Майн Рид
The Death Shot: A Story Retold
Chapter Thirty.
News from Natchez
While 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 Natchitoches, 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 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 less thought to the unhappiness of Helen. Even less than she might, were it more 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. She knows it would cause pain. Though once a reference to it has given pleasure to herself; when Helen explained to her the mystery of that midnight plunge 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 the spectral arms were the forking tines of a branch, which, catching upon the boat, in rebound had caught Helen Armstrong, first raising her aloft, then letting her drop out of their innocent, but withal dangerous, embrace.
An explanation more pleasing to Jessie than she cared to let Helen know; since it gave the assurance that her sister had no thought 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 the happy heart. Indeed, judging by what she sees, Jessie Armstrong may well come to this conclusion. Already around her sister circle new suitors; a host seeking her hand. Among them the best blood of which the neighbourhood can boast. There are planters, lawyers, members of the State Assembly – one of the General Congress – and military men, young officers stationed at Fort Jessup, 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 dip a little into its dissipations.
Before Helen Armstrong has been two weeks in Natchitoches she becomes, what for over two years she has been in Natchez – its belle. The “bloods” toast her at the drinking bar, and talk of her over the billiard table.
Some of them too much for their safety, since already two or three duels have occurred on her account – fortunately without fatal termination.
Not that she has given any of them cause to stand forth as her champion; for not one can boast of having been favoured even with a smile. On the contrary, she has met their approaches if not frowningly, at least with denying indifference. All suspect there is un ver—rongeur– a worm eating 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 aflame, 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 oft 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 herself, 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 cypress swamp, but cannot 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 her from despairing.
She is almost as much alarmed 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 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 concerning 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, whose 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!
Not the climax of his perfidy, as expected, but of her suffering. 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.
Chapter Thirty One.
Spectres in the street
Colonel Armstrong is staying at the “Planters’ House,” the chief hotel in the town of Natchitoches. Not a very grand establishment, nevertheless. Compared with such a princely hostelry as the “Langham” of London, it would be as a peasant’s hut to a palace. Withal, in every way comfortable; and what it may lack in architectural style is made up in natural adornment; a fine effect, produced by trees surrounding and o’ershading it.
A hotel of the true Southern States type: weather-board walls, painted chalk-white, with green Venetian shutters to the windows; a raised verandah – the “piazza” – running all around it; a portion of this usually occupied by gentlemen in white linen coats, sky-blue “cottonade” pants, and Panama hats, who drink mint-juleps all day long; while another portion, furnished with cane rocking-chairs, presents a certain air of exclusiveness, 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 street, while its privacy is secured by a trellis, which extends between the supporting pillars, clustered with Virginia creepers and other plants trained to such service. A row of grand magnolias stands along the brick banquette in front, their broad glabrous leaves effectually fending off the sun; while at the ladies’ end two large Persian lilacs, rivalling the indigenous tree both in the beauty of their leaves and the fragrance of their flowers, waft delicious odours into the windows of the chambers adjacent, ever open.
Orange-trees grow contiguous, and so close to the verandah rail, that one leaning over may pluck either their ripe golden globes, or white wax-like blossoms in all stages of expansion; 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 then the hot atmosphere has cooled down, and the soft southern breeze coming 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 compensation in the song of the mock-bird, that, perched upon the top of some tall tree, makes the night cheerful with its ever-changing notes. Sometimes there are other sounds in this shady retreat, still more congenial to the ears 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 vine-trellised verandah; for only two individuals occupy it, both ladies. By the light from street lamps and open casements, from moonbeams shining through the lilac leaves, from fire-flies 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 Dupré. Both are abroad on the business of their colonising 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 Natchitoches at the time. It is a tract of territory surrounding, and formerly belonging to, an old mission by the monks, long ago abandoned. Dupré 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, Dupré would certainly be by the side of his Jessie.
The girls are together, standing by the baluster rail, with 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 éclaircissement! 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 county jail; 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 son 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 comments and conjectures as to the motive of the crime. Among these Helen Armstrong has read her own name, with the contents 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 between 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 herself 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. Oppressed by their painfulness, she retires a seep, and sinks down into one of the chairs; not to escape the bitter thoughts – for she cannot – but to brood on them alone.
Jessie remains with hands rested on the rail, gazing down into the street. She is looking for her Luis, who should now soon be returning to the hotel.
People are passing, some in leisurely promenade, others in hurried step, telling of early habits and a desire to get home.
One catching her eye, causes her to tremble; one for whom she has a feeling of fear, or rather repulsion. A man of large stature is seen loitering under the shadow of a tree, and looking at her as though he would devour her. Even in his figure there is an expression of sinister and slouching brutality. Still more on his face, visible by the light of a lamp which beams over the entrance door of the hotel. The young girl does not stay to scrutinise it; but shrinking back, cowers 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 great rough fellow, ugly enough to frighten any one. I’ve met him several times when out walking, and every time it’s made me shudder.”
“Has he been rude to you?”
“Not exactly rude, though something like it. He stares at me in a strange way. And such horrid eyes! They’re hollow, gowlish like an alligator’s. I’d half a mind to tell father, or Luis, about it; but I know Luis would go wild, 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 look at those alligator eyes.”
The fearless elder sister, defiant 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 description given.
There is one standing under a tree, but not in the place of which Jessie has spoken; he is on the opposite side of the street. Neither is he a man of large size, but rather short and slight. He is in shadow, however, and she cannot be sure of this.
At the moment he moves off, and his gait attracts her attention; then his figure, and, finally, his face, as the last comes under the lamp-light. They attract and fix it, sending a cold shiver through her frame.
It was a fancy her thinking she saw Charles Clancy among the tree-tops. Is it a like delusion, that now shows her his assassin in the streets of Natchitoches? No; it cannot be! It is a reality; assuredly the man moving off is Richard Darke!
She has it on her tongue to cry “murderer!” and raise a “hue and cry;” but cannot. She feels paralysed, fascinated; and stands speechless, 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, had been frayed by a spectre in the street!
Chapter Thirty Two.
The “Choctaw Chief.”
“You’ll excuse me, stranger, for interruptin’ you in the readin’ o’ your newspaper. I like to see men in the way o’ acquirin’ knowledge. But we’re all of us here goin’ to licker up. Won’t you join?”
The invitation, brusquely, if not uncourteously, extended, comes from a man of middle age, in height at least six feet three, without reckoning the thick soles of his bull-skin boots – the tops of which rise several inches above the knee. A personage, rawboned, and of rough exterior, wearing a red blanket-coat; his trousers tucked into the aforesaid boots; with a leather belt buckled around his waist, under the coat, but over the haft of a bowie-knife, alongside which peeps out the butt of a Colt’s revolving pistol. In correspondence with his clothing and equipment, he shows a cut-throat countenance, typical of the State Penitentiary; cheeks bloated as from excessive indulgence in drink; eyes watery and somewhat bloodshot; lips thick and sensual; with a nose set obliquely, looking as if it had received hard treatment in some pugilistic encounter. His hair is of a yellowish clay colour, lighter in tint upon the eyebrows. There is none either on his lips or jaws, nor yet upon his thick hog-like throat; which looks as if some day 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 quite a 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 sleepless 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 a broad 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 wearing 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 “licker up;” though he is no detective.
“Thank you,” rejoins the young fellow, lowering the newspaper 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.”
“Damned if we do! Not this time, stranger. The rule o’ this tavern is, that all in its bar takes a smile thegither – leastwise on first meeting. So, say what’s the name o’ yer tipple.”
“Oh! in that case I’m agreeable,” assents the newspaper reader, 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 lay 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.
“No – no!” respond several, determined to show themselves 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, corresponding 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 occurrence, every hour, almost every minute, in a hotel bar-room of the Southern United States; the only peculiarity in this case being, that the Natchitoches 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 name 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 bar-keeper 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, beyond a demand of payment before they have either 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 promenaders, in an outskirt scarce ever visited by respectable people, no one cares to inquire into the character of its guests, or aught else relating to it. To those who chance to stray in its direction, it is known as a sort of cheap hostelry, that gives shelter to all sorts of odd customers – hunters, trappers, small Indian traders, returned from an expedition on the prairies; along with these, such travellers as are without the means to stop at the more pretentious inns of the village; or, having the means, prefer, for reasons of their own, to put up at the Choctaw Chief.
Such is the reputation of the hostelry, before whose drinking bar stands Phil Quantrell – so calling himself – with the men to whose boon companionship he has been so unceremoniously introduced; as declared by his introducer, according to the custom of the establishment.
The first 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 liquor, up to this time consumed, being either cheap brandy or “rot-gut” whisky.
Quantrell, now pleasantly convivial, and acting under the generous impulse the drink has produced, sings out “Champagne!” a wine which the poorest tavern in the Southern States, even the Choctaw Chief, can plentifully supply.
After this the choice vintage of France, or its gooseberry counterfeit, flows feebly; Johnny with gleeful alacrity stripping off the leaden capsules, twisting the wires, and letting 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 contrast between this 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 its hybrid landlord, nor his bar-keeper, nor its guests are addicted to take note – or, at all events make remarks upon – circumstances which elsewhere would seem singular.
Still, is there one among the roystering crowd who does note this; as also other acts done, and sayings spoken, by Phil Quantrell in his cups. It is the Colossus who has introduced him to the jovial company, and who still sticks to him as chaperon.
Some of this man’s associates, who appear on familiar footing, called him “Jim Borlasse;” others, less free, address him as “Mister Borlasse;” while still others, at intervals, and as if by a slip of the tongue, give him the title “Captain.” Jim, Mister, or Captain Borlasse – whichever designation he deserve – throughout the whole debauch, keeps his bloodshot eyes bent upon their new acquaintance, noting his every movement. His ears, too, are strained to catch every word Quantrell 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 attention of the roysterers 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 better-educated associates.
The murdered man is called Clancy – Charles Clancy – while the murderer, or he under suspicion of being so, is named Richard Darke, the son of Ephraim Darke, a rich Mississippi 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 accused of it, after being arrested and lodged in the county jail, has managed to make his escape – this through connivance 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 Justice Lynch, a party of whom had burst open the doors of the prison, only to find it untenanted. The paper likewise mentions the motive for the committal of the crime – at least as conjectured; giving the name of a young lady, Miss Helen Armstrong, and speaking of a letter, with her picture, found upon the suspected assassin. It winds up by saying, that no doubt both prisoner and jailer have G.T.T. – “Gone to Texas” – a phrase of frequent use in the Southern States, applied to fugitives from justice. Then follows the copy of a proclamation from the State authorities, offering a reward of two thousand dollars for the apprehension of Richard Darke, and five hundred for Joe Harkness – this being the name of the conniving prison-keeper.
While the murder is being canvassed and discussed by the bon-vivants in the bar-room of the Choctaw Chief – a subject that seems to have 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.
“Damn 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 confrères, 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 damned 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 damn him for doin’ it!”
