Майн Рид
The Death Shot: A Story Retold
Chapter Twenty Seven.
Additional evidence
While the Lynchers are still in deliberation, the little clock on the mantel strikes twelve, midnight; of late, not oft a merry hour in the cottage of the Clancys; but this night more than ever sad.
Its striking seems the announcement of a crisis. For a time it silences the voices of those conversing.
Scarce has the last stroke ceased to vibrate on the still night air, when a voice is heard; one that has not hitherto taken part in the deliberations. It sounds as though coming up from the road gate.
“Mass Woodley in da?” are the words spoken interrogatively; the question addressed generally to the group gathered in front of the house. “Yes: he’s here,” simultaneously answer several.
“Kin I peak a wud wif you, Mass Woodley?” again asks the inquirer at the wicket.
“Sartinly,” says the hunter, separating from the others, and striding off towards the entrance.
“I reck’n I know that voice,” he adds, on drawing near the gate. “It’s Blue Bill, ain’t it?”
“Hush, Mass’ Woodley! For Goramity’s sake doan peak out ma name. Not fo’ all de worl let dem people hear it. Ef dey do, dis nigger am a dead man, shoo.”
“Darn it, Bill; what’s the matter? Why d’ye talk so mysteerous? Is thar anythin’ wrong? Oh! now I think o’t, you’re out arter time. Never mind ’bout that; I’ll not betray you. Say; what hev ye kim for?”
“Foller me, Mass Woodley; I tell yer all. I dasent tay hya, less some ob dem folk see me. Les’ go little way from de house, into de wood groun’ ober yonner; den I tell you wha fotch me out. Dis nigger hab someting say to you, someting berry patickler. Yes, Mass Woodley, berry patickler. ’Tarn a matter ob life an’ def.”
Sime does not stay to hear more; but, lifting the latch, quietly pushes open the gate, and passes out into the road. Then following the negro, who flits like a shadow before him, the two are soon standing among some bushes that form a strip of thicket running along the roadside.
“Now, what air it?” asks Woodley of the coon-hunter, with whom he is well acquainted – having often met him in his midnight rambles.
“Mass Woodley, you want know who kill Mass Charl Clancy?”
“Why, Bill, that’s the very thing we’re all talkin’ ’bout, an’ tryin’ to find out. In coorse we want to know. But who’s to tell us?”
“Dis nigger do dat.”
“Air ye in airnest, Bill?”
“So much in earness I ha’n’t got no chance get sleep, till I make clean bress ob de seecret. De ole ooman neider. No, Mass Woodley, Phoebe she no let me ress till I do dat same. She say it am de duty ob a Christyun man, an’, as ye know, we boaf b’long to de Methodies. Darfore, I now tell ye, de man who kill Charl Clancy was my own massr – de young un – Dick.”
“Bill! are you sure o’ what ye say?”
“So shoo I kin swa it as de troof, de whole troof, an’ nuffin but de troof.”
“But what proof have ye?”
“Proof! I moas seed it wif ma own eyes. If I didn’t see, I heerd it wif ma ears.”
“By the ’tarnal! this looks like clar evydince at last. Tell me, Bill, o’ all that you seed an’ what you heern?”
“Ya, Mass Woodley, I tell you ebberyting; all de sarkunistances c’nected wif de case.”
In ten minutes after, Simeon Woodley is made acquainted with everything the coon-hunter knows; the latter having given him full details of all that occurred on that occasion when his coon-chase was brought to such an unsatisfactory termination.
To the backwoodsman it brings no surprise. He has already arrived at a fixed conclusion, and Bill’s revelation is in correspondence with it.
On hearing it, he but says: —
“While runnin’ off, yur master let fall a letter, did he? You picked it up, Bill? Ye’ve gob it?”
“Hya’s dat eyedentikil dockyment.”
The negro hands over the epistle, the photograph inside.
“All right, Bill! I reck’n this oughter make things tol’ably clur. Now, what d’ye want me to do for yurself?”
“Lor, Mass Woodley, you knows bess. I’se needn’t tell ye, dat ef ole Eph’m Darke hear wha dis nigger’s been, an’ gone, an’ dud, de life ob Blue Bill wuldn’t be wuth a ole coon-skin – no; not so much as a corn-shuck. I’se get de cowhide ebbery hour ob de day, and de night too. I’se get flog to def, sa’tin shoo.”
“Yur right thar, I reck’n,” rejoins the hunter; then continues, reflectingly, “Yes; you’d be sarved putty saveer, if they war to know on’t. Wal, that mustn’t be, and won’t. So much I kin promise ye, Bill. Yur evydince wouldn’t count for nuthin’ in a law court, nohow. Tharfor, we won’t bring ye forrad; so don’t you be skeeart. I guess we shan’t wan’t no more testymony, as thar ain’t like to be any crosskwestenin’ lawyers in this case. Now; d’you slip back to yur quarters, and gi’e yurself no furrer consarn. I’ll see you don’t git into any trouble. May I be damned ef ye do!”
With this emphatic promise, the old bear-hunter separates from the less pretentious votary of the chase; as he does so giving the latter a squeeze of the hand, which tells him he may go back in confidence to the negro quarter, and sit, or sleep, by the side of his Phoebe, without fear.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
“To the jail!”
With impatience Judge Lynch and his jurors await the hunter’s return. Before his leaving them, they had well-nigh made up their minds to the verdict. All know it will be “Guilty,” given unanimously. Woodley’s temporary absence will not affect it. Neither the longer time allowed them for deliberation. If this cause change, it will not be to modify, but make more fixed their determination. Still others keep coming up. Like wildfire the news has spread that the mother of the murdered man is herself stricken down. This, acting as a fresh stimulus to sympathy, brings back such of the searchers as had gone home; many starting from beds to which they had betaken themselves after the day’s fatigue.
It is past midnight, and the crowd collected around the cottage is greater than ever. As one after another arrives upon the ground they step across the threshold, enter the chamber of death, and look upon the corpse, whose pale face seems to make mute appeal to them for justice. After gazing on it for an instant, their anger with difficulty subdued in the solemn presence of death, each comes out muttering a resolve there shall be both justice and vengeance, many loudly vociferating it with the added emphasis of an oath.
It does not need what Simeon Woodley has in store to incite them to action. Already are they sufficiently inflamed. The furor of the mob, with its mutually maddening effect, gradually growing upon them, permeating their spirits, has reached the culminating point.
Still do they preserve sufficient calmness to wait a little longer, and hear what the hunter may have to say. They take it, he has been called from them on some matter connected with the subject under consideration. At such a time who would dare interrupt their deliberations for any trivial purpose? Although none of them has recognised Blue Bill’s voice, they know it to have been that of a negro. This, however, is no reason why he should not have made some communication likely to throw new light on the affair. So, on Woodley’s return, once more gathering around him, they demand to hear what it is.
He tells all that has been imparted to him; but without making known the name of his informant, or in any way compromising the brave fellow with a black skin, who has risked life itself by making disclosure of the truth.
To him the old hunter refers in a slight but significant manner. Comprehending, no one presses for more minute explanation.
“He as says all that,” Woodley continues, after stating the circumstances communicated by the coon-hunter, “has guv me the letter dropped by Dick Darke; which, as I’ve tolt, ye, he picked up. Here air the thing itself. Preehaps it may let some new light into the matter; though I guess you’ll all agree wi’ me, it’s clar enough a’ready.”
They all do agree. A dozen voices have declared, are still declaring that. One now cries out —
“What need to talk any more? Charley Clancy’s been killed – he’s been murdered. An’ Dick Darke’s the man that did it!”
It is not from any lack of convincing evidence, but rather a feeling of curiosity, that prompts them to call for the reading of the letter, which the hunter now holds conspicuously in his hand. Its contents may have no bearing upon the case. Still it can be no harm to know what they are.
“You read it, Henry Spence! You’re a scholart, an’ I ain’t,” says Woodley, handing the letter over to a young fellow of learned look – the schoolmaster of the settlement.
Spence, stepping close up to the porch – into which some one has carried a candle – and holding the letter before the light, first reads the superscription, which, as he informs them, is in a lady’s handwriting.
“To Charley Clancy” it is.
“Charles Clancy!”
Half a score voices pronounce the name, all in a similar tone – that of surprise. One interrogates, —
“Was that letter dropped by Dick Darke?”
“It was,” responds Woodley, to whom the question is addressed.
“Have patience, boys!” puts in the planter, who represents Justice Lynch; “don’t interrupt till we hear what’s in it.”
They take the hint, and remain silent.
But when the envelope is laid open, and a photograph drawn out, showing the portrait of a young lady, recognised by all as a likeness of Helen Armstrong, there is a fresh outburst of exclamations which betoken increased surprise; this stronger still, after Spence reads out the inscript upon the picture:
“Helen Armstrong – for him she loves.”
The letter is addressed to Charles Clancy; to him the photograph must have been sent. A love-affair between Miss Armstrong and the man who has been murdered! A new revelation to all – startling, as pertinent to the case. —
“Go on, Spence! Give us the contents of the letter!” demands an impatient voice.
“Yes, give them!” adds another. “I reckon we’re on the right track now.”
The epistle is taken out of the envelope. The schoolmaster, unfolding it, reads aloud: —
“Dear Charles, —
“When we last met under the magnolia, you asked me a question. I told you I would answer it in writing. I now keep my promise, and you will find the answer underneath my own very imperfect image, which I herewith send in closed. Papa has finally fixed the day of our departure from the old home. On Tuesday next we are to set out in search of a new one. Will it ever be as dear as that we are leaving behind? The answer will depend upon – need I say whom? After reading what I have written upon the carte, surely you can guess. There, I have confessed all – all woman can, could, or should. In six little words I have made over to you my heart. Accept them as its surrender!
“And now, Charles, to speak of things prosaic, as in this hard world we are too oft constrained to do. On Tuesday morning – at a very early hour, I believe – a boat will leave Natchez, bound up the Red River. Upon it we travel, as far as Natchitoches. There to remain for some time, while papa is completing preparations for our farther transport into Texas, I am not certain what part of the ‘Lone Star’ State he will select for our future home. He speaks of a place upon some branch of the Colorado River, said to be a beautiful country; which, you, having been out there, will know all about. In any case, we are to remain for a time, a month or more, in Nachitoches; and there, Carlos mio, I need not tell you, there is a post-office for receiving letters, as also for delivering them. Mind, I say for delivering them! Before we leave for the far frontier, where there may be neither post-office nor post, I shall write you full particulars about our intended ‘location’ – with directions how to reach it. Need I be very minute? Or can I promise myself, that your wonderful skill as a ‘tracker,’ of which we’ve heard, will enable you to discover it? They say Love is blind. I hope, yours will not be so: else you may fail in finding the way to your sweetheart in the wilderness.
“How I go on talking, or rather writing, things I intended to say to you at our next meeting tinder the magnolia – our magnolia! Sad thought this, tagged to a pleasant expectation: for it must be our last interview under the dear old tree. Our last anywhere, until we come together again in Texas – perhaps on some prairie where there are no trees. Well; we shall then meet, I hope, never more to part; and in the open daylight, with no need either of night, or tree-shadows to conceal us. I’m sure father, humbled as he now is, will no longer object. Dear Charles, I don’t think he would have done so at any time, but for his reverses. They made him think of – never mind what. I shall tell you all under the magnolia.
“And now, master mine – this makes you so – be punctual! Monday night, and ten o’clock – the old hour. Remember that the morning after? I shall be gone – long before the wild-wood songsters are singing their ‘reveillé’ to awake you. Jule will drop this into our tree post-office this evening – Saturday. As you’ve told me you go there every day, you’ll be sure of getting it in time; and once more I may listen to your flattery, as when you quoted the words of the old song, making me promise to come, saying you would ‘show the night flowers their queen.’
“Ah! Charles, how easy to keep that promise! How sweet the flattery was, is, and ever will be, to yours, —
“Helen Armstrong.”
“And that letter was found on Dick Darke?” questions a voice, as soon as the reading has come to an end.
“It war dropped by him,” answers Woodley; “and tharfor ye may say it war found on him.”
“You’re sure of that, Simeon Woodley?”
“Wal, a man can’t be sure o’ a thing unless he sees it. I didn’t see it myself wi’ my own eyes. For all that, I’ve had proof clar enough to convince me; an’ I’m reddy to stan’ at the back o’ it.”
“Damn the letter!” exclaims one of the impatient ones, who has already spoken in similar strain; “the picture, too! Don’t mistake me, boys. I ain’t referrin’ eyther to the young lady as wrote it, nor him she wrote to. I only mean that neither letter nor picture are needed to prove what we’re all wantin’ to know, an’ do know. They arn’t nor warn’t reequired. To my mind, from the fust go off, nothin’ ked be clarer than that Charley Clancy has been killed, cepting as to who killed him – murdered him, if ye will; for that’s what’s been done. Is there a man on the ground who can’t call out the murderer?”
The interrogatory is answered by a unanimous negative, followed by the name, “Dick Darke.”
And along with the answer commences a movement throughout the crowd. A scattering with threats heard – some muttered, some spoken aloud – while men are observed looking to their guns, and striding towards their horses; as they do so, saying sternly, —
“To the jail!”
In ten minutes after both men and horses are in motion moving along the road between Clancy’s cottage and the county town. They form a phalanx, if not regular in line of march, terribly imposing in aspect.
Could Richard Darke, from inside the cell where he is confined, but see that approaching cavalcade, hear the conversation of those who compose it, and witness their angry gesticulations, he would shake in his shoes, with trembling worse than any ague that ever followed fever.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
A scheme of colonisation
About two hundred miles from the mouth of Red River – the Red of Louisiana – stands the town of Natchitoches. The name is Indian, and pronounced as if written “Nak-e-tosh.” Though never a populous place, it is one of peculiar interest, historically and ethnologically. Dating from the earliest days of French and Spanish colonisation, on the Lower Mississippi, it has at different periods been in possession of both these nations; finally falling to the United States, at the transfer of the Louisiana territory by Napoleon Bonaparte. Hence, around its history is woven much of romantic interest; while from the same cause its population, composed of many various nationalities, with their distinctive physical types and idiosyncracies of custom, offers to the eye of the stranger a picturesqueness unknown to northern towns. Placed on a projecting bluff of the river’s bank, its painted wooden houses, of French Creole fashion, with “piazzas” and high-pitched roofs, its trottoirs brick-paved, and shaded by trees of sub-tropical foliage – among them the odoriferous magnolia, and melia azedarach, or “Pride of China,” – these, in places, completely arcading the street – Natchitoches has the orthodox aspect of a rus in urbe, or urbs in rure, whichever way you wish it.
Its porticoes, entwined with parasites, here and there show stretches of trellis, along which meander the cord-like tendrils of bignonias, aristolochias, and orchids, the flowers of which, drooping over windows and doorways, shut out the too garish sunlight, while filling the air with fragrance. Among these whirr tiny humming birds, buzz humble bees almost as big, while butterflies bigger than either lazily flout and flap about on soft, silent wing.
Such sights greet you at every turning as you make promenade through the streets of Natchitoches.
And there are others equally gratifying. Within these same trellised verandahs, you may observe young girls of graceful mien, elegantly apparelled, lounging on cane rocking-chairs, or perhaps peering coyly through the half-closed jalousies, their eyes invariably dark brown or coal black, the marble forehead above surmounted with a chevelure in hue resembling the plumage of the raven. For most of these demoiselles are descended from the old colonists of the two Latinic races; not a few with some admixture of African, or Indian. The flaxen hair, blue eyes, and blonde complexion of the Northland are only exceptional appearances in the town of Natchitoches.
Meet these same young ladies in the street, it is the custom, and comme il faut, to take off your hat, and make a bow. Every man who claims to be a gentleman does this deference; while every woman, with a white skin, expects it. On whichever side the privilege may be supposed to lie, it is certainly denied to none. The humblest shop clerk or artisan – even the dray-driver – may thus make obeisance to the proudest and daintiest damsel who treads the trottoirs of Natchitoches. It gives no right of converse, nor the slightest claim to acquaintanceship. A mere formality of politeness; and to presume carrying it further would not only be deemed a rudeness, but instantly, perhaps very seriously, resented.
Such is the polished town to which the Belle of Natchez has brought Colonel Armstrong, with his belongings, and from which he intends taking final departure for Texas. The “Lone Star State” lies a little beyond – the Sabine River forming the boundary line. But from earliest time of Texan settlement on the north-eastern side, Natchitoches has been the place of ultimate outfit and departure.
Here the ex-Mississippian planter has made halt, and purposes to remain for a much longer time than originally intended. For a far grander scheme of migration, than that he started out with, is now in his mind. Born upon the Belle of Natchez, it has been gradually developing itself during the remainder of the voyage, and is now complete – at least as to general design.
It has not originated with Archibald Armstrong himself, but one, whom he is soon to call son-in-law. The young Creole, Dupré, entranced with love, has nevertheless not permitted its delirium to destroy all ideas of other kind. Rather has it re-inspired him with one already conceived, but which, for some time, has been in abeyance. He, too, has been casting thoughts towards Texas, with a view to migrating thither. Of late travelling in Europe – more particularly in France – with some of whose noblest families he holds relationship, he has there been smitten with a grand idea, dictated by a spirit of ambition. In Louisiana he is only a planter among planters and though a rich one, is still not satisfied, either with the number of his negroes, or the area of his acres. In Texas, where land is comparatively low priced, he has conceived a project of colonisation, on an extended scale – in short, the founding a sort of Transatlantic seigneurie. For some months has this ambitious dream been brooding in his brain; and now, meeting the Mississippian planter aboard the boat and learning the latter’s intentions, this, and the more tender liens late established between, them, have determined Louis Dupré to make his dream a reality, and become one of the migrating party. He will sell his Louisiana houses and lands, but not his slaves. These can be taken to Texas.
Scarce necessary to say, that, on thus declaring himself, he becomes the real chief of the proposed settlement. Whether showing conspicuously in front, or remaining obscurely in the rear, the capitalist controls all; and Dupré is this.
Still, though virtually the controlling spirit, apparently the power remains in the hands of Colonel Armstrong. The young Creole wishes it to appear so. He has no jealousy of him, who is soon to be his second father. Besides, there is another and substantial reason why Colonel Armstrong should assume the chieftainship of the purposed expedition. Though reduced in circumstances, the ex-Mississippian planter is held in high respect. His character commands it; while his name, known throughout all the South-west, will be sure to draw around, and rally under his standard, some of those strong stalwart men of the backwoods, equally apt with axe and rifle, without whom no settlement on the far frontier of Texas would stand a chance of either security, or success.
For it is to the far frontier they purpose going, where land can be got at government prices, and where they intend to purchase it not by the acre, but in square miles – in leagues.
Such is Dupré’s design, easy of execution with the capital he can command after disposing of his Red River plantation.
And within a week after his arrival in Natchitoches, he has disposed of it; signed the deed of delivery, and received the money. An immense sum, notwithstanding the sacrifice of a sale requiring quick despatch. On the transfer being completed, the Creole holds in hand a cash capital of $200,000; in those days sufficient not only for the purchase of a large tract of territory, but enough to make the dream of a seignorial estate appear a possible reality.
Not much of the future is he reflecting upon now. If, at times, he cast a chance thought towards it, it may be to picture to himself how his blonde beauty will look as lady suzeraine—chatelaine of the castle to be erected in Texas.
In his fancy, no doubt, he figures her as the handsomest creature that ever carried keys at her belt.
If these fancies of the future are sweet, the facts of the present are even more so. Daring their sojourn in Natchitoches the life of Louis Dupré 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.
