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The Death Shot: A Story Retold
Chapter Fifty Four.
Riding double
With Colonel Armstrong’s voice in tone of heartrending anguish, goes up that of Dupré 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 on new fears – on the dark future before them. Captive to such captors – red ruthless savages, whose naked arms, 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. They 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 his impertinent speeches, saw the savages surrounding them; then, suddenly blinded and seeing no more, felt themselves seized, lifted from their feet, carried off, 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 phantasmagoria of a dream. But that they were real, and not fanciful, they now too surely know; for the hoods are over their heads, the horses underneath; and the savages to whom they were strapped 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 sounds 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 exchanged 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 file only where the path is narrow.
At length a halt; of such continuance, as to make the captives suppose they have arrived at some place where they are to pass the remainder of the night. Or it may be but an obstruction; this probable from their hearing a sound, easily understood – the ripple of running water. They have arrived upon the bank of a river.
The San Saba, of course; it cannot be any other. Whether or 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 the 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; but of this the captives cannot be sure, for it is in low tone – almost a whisper – the words indistinguishable amid the rush of the river’s current. If heard, it is not likely they would understand. The two men are Indians, and will talk in the Indian tongue. For this same reason they need have no fear of freely conversing with one 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. Keep up your heart. It looks dark now; but something may may arise up to save us.”
Chapter Fifty Five.
Tired travellers
The lower crossing of the San Saba, so frequently referred to, calls for topographical description.
At this point the stream, several hundred yards wide, courses in smooth, tranquil current, between banks wooded to the water’s edge. The trees are chiefly cottonwoods, with oak, elm, tulip, wild China, and pecan interspersed; also the magnolia grandiflora; in short, such a forest as may be seen in many parts of the Southern States. On both sides of the river, and for some distance up and down, this timbered tract is close and continuous, extending nearly a mile back from the banks; where its selvedge of thinner growth becomes broken into glades, some of them resembling flower gardens, others dense thickets of the arundo gigantea, 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. On each side of the crossing the river is approached by a path, or rather an avenue-like opening in the timber, which shows signs of having been felled; doubtless, done by the former proprietors of the mission, or more like, the soldiers who served its garrison; a road made for military purposes, running between the presidio itself and the town of San Antonio de 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 tamed 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 bluffs 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 are five of them; four upon horseback, the fifth 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 ex-jailer added. They are travelling in haste – have been ever since entering the territory of Texas. Evidence of this in 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 after 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 – no 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 widens, they pull up, Woodley and Clancy riding a little 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 thar the night, or take it leezyurly in the cool o’ the mornin’. Since you say ye don’t intend showin’ yourself ’bout the mission buildin’, it’ll be all the better makin’ 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 ’ll enter the settlement, an’ see how things stand.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” responds Clancy, “If you think it better for us to halt here, I shan’t 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. For it is over her he fancies danger may be impending. No new fancy either; but one that has been afflicting him all along, and urging him so impatiently onward. Not that he 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 his late associates, seeing the foolish fellow he 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 Woodley, without waiting for the other to finish, “an’ ef so, yur forebodin’, as ye call it, air only a foolish notion, an’ nothin’ more. Take Sime Woodley’s word for it, ye’ll find things up the river all right.”
“I hope so.”
“Ye may be sure o’t. Kalklate, ye don’t know Planter Armstrong ’s well’s I do, tho’ I admit ye may hev a better knowledge o’ one that bears the name. As for the ole kurnel hisself, this chile’s kampayned wi’ him in the Cherokee wars, an’ kin say for sartin he aint a-goin’ to sleep ’ithout keepin’ one o’ his peepers skinned. Beside, his party air too strong, an’ the men composin’ it too exparienced, to be tuk by surprise, or attacked by any enemy out on these purayras, whether red Injuns or white pirates. Ef thar air danger it’ll come arter they’ve settled down, an’ growed unsurspishus. Then thar mout be a chance o’ circumventin’ them. But then we’ll be thar to purvent it. No fear o’ our arrivin’ too late. We’ll get up to the ole mission long afore noon the morrow, whar ye’ll find, what ye’ve been so long trackin’ arter, soun’ an’ safe. Trust Sime Woodley for that.”
The comforting words tranquillise Clancy’s fears, at the same time checking his impatience. Still is he reluctant to stay, and shows it by his answer.
“Sime, I’d rather we went on.”
“Wal, ef ye so weesh it, on let’s go. Your the chief of this party an’ kin command. For myself I’m only thinkin’ or them poor, tired critters.”
The hunter points to the horses, that for the last hour have been dragging their limbs along like bees honey-laden.
“To say nothin’ o’ ourselves,” he adds, “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 something in the tone of Sime’s speech which contradicts it – just a soupçon of vexation.
Perceiving it, Clancy makes rejoinder with the delicacy becoming a gentleman. Though against his will and better judgment, his habitual belief in, and reliance on Woodley’s wisdom, puts an end to his opposition; 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 reezun why we shedn’t make ourselves as comfortable as may be unner the circumstances. As it so chances, I know this hyar San Saba bottom ’most as well as that o’ our ole Massissip. An’ ef my mem’ry don’t mistake, thar’s a spot not far from hyar that’ll jest suit for us to camp in. Foller 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.
Chapter Fifty Six.
Spectral equestrians
But 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 slep on that spread o’ grass, some’at like six yeern ago, wi’ nothin’ to disturb his rest ’ceptin the skeeters. Them same seems nasty bad now. Let’s hope we’ll git through the night ’ithout bein’ clar eat up by ’em. An’, talkin’ o’ eatin’, I reckin we’ll all be the better o’ a bit supper. Arter thet we kin squat down an’ surrender to Morpheus.”
The meal suggested is speedily prepared, and, soon as despatched, the “squatting” follows.
In less than 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 oblivious embrace.
There is one, however, still awake – Clancy.
He has slept but little any night since entering the territory of! Texas. On this he sleeps 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 off.
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 series of incidents at that moment occurring up the river – scarce ten miles from the spot where he is lying – scenes that would cause him to start suddenly to his feet, rush for his horse, and ride off, calling upon his companions to follow. Then, plunging into the river without fear of the ford, he would gallop on towards the San Saba mission, as if the house were in names, and he only had 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 the others around are asleep; soundly, as he can tell by their snoring.
Woodley alone sleeps lightly; the hunter habituated, as he himself phrases it, “allers to do the possum bizness, wi’ one eye open.”
He has heard Clancy’s repeated shiftings and turnings, coupled with involuntary exclamations, as of a man murmuring in his dreams. One of these, louder than the rest, at length startling, causes Woodley to enquire what his comrade wants; and what is the matter with him.
“Oh, nothing,” replies Clancy; “only that I can’t sleep – that’s all.”
“Can’t sleep! Wharfore can’t ye? Sure ye oughter be able by this time. Ye’ve had furteeg enuf to put you in the way o’ slumberin’ soun’ as a hummin’ top.”
“I can’t to-night, Sime.”
“Preehaps ye’ve swallered somethin’, as don’t sit well on your stummuk! Or, it may be, the klimat o’ this hyar destrict. Sartin it do feel a leetle dampish, ’count o’ the river fog; tho’, as a general thing, the San Sabre bottom air ’counted one o’ the healthiest spots 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’ the narves thar ain’t it’s eequal to be foun’ 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 nervousness that keeps me awake – something quite different.”
“Oh!” grunts the old hunter, in a tone that tells of comprehension. “Something quite diff’rent? I reck’n I kin guess what thet somethin’ air – the same as keeps other young fellurs awake – thinkin’ o’ thar sweethearts. Once’t in the arms o’ Morpheous, ye’ll forgit all about your gurl. Foller my deevice; 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 prescribed physic.
After which he wraps his blanket around him, and once more essays to sleep.
As before, he is unsuccessful. Although for a while tranquil and courting slumber, it will not come. He again tosses about; and 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 soporific in the world wouldn’t give me sleep this night. I tell you, Sime, I have a fear upon me.”
“Fear o’ what?”
“That we’ll be too late.”
The last words, spoken solemnly, tell of apprehension keenly felt – whether false, or prophetic.
“That air’s all nonsense,” rejoins Woodley, wishing to reason his comrade out of what he deems an idle fancy. “The height o’ nonsense. Wheesh!”
The final exclamation, uttered in an altered tone, is accompanied 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.”
Clancy 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 flat along the earth, with ear close to the turf.
There is a sound, sure enough; though not what he supposed he had heard just before. That was like a human voice – some one laughing a long way off. It might be the “too-who-ha” of the owl, or the bark of 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.
The backwoodsman does 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 bushes 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 their 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 enlarges 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!
