to him to come on to the rock ? 
 
 Clancy so interrogates, with more coolness, and less fear, 
 than may be imagined. His horse is beside him, and Jupiter 
 has another. The mulatto is no longer encumbered by a 
 mule. Darke's steed is kuown to be a swift one, and not 
 likely to be outrun by any of the robber troop. If chased, 
 some of them might overtake it, but not all, or not at the 
 same time. There will be less danger from their following in 
 detail, and thus Clancy less fears them. For he knows that 
 his yellow-skinned comrade is strong as courageous ; a match 
 for any three ordinary men. And both are now well armed — 
 Darke's double-barrel, as his horse, having reverted to Jupiter. 
 Besides, as good luck has it, there are pistols found in the 
 holsters, to say nothing of that long bladed, and late blood- 
 stained, knife. In a chase they will have a fair chance to 
 escape ; and, if it come to a fight, can make a good one. 
 
 While he is thus speculating upon the probabilities of the 
 outlaws coming on to the rock, and what may be the upshot 
 afterwards, Clancy's ear is again saluted by a cry from his 
 companion. But this time in tone very different : for it is 
 jubilant, joyous. 
 
 Turning, he sees Jupiter standing with face to the east, and 
 pointing in that direction. To what % Another cloud of dust, 
 that prinkles with sparkling points ; another mounted troop 
 moving across the plain ! And also making for the tree, which, 
 equi-distant between the two, seems to be the beacon of both. 
 
 Quick as he reached the conclusion about the first band 
 being that of Borlasse, does he decide as to that of the second. 
 It is surely the pursuing colonists, and as sure with Sime 
 Woodley at their head. 
 
 Both cohorts are advancing at a like rate of speed, neither 
 riding rapidly. They have been so, but now, climbing the 
 acclivity, they have quieted their horses to a walk. The pace 
 though slow, continued, will in time bring them together. A 
 collision seems inevitable. His glance gladdens as he measures 
 the strength of the two parries. The former not only in 
 greater number, but with God on their side ; while the latter 
 will be doing battle under the banner of the Devil. 
 
344 
 
 THE DEATH SUOT. 
 
 About the issue of such encounter he has no anxiety. He 
 is only apprehensive it may not come off. Something may 
 arise to warn the outlaws, and give them a chance to shun it. 
 
 As yet neither party has a thought of the other's proximity 
 or approach. They cannot, with the ridge between. Still 
 is there that, which should make them .suspicious of something. 
 Above each hand are buzzards— a large flock. They flout the 
 air in sportive flight, their instinct admonishing them that the 
 two parties arc hostile, and likely to spill each other's blood. 
 
 About the two sets of birds what will both sides be saying ? 
 For. high in heaven, both must long since have observed 
 them. From their presence what conjectures will they draw? 
 
 So Clancy questions, answering himself: 
 
 " Borlasse will suppose the flock afar to be hovering over 
 my head ; while Woodley may believe the other one above my 
 dead bodj '." 
 
 Strange as it may appear, just thus, and at the same instant. 
 are the two leaders interpreting the sign! And well for the 
 result Clancy desires; since it causes neither to command hall 
 or make delay. On the contrary impels them forward more 
 impetuously. Perceiving this, he mechanically mutters : 
 
 " Thank the Lord ! They must meet now !" 
 
 Curbing his impatience, as he best can, he continues to 
 watch the mutually approaching parties. At the bead of the 
 colonists he bow sees Sime Woodley, recognises him by bis 
 horse — a brindled "claybank," with stripes like a zebra Would 
 that he could communicate with his old comrade, and give him 
 word, or sign of warning. He dares not do either. To stir an 
 inch from behind the rock, would expose him to the view of 
 the robbers, who might still turn and retreat. 
 
 With heart beating audibly, blood coursing quick through 
 his veins, he watches and waits, timing the crisis. It must 
 come soon. The two flocks of vultures have met in mid- 
 air, and mingle their sweeping gyrations. They croak in 
 mutual congratulation, anticipating a splendid repast. 
 
 Clancy counts the moments. They cannot be many. The 
 heads of the horsemen already align with the tufts of grass 
 growing topmost on the ridge. Their brows are above it; 
 their eyes. They have sighted each other ! 
 
 A halt on both sides; horses hurriedly reined in; no shouts; 
 only a word of caution from the respective leaders of the 
 troops, each calling back to his own. Then an interval of 
 silence, disturbed by the shrill screams of the horses, chal- 
 lenging from troop to troop, seemingly hostile as their riders. 
 
HOSTILE COHORTS. 345 
 
 In another instant both have broken halt, and are going in 
 gallop over the plain ; not towards each other, hut one 
 pursuing, the other pursued. The robbers are in retreat ! 
 
 Clancy bid not waited for this ; his cue came before, soon 
 as they caught sight of one another. Then, vaulting into his 
 saddle, and calling Jupiter to follow, he was off. 
 
 Riding at top speed, cleaving the air, till it whistles past his 
 ears, with eyes strained forward, he sees the changed attitude 
 of the troops. 
 
 He reflects not on it ; all his thoughts becoming engrossed, 
 all his energies bent, upon taking part in the pursuit, and still 
 more in the fight he hopes will follow. He presses on in a 
 diagonal line between pursued and pursuers. His splendid 
 steed now shows its good qualities, aud gladly he sees he is 
 gaining upon both. "With like gladness that they are near- 
 ing one another, the short-striding mustangs being no match 
 for the long legged American horses. As yet not a shot has 
 been fired. The distance is still too great for the range of 
 rifles, and backwoodsmen do not idly waste ammunition. The 
 only sounds heard are the trampling of the hooves, and the 
 occasional neigh of a horse. The riders are all silent, in both 
 troops alike — one in the mute eagerness of flight, the other 
 with the stern earnestness of pursuit. 
 
 And now puffs of smoke arise over each, with jets of flame 
 projected outward. Shots, at first dropping and single, then in 
 thick rattling fusillade. Along with them cries of encourage- 
 ment, min-led with shouts of defiance. Then a wild " hurrah," 
 the charging cheer, as the colonists close upon the outlaws. 
 
 Clancy rides straight for the fray. In front he sees the 
 plain shrouded in dense sulphureous mist, at intervals illumined 
 by yellow flashes. Another spurt, and, passing through the 
 thin outer strata of smoke, he is in the thick of the conflict 
 — among men on horseback grappling other mounted men, en- 
 deavouring to drag them out of the saddle — some afoot, fight- 
 ing in pairs, firing pistols, or with naked knives, hewing away 
 at one another ! 
 
 He sees that the fight is nigh finished, and the robbers 
 routed. Some are dismounted, on their knees crying " quar- 
 ter," and piteously appealing for mercy. 
 
 Where is Sime Woodley? Has his old comrade been killed? 
 
 Half frantic with this fear, he rushes distractedly over the 
 
 ground, calling out the backwoodsman's name. He is answered 
 
 by another — -by Ned Heywood, who staggers to his side, 
 
 bleeding, his face blackened with powder. 
 
346 TDE DEATH SHOT. 
 
 "You arc wounded, Heywoodt" 
 
 " Yea ; or I wouldn't be here." 
 
 «Wh 
 
 " Because Sime " 
 
 •■ Where is he I " 
 
 " Went thai way in chase o' a big brute of a fellow. I've 
 jest spied them passin* through the smoke. For God's sake, 
 after! Sinn' may stand in need o' ye." 
 
 Clancy stays not to hear more, hut again urges his horse 
 to speed, with head in the direction indicated. 
 
 Darting on, he is soon out into the clear atmosphere; 
 there to see two horsemen going off over the plain, pursued 
 and pursuer. In the former he recognises B "lass;', while the 
 latter is Woodier. Both are upon strong, swift, horses; but 
 better mounted than either, he Boons gains uj on them. 
 
 The backwoodsman is Hearing the brigand. Clancj 
 with satisfaction, though not without anxiety. He knows 
 Jim Borlasse is an antagonist not to be despised. Driven to 
 desperation, he will fight like a grizzly bear. Woodlcy will 
 need all his strength, courage, and strategy. 
 
 Eager to assist his old comrade, he presses onward ; 
 but, before he can come up, they have cl*sed, and are at it. 
 
 Not in combat, paces apart, with rifles or pistols. Not a shot 
 is being exchanged between them. Instead, they are close 
 together, have clutched one another, and are fighting, hand to 
 hand, with Bowies ! 
 
 It commenced ou horseback, but at the first grip both came 
 to the ground, dragging each other down. Now the fight 
 continues on foot, each with his bared blade hacking and 
 hewing at the other. 
 
 A dread spectacle these two gigantic gladiators engaged 
 in mortal strife ! All the more in its silence. Neither utters 
 shout, or speaks word. They are too intent upon killing. 
 The only sound heard is their hoarse breathing as they pant to 
 recover it — each holding the other's arm to hinder the 
 fatal stroke. 
 
 Clancy's heart beats apprehensively for the issue ; and 
 with rifle cocked, he rides on to send a bullet through 
 Borlasse. 
 
 It is not needed. No gun is to give the cottp de grace to 
 the chief of the prairie pirates. For, the blade of a h iwie- 
 knife has passed between his ribs, laying him lifeless along 
 the earth. 
 
 " You, Charley Clancy ! " says Sime, in joyful surprise at 
 
HOSTILE COHORTS. 347 
 
 seeing his friend still safe. " Thank the Lord for it ! But 
 who'd a thought o' meeting ye in the middle of the skrimmage'? 
 And in time to stan' by me hed that been needful. But whar hev 
 ye come from ? Dropt out o' the clouds ? An' what o' Dick 
 Darke? I'd most forgot that leetle matter. Have ye seed him ?" 
 
 " I have." 
 
 " Wal; what's happened? Hev ye did anythin' to him?" 
 
 "The same as you have done to Mm," answers Clancy, 
 pointing to the body of Borlasse. 
 
 " Good for you! I know'd it 'ud end that way. I say'd so 
 to that sweet critter, when I war leevin' her at the Mission." 
 
 " You left her there — safe?" 
 
 " Wal, I left her in her father's arunis, whar I reckon she'll 
 be safe enough. But whar's Jupe?" 
 
 " He's here — somewhere behind." 
 
 " All right ! That accounts for the hul party. Now let's 
 back, and see what's chanced to the rest o' this ruffin crew. 
 So, Jim Borlasse, good bye!" 
 
 With this odd leave taking, he turns away, wipes fhe blood 
 from his bowie, returns it to its sheath, and once more climb- 
 ing into his saddle, rides off to rejoin the victorious colonists. 
 
 On the ground where the engagement took place, a sad 
 spectacle is presented. The smoke has drifted away, disclosing 
 the corpses of the slain — horses as well as men. All the 
 freebooters have fallen, and now lie astretch as they fell to 
 stab or shot ; some on their backs, others with face down- 
 ward, or doubled sideways, but all dead, gashed, and gory — 
 not a wounded man among them ! For the colonists, recalling 
 that parallel spectacle in the Mission courtyard, have given 
 loose rein to the lex talionis, and exacted a terrible retribution. 
 
 Nor have they themselves got off unscathed. The despera- 
 does being refused quarter, fought it out to the bitter end ; 
 killing several of the settlers, and wounding many more; 
 among the latter two known to us — Heywood and Dupre. 
 By good fortune, neither badly, and both to recover from 
 their wounds ; the young Creole also recovering his stolen 
 treasure, found secreted at the camp on Coyote creek. 
 * # * • # 
 
 Our tale might here close ; for it is scarce necessary to 
 record what came afterwards. The reader will guess, and 
 correctly, that Dupre became the husband of Jessie, and 
 Helen the wife of Clancy ; both marriages being cele- 
 brated at the same time, and both with full consent and 
 approval of the only living parent — Colonel Armstrong. 
 
.;is 
 
 Tllli DEATH SHOT. 
 
 AimI on tlie same day, though at a different hour, a third 
 couple w;us made roan and wife ; Jupe getting spliced to his 
 .Ink, from whom he had been so long cruelly kept apart. 
 
 It is some years since then, and changes have taken place 
 in the colony. As yet none to be regretted, but the reverse. 
 A Court-House town has sprung up on the site of the ancient 
 Mission, the centre of a district of plantations — the largest of 
 them belonging to Luis Dupre; wdiile one almost as extensive, 
 and equally aa flourishing, has Charles Clancy for owner. 
 
 On the latter live Jupe and Jule; Jupe overseer, Jule at 
 the head of the domestic department; while on the former 
 reside two other personages presented in this tale, it is hoped 
 with interest attached to them. They are Blue Bill, and his 
 Phoebe; not living alone, but iu the midst of a numerous pro- 
 geny of piccaninies. 
 
 How the coon-hunter comes to be there requires explana- 
 tion. A word will be sufficient. Ephraim Darke stricken 
 down by the disgrace brought upon him, has gone to his 
 grave ; and at the breaking up of his slave establishment, 
 Blue Bill, with all his belongings, was purchased by Dupre, 
 and transported to his present home. This not by any accident, 
 but designedly ; as a reward for his truthfuluess, with the 
 courage he displayed in declaring it. 
 
 Between the two plantations, lying contiguous, Colonel 
 Armstrong comes and goes, scarce knowing which is his proper 
 place of residence. In both he has a bedroom, and a table 
 profusely spread, with the warmest of welcomes. 
 
 In the town itself is a market, plentifully supplied with 
 provisions, especially big game — bear-meat, and venison. Not 
 strange, considering that it is catered for by four of the most 
 skilful hunters in Texas ; their names, Woodley. Hey wood, 
 Hawkins, and Tucker. When off duty these worthies may be 
 seen sauntering through the streets, and relating the experi- 
 ences of their latest hunting expedition. 
 
 But there is one tale, which Sime, the oldest of the quar- 
 tette, has told over and over — yet never tires telling. Need I 
 say, it is the 
 
 "Seath Shot?" 
 
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 *,* The best Bet of Volumes 1 'or Prize*, Rewards, or Gifts Io English Lads. They have all been 
 
 prepared by Mr. Beeton with a view to their fitness in manly, tone and handsome »pi>eanniee for 
 presents for Youth, amongBt whom they enjoy an unrivalled degree of popularity, which never Bi 
 
 14. BRAVE BRITISH SOLDIERS 
 
 am. 1 BE VICTt )RIA CROSS. 
 
 15. ZOOLOGICAL RECREATIONS. 
 
 ByW. J. Brodektp, F.R.S. 
 
 16. WILD ANIMALS IN FREEDOM 
 
 AND CAPTIVITY. 
 
 17. The MAN among thf MONKEYS, 
 is. THE WORLD'S EXPLORERS. 
 
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 / 'l\ 
 
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 i. Madame Ti 
 
 2. Till I 
 
 3. 1 in G im 01 Franci . 
 
 4. 1 in Blockade. 
 
 5. The Stati 1789. 
 
 L. Tbe Country in Danger, 1792. 
 
 7. Waterloo. 
 
 8. The Illustrious Dr. Mathki 5. 
 
 9. Popi'i.ar Tai.es and Romances. 
 
 10. Friend Fritz. 
 
 11. The Alsacian Schoolmaster. 
 
 12. The Polish Jew. 
 
 13. Peace. 
 
 14. AVAR. 
 
 15. Year One of the Republic, 1793. 
 
 16. Citizen Bonaparte, 1794 — 1815. 
 
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HOUSEHOLD AND USEFUL BOOKS. 
 
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 3. BRITISH SONG BIRDS. How to Rear and How to Rear and Manage them. Coloured 
 
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 ■_'. ALL ABOUT EVERYTHING. Being a Dictionary of Practical Recipes ami Everyday Information. 
 
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 a. ALL ABi >UT GARDKXlXi ;'. Being a Dictionary of Practical Gardening. 
 4. ALL ABOUT COUNTRY' LIFE. A Dictionary of Rural Avocation and of Knowledge necessary to 
 
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 5 ALL ABOUT HARD WORDS. Being a Dictionary of Everyday Difficulties in Reading, Writing 
 
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 copious information in relation to Property Real and Personal — Women and Children 
 — Registration — Divorce — Matrimony — Wills, Executors, Trustees — Securities — 
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 — Auctions, Valuations, Agency — Games, Wagers — Insurance— Compositions, 
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 — ever)' numbered paragraph in its particular place and under its general head. 
 Cloth, -s. bd. 
 
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 difficulty are its contents valuable, but also for the ordinary reader, to whom a knowledge of the lawsia 
 more important and interesting than is generally supposed. 
 
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HOUSEHOLD AND USEFUL BOOKS. 
 
 Beeton's Legal Handbooks. In 
 
 strone In 
 
 i i» 
 
 i. Property. 
 
 2. Women. Children, and Regis- 
 
 tration. 
 
 3. Divorce and Matrimonial Causes 
 1. Wills. Executors, and Trustees. 
 5. Transactions in Trade Securities 
 
 and Sureties. 
 (•. Partnership and Joint-Stock 
 
 Companies. 
 7. Landlord and Tenant. Lodgers, 
 
 Rates and Taxes. 
 
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 vants, Working Contracts. 
 
 9, Auctions. Valuations, Agency. 
 Games, and Wagers. 
 
 10. Compositions. Liquidations. & 
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 11. Conveyance. Travellers, and 
 Innkeepers. 
 
 12. Agreements. Deeds, Powers. & 
 Arbitrations. 
 
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 duotion ha* resulted [rj the claae 
 attempl >. Each one ol the sarii 
 
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 ■laasiflcatlon m I c impleteneaa nrhloh dJatlnguUbea them among similar 
 leriea has [n own separate Index, ami the amount 0! lofaraMtton t, Batata 
 
 s-ury tirevity uf the title BflggOBtai 
 
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 Books in the World. Each containing fromTive Hundred and Twelve to Five 
 Hundred and Sixty Columns. I^iee is. each. 
 
 1. Beeton's British Gazetteer. A 
 Topographical and Histories] Quute to the 
 
 United Kinjjii.mi. Compiled from the latest 
 and best authorities. 
 
 2. Beeton's British Biography. 
 
 From the eiirlie.it times to them amon>oi 
 
 I l.-ortfe III. 
 
 3. Beeton's Modern Men & Women 
 
 Fr 
 
 iln 
 
 III. 
 
 the 
 
 Beeton's Bible Dictionary. 
 ■ etopaxus of the Truths ami Nan " 
 
 the lioiv 
 
 5. Beeton's Classical Dictionary. 
 A Treasury of Greek and Soman Biography, 
 
 (Jeography, afythoiogy, and Antiquities. 
 
 6. Beeton's Ready Reckoner. 
 
 Business and Family Arithmetic. With all 
 kinds "f New Tables. 
 
 7. Beeton's Medical Dictionary. 
 
 A safe Guide for every family. Defining the 
 ■ymptoms and troaiment of all di- 1 - , 
 
 8. Beeton's Date Book. A British 
 Chronology from the earliest reeordn to the 
 present period. 
 
 9. Beeton's Dictionary of Oom- 
 
 meroa Containing an unt ol the Na- 
 tional ProduetioiiM and Auumfaotmea Aaji 
 within thet'ommen-ial World. Explanation ol 
 the modes of Transacting business, with the 
 principal Terms used inOonmerosai Bozqg 
 
 and Abroad, and a description of the principal 
 
 Ports and Market* of both Hemisphere*. 
 
 10. Beeton's Modern European 
 Celebrities. A Biojn-aphy of Con- 
 tinental Men and Women of Note who have 
 lived during the iast Hundred Years, or are 
 now living, uniform with, and a Oompani"ii 
 Yiihmioto, '"lleeton's British Biography," and 
 ■■ Beeton's Modern Men and Women.'' 
 
 11. Beeton's Guide Book to the 
 Stock Exchange and Money 
 Market. With hints to investors 
 
 and the chances of Speculators, :«; pp. 
 
 12. Investing Money with Safety and Profit, 04 pp. 
 Any of the above, in neat cloth, eacli is. 6d. ; half imitation roan, 3a. 
 
 Beeton's Dictionary of Universal 
 
 INFORMATION, in Geography, Biography, History, Mythology, Biblical Know- 
 ledge, Chronology, &c. With the pronunciation of Every proper Name. Half- 
 bound, 15^. 
 
 "The 'Dictionary of Universal Information.' published by Mr. S. O. Beaton, Hupplies a dosidera- 
 tura much, and wide];, telt— that of a comprehensible yet portable dictionary of proper names. Th'* 
 ' Encyclopedia, Ihittaniea,' the ' Lnglisli Eacyelopandfc^' and the other ffreat digests of huuiau know- 
 led^ 1 , in consequence "f thoir hitfh pri<-e, an- Hrrnssihle, only to a few. In such work* no special pro- 
 Yision is made for supplyiu^ short and comprehensive informution regarding individual WOlda, urugad 
 in their alphabetical order, of the kind most likely to h* required by the gnat maim of ^ener*! readers. 
 Mr. I?ee,t<m to some extent enters a new Held in devoting a Dictionary exclusively to proper names in 
 tie-osraphy, History, lti'^raphy. Mythology. Bible KunwlmUre, and Chronology. In thesapai,-e* conden- 
 HiUion has beon in every way sought after, and wo know of no work which supplies more infurmatlou 
 at a smaller cost."— The Times. 
 
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 MILTON. 
 CAMPBELL. 
 POPE. 
 COWPER. 
 , A Selection of HUMOROUS 
 POEMS. 
 A Selection of AMERICAN 
 
 POEMS. 
 MRS. HEMANS'S POEMS. 
 THOMSON. 
 . A Selection of MISCELLA- 
 NEOUS POEMS. [In the press 
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 Second Series, [/« tin- press 
 
 In elegant cloth gilt, gilt edges, y. 6d.\ morocco, extra, iOf. (id.; morocco antique, 
 -s. bd. ; ivory enamel, Js. 6d. 
 
 1. BVRON. 
 
 12. 
 
 2. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 '3- 
 
 3. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 '4- 
 
 4. SCOTT. 
 
 IS- 
 
 5. SHELLEY. 
 
 16 
 
 6. MOORE. 
 
 
 7. HOOD. 
 
 17 
 
 8. KEATS. 
 
 
 9. COLERIDGE. 
 
 18 
 
 10. BURNS. 
 
 19 
 
 11. TUPPER'S PROVERBIAL 
 
 20 
 
 PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 
 The Four Scries complete for tho first time, 
 1 vol., with portrait. 
 
 21 
 
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 Suitable for Presents and School Prizes, and especially adapted for 
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 back and edges. 
 
 The Wonders of the "World, in 
 Earth, Sea, and Sky : as related to 
 his Young Friends. By Uncle 
 John. 
 
 Fifty Celebrated Men ; their 
 Lives and Trials, and the Deeds 
 that made them Famous. Illus- 
 trated with numerous engravings on 
 wood. 
 . Fifty Celebrated Women ; their 
 Virtues and Failing*, and the Les- 
 sons of their Lives. Illustrated 
 with numerous engravings on wood. 
 
 The Life and Surprising Ad- 
 ventures of Robinson Crusoe, 
 of York Mariner. By Danielj De 
 Foe. With a biographical sketch 
 of the author. Embellished with a 
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 wood. 
 
 The History of Sandford and 
 Merton. By Thomas Day. Il- 
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 A Boy's Life Aboard Ship, as it 
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 Life in a Whaler : or. Perils and 
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 Great Inventors ; the Sources of 
 their Usefulness, and the Results of 
 their Efforts. Embellished with 
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 , Household Stories. Collected by 
 the Brothers Grimm. To which 
 is added, "The Caravan;" an 
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 Profusely illustrated with wood en- 
 gravings from designs by eminent 
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 The Marvels of Nature ; or, 
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 Evenings at Home ; or the 
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 The Boy's Book of Industrial 
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 . Fern Leaves from Fanny's 
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 series complete. Beautifully il- 
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 . The Triumphs of Perseverance 
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 edition. 
 
 . Boy's Book of Travel and Ad- 
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 merous illustrations. New edition. 
 
 . Edgar's Crusades and Crusa- 
 ders. "With numerous illustra- 
 tions. New edition. 
 
 . Fanny Fern's New Stories for 
 Children. By the author of 
 '• Fern Leaves." 
 
 37. Flowers. Birds, and Insects of 
 the Month. By H. G. Adams. 
 
 39. Stories of Courage and Prin- 
 
 ciple. By Mrs. Gillespie Smyth, 
 author of •• Tales of the Moors." 
 
 40. Path on Earth (The) to the 
 
 Gates of Heaven. Essays of 
 Counsel and Encouragement for 
 the Christian Life of the Present 
 Day. By the Rev. Frederick Ar- 
 nold, of Christ Church, Oxford. 
 53. Holiday House. By Catherine 
 Sinclair. 
 
 68. The Merchant's Clerk ; or, Mark 
 Wilt. m. A Book for Young Men. 
 By the Rev. C. B. Taylor, M.A. 
 
 71. Poe's Tales of Mystery, Imagi- 
 
 nation, and Humour. 
 
 72. The Mothers of Scripture. 
 
 73. Maternal Counsels to a Daugh- 
 
 ter. 
 
 75. Orange Blossoms. A book for all 
 
 who have worn, are wearing, or are 
 likely to wear them. Edited by T. 
 S. Arthur. With illustrations. 8vo, 
 cloth, gilt, gilt edges. 
 
 76. Julamerk. 
 
 77. Martyrs of Carthage. 
 
 78. Margaret Catchpole. 
 
 79. Modern Accomplishments. 
 
 So. Mary Bunyan. 
 
 Si. Aunt Jane's Hero, and Step- 
 ping Heavenward. Double 
 
 8?. Faith Gartney's Girlhood, and 
 Leslie Goldthwaite. 
 
 S3. Little Women and Good Wives. 
 
 S7. Lamplighter. Miss Cumming. Il- 
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 SS. Queechy. Miss Wetherell. Illus- 
 trated. 
 
 89. Wide, Wide World. Illustrated. 
 
 90. Uncle Tom's Cabin. Mis. B. 
 
 Stuwe. Illustrated. 
 
 91. Sailor Hero. With illustrations. 
 
 Ai mstrong- 
 
 92. Cruise of the Daring. With 
 
 illustrations. Armstrong. 
 
 93. Pyrotechny. 
 
 94. The School Girl in France. 
 
 55. Out of the Hurly Burly. Max 
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 Wild Animals in Freedom and Cap- 
 
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 ," y^ . ■ "~. ' 
 
 The Book of Animals. By Harrison 
 
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 WARD, LOCK, ,1- TYLER, Warwick House, Paternoster Row. 
 
 =4 
 
THREE-AND-SIXPENNY GIFT BOOKS. 
 
 Household Stories. Collected by the 
 
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 The School Girl in France. By Miss 
 
 McCkini'Ii i.. 
 
 The Long Holidays; or, Learning With- 
 
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 Boy's Book of Travel and Adventure. 
 
 Bj Mi R] M i ii Jones. Numerous Illustrations, New Edition. 
 
 Life in a Whaler ; or, Perils and 
 
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 Wonders of the World, in Earth, Sea, 
 
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 9. Aunt Fanny's Nursera Rhymes. 
 Naughty Chickj ss. 
 
 i". 
 
 Punch and Judy. 
 
 Old Mother Hubbard. 
 
 The Book of Animals. 
 
 Three Little Kn 1 1 ns. 
 
 Book of Birds. 
 
 Little Miss Tottie's Travels. 
 
 Little Miss Tottie's Chimney 
 
 Corner Stories. 
 Little Miss Tottie and her 
 Friends. 
 
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 1. OUR LITTLE PET'S OWN PICTURE BOOK. With numerous Illustra- 
 tions, especially adapted for children, 
 z. NEW COMICAL NURSERY RHYMES AND STORIES to make Little 
 
 5. PRETTY "LITTLE' LESSONS FOR PRETTY LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 Illustrated with 850 pretty pictures. 
 
 4. EASY TALES and PLEASANT STORIES, for our Young Friends. 
 
 Embellished with upwards of 200 Engravings. 
 
 5. BIBLE SKETCHES from the OLD and NEW TESTAMENTS, adapted 
 
 6. SACRED READINGS for YOUNG CHILDREN. Selected from the Old 
 
 ;. PRETTY LITTLE TALES foV Good Little People. Numerous coloured 
 Illustrations. 
 
 8. THE CHILD'S OWN BOOK of PICTURES. TALES, and POETRY. 
 
 193 pp., numerous pictures, engraved title and frontispiece cloth (tilt. Plates. 
 
 9. FAVOURITE NURSERY RHYMES for NURSERY FAVOURITES. 
 
 Full of funny Picture s. 
 
 10. MERRY RHYMES and STORIES for Merry Little Learners. With 
 
 11. FANNyV'lITTLe'nURSERY PICTURE BOOK. Numerous coloured 
 
 Illustrations. 
 
 Beeton's Good Aim Series. In cloth, 
 
 'ilt eds 
 
 I J. I 1,/. 
 
 1. The Original Ongar Poems for 
 
 Children. By Miss Jane and Wise 
 Adelaide Taylor, ML !•'.. I'... and 1 
 
 2. The Basket of Flowers : or, Piety 
 
 ami Truth Triumphant, 
 5. Ellen's Idol. By the Author of 
 "Tinny "and "Tm'u- Booh." 
 
 4. Trottys Book. By E. Stuart 
 
 Phelps. 
 
 5. Sermons on the Wall. By John 
 
 Tillotson. 
 
 6. Goldy and Goldy's Friends. Bv 
 
 Mary Denuel. 
 
 7. The One Thing Needful; or, 
 
 Ethel's i'eiirls. 
 
 8. I Don't Know How. By E. 
 
 Stuart Phelps. Author of "tlates Ajar." 
 
 9. Sayings and Doings of Chil- 
 dren. By the Rev. .1. S. Smith. 
 
 10. Tiny. By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 
 
 11. Tiny's Sunday Night. By E' 
 
 Stuart Phelps 
 
 12. The Orphan Boy ; or. From Peas- 
 
 ant to Prince, 
 i v Tom. Tom, the Printer's Son. 
 
 A Boy's Story, Belated by Himself. 
 1 .]. Only a Dandelion. By the Author 
 
 ol "Stepping Heavenward." 
 
 15. Follow Me. By the Author of 
 
 ■■ Stepping HaiY.'nwiirit." 
 
 16. New Year's Bargain. 
 
 Ditto, ditto, clolh extra, bevelled boards, gilt ed( . . . 
 
 WARD, LOCK, & TYLER, Warwick House, Paternoster Row. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. 
 
 THE LILY SERIES. 
 
 Is. EACH. 
 
 NICELY P.OUND FOR PRESENTS, Is. 6d. and 2s. 
 
 Forming Admirable Volumes for School Prizes, and Presents to 
 Young Ladies. 
 
 high i 
 
 The ill- 
 
 Include no hooka except sueh as ur-- p ■.■u'iiu'Iv hi nii.-il bj their 
 ■ipii'. to be read by those persona, young and old, who look upon 
 
 books m Di :i theii rriend on ■ worthj to be r ived Into the family circle for their good qualities and 
 
 excellenl el u ujtet Soman} roramea n »w laBue from tin- press, low in tone and tax in morality, that 
 it i* specially in' oi tbent "ii ill who would avoid the taint of sueh hurtful matter, t" aelect carefully the 
 books the; would themselves read or introdnoe to their households, [nviewol this design, no author 
 
 whose name Is not a guaranti t' the real worth ;»n<t purity of his or her work, or n hose b lok b i aot 
 
 been Bubjected i i a rigid examination, will in' admitted into " THE LILT SEUIES." 
 
 1. A Summer in Leslie Gold- 
 
 thwaite's Life. By the Author of 
 '•Faith Gartncy's Girlhood." 
 
 2. The Gayworthys: A Story of 
 
 Threads and Thrums. By the Author 
 
 < hi i 
 
 3. Faith Gartney's Girlhood. By 
 
 tli,- Author of" ll..' Gayworthvs " Stc 
 
 4. The Gatei Ajar. By ' Elizabeth 
 
 Stuart Phelps. 
 
 5. Little Women. By the Author of 
 
 "Gi i U ivi s," "Something to Do,' 
 
 6. Gcod Wives. By the Author of 
 
 " I ittl. M -..,.. n." &, .' 
 
 7. Alone. By Marion Harland, Author 
 
 ..I " I'he Hidden Path," fa 
 
 8. I've Been Thinkirjg. By the 
 
 Authoroi "Look ng Round," to 
 
 9. Ida May. By Mary Langdon. 
 
 10. The Lamplighter. ByMissCum- 
 
 11. Stepping Heavenward. Bv the 
 
 Uthorol -'Aunt Jane's Hero." 
 
 12. Gypsy Breynton. Bj Elizabeth 
 
 Stuart Phelps. 
 
 13. Aunt Jane's Hero. By the Author 
 
 ol "Stepping Heavenward.' ' 
 
 14. The Wide, Wide World. By 
 
 .Miss Wethcroll. 
 
 15. Clueechy. Bv the Author of " The 
 
 Wide, Wide World.'' 
 
 16. Looking- Bound. Bv the Author 
 
 iik> ii.; 
 
 17. Fabrics : a Story of To-day. 
 
 18. Our Village : Tales. Bv Miss 
 
 Mitford. 
 
 19. The Winter Fire. By Rose Por- 
 
 20. The Flower of the Family. By 
 the Authoroi "Stepping Heavenward." 
 
 21. Mercy Gliddon's Work. ByEliza- 
 
 l-cth Stuart Phelps 
 
 22. Patience Strong's Outings. By 
 the Ami u ni " I le Gayworthys." 
 
 23. Something to Do. Bv the Author 
 oi "Ltttlc Worm n." &< . 
 
 24. 
 
 25. 
 
 26. 
 
 27. 
 
 28. 
 
 29. 
 
 30. 
 
 31. 
 
 32. 
 
 33. 
 
 34. 
 
 35. 
 
 36. 
 
 37. 
 
 38. 
 
 39. 
 40. 
 
 41. 
 
 42. 
 43. 
 
 44. 
 
 45. 
 
 46. 
 
 47. 
 48. 
 
 Gertrude's Trial ; or. Light 
 out of Darkness. By Mary lefferis. 
 The Hidden Path. By the Author 
 
 Uncle Tom's Cabin. By iris. 
 H.,rri,-tt Beecher Stowe 
 
 Fireside and Camp Stories. 
 Bj the Author ol "Little Women," Sir. 
 
 The Shady Side ; or. Country 
 Parsonage Life. By :i Pastor's Wife. 
 
 The Sunny Side ; or, the Coun- 
 try Minister's Life. By H. Trusts. 
 
 What Katy Did. By Susan 
 Coolidge. 
 
 Fern Leaves from Fanny's 
 Portfolio. By Fanny Fi rn. 
 
 Shadows and Sunbeams. By 
 
 By 
 
 Fanny Fern. 
 
 What Katy Did at School. 
 Susan Coolidfre. 
 Shiloh ; or, Without and With- 
 in. Bj W. I.. M. Jay. 
 The Percys. By E. Prentiss, 
 
 : He 
 
 Gypsy's Sowing and Reaping. 
 By El zabeth Stuart Phelos. 
 Gypsy's Cousin Joy. By the 
 Authot of "Gvpsy's Sowing and Re to ng. 
 Gypsy's Year at the Golden 
 Crescent. By the s ime. 
 Miss Edgeworth's Moral Tales. 
 Miss Edgewortb's Popular 
 Tales. 
 
 The Prince of the House of 
 David. By the Rev. J. H. Ingrahara. 
 Anna Lee. By T. S. Arthur. 
 The Throne of David. By the 
 Rev. J. 11. Ingrahara. 
 The'Pillar of Fire. By the Rev. 
 J. H. Ingraham. 
 Prudence Palfrey. By T. B. 
 
 By 
 
 ui 
 
 A Peep at Number Five 
 
 H. 1m,. t... 
 
 Marjorie's Quest. By J. T.Gould 
 Our Village : Country Pictures. 
 
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MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. 
 
 BEETON'S ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN 
 
 TWO-SHILLING EDITIONS. 
 
 Double Volumes. 
 
 1. Madame Therese and The Blockade. 
 
 2. Waterloo and The Conscript. 
 
 3. The States-General and The Country 
 
 in Danger. 
 
 4. Year One of the Republic and Citizen 
 
 Bonaparte. 
 
 Dr. Matheus and Friend Fritz. 
 Stories of the Rhine and Confessions 
 
 of a Clarionet Player. 
 The Alsacian Schoolmaster and Cam. 
 
 paign in Kabylia. 
 
 BEETON'S HUMOROUS BOOKS. 
 
 ONE SHILLINC EACH. 
 
 There is but little call to laud the men who have written the books catalogued below. 
 They have done good work — work that needs no bush ; and mankind is under obliga- 
 tions to them for a large sum-total of enjoyment. It will be a long day before we, in 
 England, forget the names of Thomas Hood, Albert Smith, Reach, and the Mayhews ; 
 and from America we hail, as exponents of genuine and special humour, Artemus Ward, 
 J. R. Lowell, Bret Harte, and Charles Dudley Warner, all of whose writings will be 
 found included in the following list, — a various and entertaining company of genial jesters 
 and merry penmen. 
 
 Progress. By 
 
 2. Artemus Ward : His Book. 
 
 3. Riddles. Illustrated. 
 
 4. Burlesques. Illustrated. 
 
 5. Charades. Illustrated. 
 
 6. The Biglow Papers. By J. R. Lowell. 
 
 7. Saxe's Poems. By J. G. Saxe. 
 
 8. Joe Miller's Jest Book. 
 
 9. Connubial Bliss. By Doughty. 
 
 10. Model Men and Model Women. By 
 
 Mayhew. 
 
 11. The Flirt and Evening Parties. By 
 
 Albert Smith. 
 
 12. The Gent, and Stuck-Up People. By 
 
 Albert Smith. 
 
 13. The Ballet-Girl, and the Idler Upon 
 
 Town. By Albert Smith. 
 
 14. Humbug and Mince Pies. By Angus 
 
 Reach. 
 
 15. Hearts and Trumps. By Hannay ; 
 
 and Change for a Shilling. By 
 Mayhew. 
 
 16. Pusley ; or, my Summer in a Garden. 
 
 By Charles Dudley Warner. 
 
 17. Back Log Studies. By Charles D. 
 
 Warner. 
 
 18. Sandy Bar. By Bret Harte. 
 
 19. Roaring Camp, and other Sketches. 
 
 By Bret Harte. 
 
 20. Heathen Chinee. By Bret Harte. 
 
 21. Hood's Wit and Humour. 
 
 22. Hood's Whims. 
 
 23. Hood's Oddities. 
 
 24. The Innocents Abroad. By Mark 
 
 Twain. 
 
 25. The New Pilgrim 
 Mark Twain. 
 
 26. JAkes and Wit of Douglas Jerrold. 
 
 27. The Siliad. By the Authors of "The 
 
 Coming K ." 
 
 28. Marjorie Daw. By T. B. Aldrich. 
 
 29. The Jumping Frog. By Mark Twain. 
 
 30. Letters to Punch. By Artemus 
 
 Ward. 
 
 31. Artemus Ward among the Mormons. 
 
 32. Naughty Jemima. 
 
 33. Eye Openers. By Mark Twain. 
 
 34. Practical Jokes. By Mark Twain. 
 
 35. Screamers. By Mark Twain. 
 
 36. Awful Crammers. By Titus A. Brick. 
 
 37. Babies and Ladders. By Emanuel 
 
 Kink. 
 
 38. Holmes' Wit and Humour. 
 
 39. Josh Billings. His Sayings. 
 
 40. Danbury Newsman. By J. M. Bailev. 
 
 41. Mystery of Mr. E. Drood. By Or- 
 
 pheus C. Kerr. 
 
 42. Shaving Them. By Titus A. Brick. 
 
 43. Mr. Brown, on the goings on of Mrs. 
 
 Brown. 
 
 44. Sensation Novels. By Bret Harte. 
 
 45. Little Breeches, and other Pieces. By 
 
 Col. John Hay. 
 
 46. Mr. Sprouts. His Opinions. 
 
 47. Lothaw. By Mr. Benjamin. (Bret 
 
 Harte.) 
 
 48. The Ramsbottom Papers. By Theo- 
 
 dore Hook. 
 
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EDUCATIONAL BOOKS. 
 
 Easy Steps for Little Learners, with 
 
 Prettj pictures. < loth. is. 
 
 The Child's First Book ofABC, in- 
 
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 TBttGfteapesi English Dictionary tver j>ui>UshtJ m 
 
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 Dictionary of the English Language. Condensed and adapted to 
 
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 by the late David Ko^rue. and embraces all the best points of thr- English and American authorities. I 
 
 must supers. -de Johns. m.WalUer, Smart, Worcester, and its other predecessors. It is admirably adapted 
 
 for school use. 
 
 Johtuon me/ rTnfhr mprrwanf Containing 10,000 more Wordt Aon Walker' 1 Dictionanj. 
 
 Webster's Pocket Pronouncing Die- 
 
 tionary of the English Language. Condensed from the original 
 Dictionary by NoAB WEBSTER, LL.U. ; with accented Vocabularies of Classical, 
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 Webster, son of Noah WEBSTER; Cloth, is. 
 
 Webster's Universal Pronouncing 
 
 and Defining Dictionary of the English Language. Con- 
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 discriminated by Chauncey A. Goodrich, D.D., Professor in Yale Cottage. To 
 which are added " Walker's Key " to the pronunciation of Classical and Scriptural 
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 %* This comprehensive work is beautifully printed on good paper, la a clear and distinct type, in 
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 Sea and Improved nation. 
 
 Webster's Improved Pronouncing 
 
 Dictionary of the English Language. Condensed and adapted to 
 English Orthography and Usage, with additions from various accredited sources, by 
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EDUCATIONAL BOOKS 
 
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 The Illustrated Drawing Book. Com- 
 
 prising a complete Introduction to Drawing and Perspective ; with Instructions for 
 
 Etching on copper orsteel, &c, See, Illustrated with above 300 subjects for study in 
 
 even.- branch of art. 
 
 *»* This QXteenuly pipalarand useful "Drawing Book " Ins heon thoroughly revteed »>y tli* Author, 
 and ninny new CUustrnttons are added, thus rendering the present edition ,th moat perfect llundbuokof 
 Drawiuy for Nhbolfl and stndonta 
 
 The Illustrated Architectural, En- 
 
 gineeringand Mechanical Drawing Book, for the use of schools, 
 students, and artisans. With upwards of 300 Illustrations. 
 
 The Steam Engine : Its History and 
 
 Mechanism. Being Descriptions and Illustrations of the Stationary, Locomotive, 
 and Marine Engine. For the use of schools and students. With 3 1 o Illustrations . 
 
 Mechanics and Mechanism : Being 
 
 Elementary Essays and Examples for the use of schools and students. "With 250 
 Illustrations. 
 
 Ornamental Drawing and Architec- 
 
 tural Design. With Xotes historical and practical, and nearly 300 Engraving 
 of interior and exterior decorations for churches, houses, Stc., ice. Cloth gilt. 
 
 Treasury of Natural Science. From 
 
 the German of Professor Si'hokdi. 1 R. with numerous additions by Hi:xry Kbd- 
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 -MA., F.R.G.S., Author of "The Gallery ol'Xature," &c. In cloth, 3U. ; half- 
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 Dower's School Atlas of Modern Geo- 
 
 graphy. Containing jo Coloured Maps, with a copious consulting Index with 
 the latitudes and longitudes. Half-bound Morocco, lis. 
 
 lion "i all Schools. 
 
 Dower's General Atlas of Modern 
 
 Geography. Containing 53 Maps, with a copious consulting Index with the 
 latitudes and longitudes, compiled from the latest and best authorities. Half-bound 
 and coloured, 15*. 
 
 Dower's Minor School Atlas. Con- 
 
 taining 26 Maps, compiled from the best authorities, including all the latest disco- 
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 * m * Dower's Minor School Atlas has been compiled for the convenience of those who do not require 
 
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 Dower's Short Atlas. Containing 17 
 
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 *„* This Atlas is calculated more particularly for the use of the younger pupils, ami is very exten- 
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 School Atlas of Physical Geography. 
 
 16 Maps, illustrative of the geology, hydrography, meteorology, zoology, botany, 
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 > 2 9 SI 54