Майн Рид
The Death Shot: A Story Retold
Chapter Forty One.
A repentant sinner
Nearly 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 for the same fording-place.
In number they are but a third of that composing the band of Borlasse; as there are only four 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 – to say nothing of his coloured skin – proclaiming 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 deer-hound. 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 Heywood; 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 apprehension of being pursued! Yet seems it so, judging from the rapid pace 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 altogether. 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 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 they 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 staying at the Choctaw Chief, and left Natchitoches 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 departure. 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, Clancy and his travelling 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 sans souci. 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 least a score of men. Seated on this, smoking his pipe, after a refection of corn-bread and bacon, Sime Woodley unburdens himself of some secrets he obtained in the Choctaw Chief, which up to this time he has kept back from the others.
“Boys!” he begins, addressing himself to Clancy and Heywood, the mulatto still keeping respectfully apart. “We’re now on a spot, whar less’n two weeks agone, sot or stud, two o’ the darndest scoundrels as iver made futmark on Texan soil. You know one o’ ’em, Ned Heywood, but not the tother. Charley Clancy hev akwaintance wi’ both, an’ a ugly reccoleckshun 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 thet fox, Johnny, tolt me, they must a tuk this trail. An’ as they hed to make quick tracks arter leavin’ Naketosh, they’d be tired on gettin’ this fur, an’ good as sartin to lay up a bit. Look! thar’s the ashes o’ thar fire, whar I ’spose they cooked somethin’. Thar hain’t been 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 consoomed. Yis, by the Eturnal! Roun’ the bleeze o’ them sticks has sot seven, eight, nine, or may be a dozen, o’ the darndest cut-throats as ever crossed the Sabine; an’ that’s sayin’ a goodish deal. Two o’ them I kin swar to bein’ so; an’ the rest may be counted the same from their kumpny – that kumpny bein’ Jim Borlasse 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 as the hound comes up, and licks his outstretched hand. Heywood has nothing to say; while Jupiter is not expected to take any part in 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. These are: —
“Now we’ve struck thar trail, what, boys, d’ye think we’d best do?”
Neither of the two replying, the hunter continues: —
“To the best of my opeenyun, our plan will be to put straight on to whar Planter Armstrong intends settin’ 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 neighbourhood o’ Helen Armstrong; – nigh to her as it dar’ 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. He seems impatient to be back in his saddle.
“In coorse,” resumes Woodley, “we’ll foller the trail o’ Borlasse 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 reezun to know. I hain’t a doubt he’d do wuss than that, ef opportunity offered. Thar’s been more’n one case o’ highway robbery out thar in West Texas, on emigrant people goin’ that way; an’ I don’t know a likelier than Borlasse to a had a hand in’t. Ef Kurnel Armstrong’s party wan’t so strong as ’tis, an’ the kurnel hisself a old campayner, I mout hev my fears for ’em. I reckin they’re safe enuf. 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 attack the waggon train, thar’s jest a chance o’ their hangin’ on its skirts, an’ stealin’ somethin’ from it. Ye heerd in Naketosh o’ a young Creole planter, by name Dupray, who’s goed wi’ Armstrong, an’s tuk a big count o’ dollars along. Jest the bait to temp Jim Borlasse; an’ as for Dick Darke, thar’s somethin’ else to temp him. So – ”
“Woodley!” exclaims Clancy, without waiting for the hunter to conclude; “we must be off from here. For God’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 longer 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, the deer-hound darts off from their midst – as he does so giving out a growl.
The stroke of a hoof tells them of some one approaching, and 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 shows 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 threateningly in his ears, in clear tone, pronouncing the words, —
“Keep yur ground, Joe Harkness! Don’t attempt retreetin’. If ye do, I’ll send a bullet through ye sure as my name’s Sime Woodley.”
The threat is sufficient. Harkness – 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 sixty seconds after, he is in their midst, dismounted 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 reservation. The man who has connived at Richard Darke’s escape, 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 back to the States, with not much left him, except a very sorry horse and a sorrowing heart.
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 something 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 spur away from the spot; Harkness, as commanded, following at their horses’ heels. This he does without daring to disobey; trotting after, in company with the dog, seemingly less cur than himself.
They have no fear of his falling back. Woodley’s 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 Forty Two.
The prairie caravan
Picture in imagination meadows, on which scythe of mower has never cut sward, nor haymaker set foot; meadows loaded with such luxuriance of vegetation – lush, tall grass – that tons of hay might be garnered off a single acre; meadows of such extent, that in speaking of them you may 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 has embarked.
In places this extended surface presents a somewhat monotonous 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 crossing the Atlantic, carried into the colonies 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 indentations along their edges “bays.”
To carry the analogy further, the herds of buffalo, with bodies half buried in the tall grass, may be likened to “schools” of whales; the wild horses to porpoises at play; the deer to dolphins; and the fleet antelopes to flying-fish.
Completing the figure, we have the vultures that soar above, performing the part of predatory sea-gulls; the eagle representing the rarer frigate-bird, or albatross.
In the midst of this verdant expanse, less than a quarter of a century ago, man was rarely met; still more rarely civilised 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 and with full flowing manes – the proud antlered stags, and prong-horned antelopes, were not his. He had no control over them. The turf he trod was free to them for pasture, as to him for passage; and, as he made way through their midst, his presence scarce affrighted them. He and 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 Rio Grande. Civilised man had as yet but shown himself upon its shores.
Since then he has entered upon, and scratched a portion of its surface; though not much, compared with its immensity. There are still grand expanses of the 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 corps d’armée on march by columns; a group of horsemen ahead, representing its vanguard; others on the flanks, and still another 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 comfort 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, but 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 one. Footsore 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 sonorous 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 Canaan was cursed, as it were a doom from the dawning of creation!
Just such a train as described is that commanded by Colonel Armstrong, en route 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 has yet passed over the prairies of Texas, counting between twenty and thirty “Conestoga” wagons, with several “carrioles” and vehicles of varied 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 wagons, 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 of the American build – travel two young ladies, distinguished by particular attentions. 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 they like; but the other repels them. For the soul of the former is full of joy; that of the latter steeped in sadness.
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 soon 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 side living and loving, constantly, caressingly; the latter 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 supremest, most painful suffering 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 comprehend the terror, the wan, wasting misery, endured by those 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 be shared by another – her Louis. He is still but her fiancée; 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.
