Майн Рид
The Death Shot: A Story Retold
Chapter Sixty.
“The Live-Oak.”
At a pace necessarily slow, from the narrowness of the path and its numerous obstructions, the painted robbers, with their captives, have continued on; reaching their destination about the time Clancy and his comrades turned back along the ford road.
From this they are now not more than three hundred yards distant, halted in the place spoken of as a rendezvous.
A singular spot it is – one of those wild forest scenes by which nature oft surprises and delights her straying worshipper.
It is a glade of circular shape, with a colossal tree standing in its centre, – a live-oak with trunk full forty feet in girth, and branches spreading like a banyan. Though an evergreen, but little of its own foliage can be seen, only here and there a parcel of leaves at the extremity of a protruding twig; all the rest, great limbs and lesser branches, shrouded under Spanish moss, this in the moonlight showing white as flax.
Its depending garlands, stirred by the night breeze, sway to and fro, like ghosts moving in a minuet; when still, appearing as the water of a cataract suddenly frozen in its fall, its spray converted into hoar frost, the jets to gigantic icicles.
In their midst towers the supporting stem, thick and black, its bark gnarled and corrugated as the skin of an alligator.
This grim Titan of the forest, o’ertopping the other trees like a giant among men, stands alone, as though it had commanded them to keep their distance. And they seem to obey. Nearer than thirty yards to it none grow, nor so much as an underwood. It were easy to fancy it their monarch, and them not daring to intrude upon the domain it has set apart for itself.
With the moon now in the zenith, its shadow extends equally on all sides of its huge trunk, darkening half the surface of the glade – the other half in light, forming an illuminated ring around it. There could be no mistaking it for other than the “big tree,” referred to in the dialogue between the two robbers; and that they recognise it as such is evident by their action. Soon as sighting it, they head straight towards its stem, and halting, slip down out of their saddles, having undone the cords by which the captives were attached to them.
When dismounted, the lieutenant, drawing Bosley a step or two apart, says: —
“You stay here, Bill, and keep your prisoner company. I want a word with mine before our fellows come up, and as it’s of a private nature, I’m going to take her to the other side of the tree.”
The direction is given in tone so low the captives cannot hear it; at the same time authoritatively, to secure Bill’s obedience. He has no intention of refusing it. On the contrary, he responds with alacrity: – “All right. I understand.” This spoken as if implying consent to some sinister purpose on the part of his superior. Without further words, the lieutenant lays hold of his horse’s rein, and leads the animal round to the other side of the live-oak, his captive still in the saddle. Thus separated, the two men are not only out of each other’s sight, but beyond the chance of exchanging speech. Between them is the buttressed trunk many yards in breadth, dark and frowning as the battlements of a fortress. Besides, the air is filled with noises, the skirling of tree-crickets, and other sounds of animated nature that disturb the tranquillity of the southern night. They could only communicate with one another by shouting at the highest pitch of their voices. Just now they have no need, and each proceeds to act for himself.
Bosley, soon as left alone with his captive, bethinks him what he had best do with her. He knows he must treat her tenderly, even respectfully. He has had commands to this effect from one he dare not disobey. Before starting, his chief gave him instructions, to be carried out or disregarded at peril of his life. He has no intention to disobey them – indeed, no inclination. A stern old sinner, his weakness is not woman – perhaps for this very reason selected for the delicate duty now intrusted to him. Instead of paying court to his fair captive, or presuming to hold speech with her, he only thinks how he can best discharge it to the satisfaction of his superior. No need to keep her any longer on the horse. She must be fatigued; the attitude is irksome, and he may get blamed; for not releasing her from it. Thus reflecting, he flings his arms around her, draws her down, and lays her gently along the earth.
Having so disposed of her, he pulls out his pipe, lights it, and commences smoking, apparently without, further thought of the form at his feet. That spoil is not for him.
But there is another, upon which he has set his mind. One altogether different from woman. It is Dupré’s treasure, of which he is to have his share; and he speculates how much it will come to on partition. He longs to feast his eyes with a sight of the shining silver of which there has been so much talk among the robbers; and grand expectations excited; its value as I usual exaggerated.
Pondering upon it, he neither looks at his captive, nor thinks of her. His glances are toward the river ford, which he sees not, but I hears; listening amid the water’s monotone for the plunging of horses hoofs. Impatiently, too, as between the puffs from his pipe, he ever and anon utters a grunt of discontent at the special duty imposed upon him, which may hinder him from getting his full share of the spoils.
Unlike is the behaviour of him on the other side of the oak. He, too, has dismounted his captive, and laid her along the ground. But not to stand idly over. Instead, he leaves her, and walks away from the spot, having attached his horse to the trunk of the tree, by hooking the bridle-rein over a piece of projecting bark. He has no fear that she will make her escape, or attempt it. Before parting he has taken precautions against that, by lashing her limbs together.
All this without saying a word – not even giving utterance to an exclamation!
In like silence he leaves her, turning his face toward the river, and striking along a trace that conducts to it.
Though several hundred yards from the ford, the bank is close by; for the path by which they approached the glade has been parallel to the trend of the stream. The live-oak overlooks it, with only a bordering of bushes between.
Through this runs a narrow trace made by wild animals, the forest denizens that frequent the adjacent timber, going down to their drinking place.
Parting the branches, that would sweep the plumed tiara from his head, the lieutenant glides along it, not stealthily, but with confidence, and as if familiar with the way. Once through the thicket, he sees the river broad and bright before him: its clear tranquil current in contrast with the dark and stormy passions agitating his own heart. He is not thinking of this, nor is there any sentiment in his soul, as he pauses by the side of the stream. He has sought it for a most prosaic purpose – to wash his face. For this he has brought with him a piece of soap and a rag of cotton cloth, taken out of a haversack carried on the pommel of his saddle.
Stepping down the slope, he stoops to perform his ablutions. In that water-mirror many a fierce ugly face has been reflected but never one fiercer or uglier than his, under its garish panoply of paint. Nor is it improved, when this, sponged off shows the skin to be white; on the contrary, the sinister passions that play upon his features would better become the complexion of the savage.
Having completed his lavatory task, he throws soap and rag into the river; then, turning, strides back up the bank. At its summit he stops to readjust his plumed head-dress, as he does so, saying in soliloquy: —
“I’ll give her a surprise, such as she hasn’t had since leaving the States. I’d bet odds she’ll be more frightened at my face now, than when she saw it in the old garden. She didn’t recognise it then; she will now. And now for her torture, and my triumph: for the revenge I’ve determined to take. Won’t it be sweet!”
At the close of his exultant speech, he dives into the dark path, and gliding along it, soon re-enters the glade.
He perceives no change, for there has been none.
Going on to her from whom he had separated, he again places himself by her recumbent form, and stands gazing upon, gloating over it, like a panther whose prey lies disabled at its feet, to be devoured at leisure.
Only an instant stays he in this attitude; then stooping till his head almost touches hers, he hisses into her ear: —
“So, Helen, at length and at last, I have you in my power, at my mercy, sure, safe, as ever cat had mouse! Oh! it is sweet – sweet – sweet!”
She has no uncertainty now. The man exclaiming sweet, is he who has caused all her life’s bitterness. The voice, no longer disguised, is that of Richard Darke!
Chapter Sixty One.
A ruffian triumphant
Wild thoughts has Helen Armstrong, thus apostrophised, with not a word to say in return. She knows it would be idle; but without this, her very indignation holds her dumb – that and despair.
For a time he, too, is silent, as if surrendering his soul to delightful exultation.
Soon he resumes speech in changed tone, and interrogatively: – “Do you know who’s talking to you? Or must I tell you, Nell? You’ll excuse familiarity in an old friend, won’t you?” Receiving no response, he continues, in the same sneering style: “Yes, an old friend, I say it; one you should well remember, though it’s some time since we met, and a good way from here. To assist your recollection, let me recall an incident occurring at our last interview. Perhaps ’twill be enough to name the place and time? Wall, it was under a magnolia, in the State of Mississippi; time ten o’clock of night, moonlight, if I rightly remember, as now. It matters not the day of the month being different, or any other trivial circumstance, so long as the serious ones are so. And they are, thank God for it! Beneath the magnolia I knelt at your feet, under this tree, which is a live-oak, you lie at mine.”
He pauses, but not expecting reply. The woman, so tortured speaks not; neither stirs she. The only motion visible throughout her frame is the swell and fall of her bosom – tumultuously beating.
He who stands, over well knows it is throbbing in pain. But no compassion has he for that; on the contrary, it gives gratification; again drawing from him the exultant exclamation – “Sweet – sweet!”
After another interval of silence, he continues, banteringly as before:
“So, fair Helen, you perceive how circumstances have changed between us, and I hope you’ll have the sense to suit yourself to the change. Beneath the Mississippian tree you denied me: here under the Texan, you’ll not be so inexorable – will you?”
Still no response.
“Well; if you won’t vouchsafe an answer, I must be content to go without it; remembering the old saw – ‘Silence consents.’ Perhaps, ere long your tongue will untie itself; when you’ve got over grieving for him who’s gone – your great favourite, Charley Clancy. I take it, you’ve heard of his death; and possibly a report, that some one killed him. Both stories are true; and, telling you so, I may add, no one knows better than myself; since ’twas I sent the gentleman to kingdom come – Richard Darke.”
On making the fearful confession, and in boastful emphasis, he bends lower to observe its effect. Not in her face, still covered with the serape, but her form, in which he can perceive a tremor from head to foot. She shudders, and not strange, as she thinks: —
“He murdered him. He may intend the same with me. I care not now.”
Again the voice of the self-accused assassin:
“You know me now?”
She is silent as ever, and once more motionless; the convulsive spasm having passed. Even the beating of her heart seems stilled.
Is she dead? Has his fell speech slain her? In reality it would appear so.
“Ah, well;” he says, “you won’t recognise me? Perhaps you will after seeing my face. Sight is the sharpest of the senses, and the most reliable. You shall no longer be deprived of it. Let me take you to the light.”
Lifting, he carries her out to where the moonbeams meet the tree’s shadow, and there lays her along. Then dropping to his knees, he draws out something that glistens. Two months before he stooped over the prostrate form of her lover, holding a photograph before his eyes – her own portrait. In her’s he is about to brandish a knife!
One seeing him in this attitude would suppose he intended burying its blade in her breast. Instead, he slits open the serape in front of her face, tossing the severed edges back beyond her cheeks.
Her features exposed to the light, show wan and woeful; withal, lovely as ever; piquant in their pale beauty, like those of some rebellious nun hating the hood, discontented with cloister and convent.
As she sees him stooping beside, with blade uplifted, she feels sure he designs killing her. But she neither shrinks, nor shudders now. She even wishes him to end her agony with a blow. Were the knife in her own hand, she would herself give it.
It is not his intention to harm her that way. Words are the weapons by which he intends torturing her. With these he will lacerate her heart to its core.
For he is thinking of the time when he threw himself at her feet, and poured forth his soul in passionate entreaty, only to have his passion spurned, and his pride humiliated. It is her turn to suffer humiliation, and he has determined she shall. Recalling his own, every spark of pity, every pulsation of manhood, is extinguished within him. The cup of his scorned love has become a chalice filled with the passion of vengeance.
Sheathing the knife, he says:
“I’ve been longing for a good look at you. Now that I’ve got it, I should say you’re pretty as ever, only paler. That will come right, and the roses return to your cheeks, in this recuperative climate of Texas; especially in the place where I intend taking you. But you hav’nt yet looked at my face. It’s just had a washing for your sake. Come give it a glance! I want you to admire it, though it may not be quite so handsome as that of Charley Clancy.”
She averts her eyes, instinctively closing them.
“Oh, well, you won’t? Never mind, now. There’s a time coming when you’ll not be so coy, and when I shan’t any longer kneel supplicating you. For know, Nell, you’re completely in my power, and I can command, do with you what I will. I don’t intend any harm, nor mean to be at all unkind. It’ll be your own fault if you force me to harshness. And knowing that, why shouldn’t there be truce between us? What’s the use of fretting about Clancy? He’s dead as a door nail, and your lamenting won’t bring him to life again. Better take things as they are, and cheer up. If you’ve lost one sweetheart, there’s another left, who loves you more than ever did he. I do, Helen Armstrong; by God, I do!”
The ruffian gives emphasis to his profane assertion, by bending before her, and laying his hand upon his heart.
Neither his speech nor attitude moves her. She lies as ever, still, silent. Wrapped in the Mexican blanket – whose pattern of Aztec design bears striking resemblance to the hieroglyphs of Egypt – this closed and corded round her figure, she might easily be mistaken for a mummy, one of Pharaoh’s daughters taken out of the sarcophagus in which for centuries she has slept. Alone, the face with its soft white skin, negatives the comparison: though it appears bloodless, too. The eyes tell nought; their lids are closed, the long dark lashes alone showing in crescent curves. With difficulty could one tell whether she be asleep, or dead.
Richard Darke does not suppose she is either; and, incensed at receiving no reply, again apostrophises her in tone more spiteful than ever. He has lost control of his temper, and now talks unfeelingly, brutally, profanely.
“Damn you!” he cries. “Keep your tongue in your teeth, if you like. Ere long I’ll find a way to make it wag; when we’re man and wife, as we shall soon be – after a fashion. A good one, too, practised here upon the prairies of Texas. Just the place for a bridal, such as ours is to be. The nuptial knot tied, according to canons of our own choice, needing no sanction of church, or palaver of priests, to make it binding.”
The ruffian pauses in his ribald speech. Not that he has yet sated his vengeance, for he intends continuing the torture of his victim unable to resist. He has driven the arrow deep into her heart, and leaves it to rankle there.
For a time he is silent, as if enjoying his triumph – the expression on his countenance truly satanic. It is seen suddenly to change, apprehension taking its place, succeeded by fear.
The cause: sounds coming from the other side of the tree; human voices!
Not those of Bosley, or his captive; but of strange men speaking excitedly!
Quick parting from his captive, and gliding up to the trunk, he looks cautiously around it.
In the shadow he sees several figures clustering around Bosley and his horse; then hears names pronounced, one which chills the blood within his veins – almost freezing it.
He stands transfixed; cowering as one detected in an act of crime, and by a strong hand held in the attitude in which caught! Only for a short while thus; then, starting up, he rushes to regain his horse, jerks the bridle from the back, and drags the animal in the direction of his captive. Tossing her upon the pommel of the saddle, he springs into it. But she too has heard names, and now makes herself heard, shouting, “Help – help!”
Chapter Sixty Two.
“Help! Help!”
Baulked in their attempt to ambuscade the supposed Indians, Clancy and his companions thought not of abandoning the search for them. On the contrary, they continued it with renewed eagerness, their interest excited by the unexplained disappearance of the party.
And they have succeeded in finding it, for it is they who surround Bosley, having surprised him unsuspectingly puffing away at his pipe. How they made approach, remains to be told.
On reaching the river’s bank, and there seeing nought of the strange equestrians, their first feeling was profound astonishment. On Woodley’s part, also, some relapse to a belief in the supernatural; Heywood, to a certain degree, sharing it.
“Odd it air!” mutters Sime, with an ominous shake of the head. “Tarnashun odd! Whar kin they hev been, an’ whar hev they goed?”
“Maybe back, across the river?” suggests Heywood.
“Unpossible. Thar ain’t time. They’d be wadin’ now, an’ we’d see ’em. No. They’re on this side yit, if anywhar on airth; the last bein’ the doubtful.”
“Supposin’ they’ve taken the trace we came by? They might while we were up the road.”
“By the jumpin’ Jeehosofat!” exclaims Woodley, startled by this second suggestion, “I never thought o’ that. If they hev, thar’s our horses, an’ things. Let’s back to camp quick as legs kin take us.”
“Stay!” interposes Clancy, whose senses are not confused by any unearthly fancies. “I don’t think they could have gone that way. There may be a trail up the bank, and they’ve taken it. There must be, Sime. I never knew a stream without one.”
“Ef there be, it’s beyont this child’s knowledge. I hain’t noticed neery one. Still, as you say, sech is usooal, ef only a way for the wild beasts. We kin try for it.”
“Let us first make sure whether they came out here at all. We didn’t watch them quite in to the shore.”
Saying this, Clancy steps down to the water’s edge, the others with him.
They have no occasion to stoop. Standing erect they can see hoof-marks, conspicuous, freshly made, filled with water that has fallen from the fetlocks.
Turning, they easily trace them up the shelving bank; but not so easily along the road, though certain they continue that way. It is black as pitch beneath the shadowing trees. Withal, Woodley is not to be thus baffled. His skill as a tracker is proverbial among men of his calling; moreover, he is chagrined at their ill success so far; and, but for there being no time, the ex-jailer, its cause, would catch it. He does in an occasional curse, which might be accompanied by a cuff, did he not keep well out of the backwoodsman’s way.
Dropping on all fours, Sime feels for hoof-prints of the horses that have just crossed, groping in darkness. He can distinguish them from all others by their being wet. And so does, gaining ground, bit by bit, surely if slowly.
But Clancy has conceived a more expeditious plan, which he makes known, saying:
“No need taking all that trouble, Sime. You may be the best trailer in Texas; and no doubt you are, for a biped: still here’s one can beat you.”
“Who?” asks the backwoodsman, rising erect, “show me the man.”
“No man,” interrupts the other with a smile. “For our purpose something better. There stands your competitor.”
“You’re right; I didn’t think o’ the dog. He’ll do it like a breeze. Put him on, Charley!”
“Come, Brasfort!” says Clancy, apostrophising the hound, while lengthening the leash, and setting the animal on the slot. “You tell us where the redskin riders have gone.”
The intelligent creature well understands what is wanted, and with nose to the ground goes instantly off. But for the check string it would soon outstrip them for its eager action tells it has caught scent of a trail.
At first lifting it along the ford road, but only for a few yards. Then abruptly turning left, the dog is about to strike into the timber, when the hand of the master restrains it.
The instinct of the animal is no longer needed. They perceive the embouchure of a path, that looks like the entrance to a cave, dark and forbidding as the back door of a jail. But surely a trace leading in among the trees, which the plumed horsemen have taken.
After a second or two spent in arranging the order of march, they also take it, Clancy now assuming command.
They proceed with caution greater than ever; more slowly too, because along a path, dark, narrow, unknown, shaggy with thorns. They have to grope every inch of their way; all the while in surprise at the Indians having chosen it. There must be a reason, though none of them can think what it is.
They are not long left to conjectures. A light before their eyes throws light upon the enigma that has been baffling their brains. There is a break in the timber, where the moonbeams fall free to the earth.
Gliding on, silently, with undiminished caution, they arrive on the edge of an opening, and there make stop, but inside the underwood that skirts it.
Clancy and Woodley stand side by side, crouchingly; and in this attitude interrogate the ground before them.
They see the great tree, with its white shroud above, and deep obscurity beneath – the moonlit ring around it. But at first nothing more, save the fire-flies scintillating in its shadow.
After a time, their eyes becoming accustomed to the cross light, they see something besides; a group of figures close in to the tree’s trunk, apparently composed of horses and men. They can make out but one of each, but they take it there are two, with two women as well. While scanning the group, they observe a light larger and redder than that emitted by the winged insects. Steadier too; for it moves not from its place. They might not know it to be the coal upon a tobacco pipe, but for the smell of the burning “weed” wafted their way.
Sniffing it, Sime says:
“That’s the lot, sure; tho’ thar appears but the half o’t. I kin only make out one hoss, an’ one man, wi’ suthin’ astreetch long the groun – one o’ the squaws in coorse. The skunk on his feet air smokin’. Strange they hain’t lit a fire! True ’tain’t needed ’ceptin’ for the cookin’ o’ thar supper. Maybe they’ve hed it, an’ only kim hyar to get a spell o’ sleep. But ef thet’s thar idee why shed yon ’un be stannin’ up. Wal; I guess, he’s doin’ sentry bizness, the which air allers needcessary out hyar. How shell we act, Charley? Rush right up an’ tackle ’em? That’s your way, I take it.”
“It is – why not?”
“Because thar’s a better – leastwise a surer to prevent spillin’ thar blood. Ye say, you don’t want that?”
“On no account. If I thought there was a likelihood of it, I’d go straight back to our camp, and leave them alone. They may be harmless creatures, on some innocent errand. If it prove so, we musn’t molest them.”
“Wal; I’m willin’, for thet,” rejoins Woodley, adding a reservation, “Ef they resist, how are we to help it? We must eyther kill, or be kilt.”
There is reason in this, and Clancy perceives it. While he is cogitating what course to take, Woodley, resuming speech, points it out.
“’Thar’s no use for us to harm a hair on thar beads, supposin’ them to be innercent. For all thet, we shed make sure, an’ take preecaushin in case o’ them cuttin’ up ugly. It air allers the best way wi redskins.”
“How do you propose, Sime?”
“To surround ’em. Injuns, whether it be bucks or squaws, air slickery as eels. It’s good sixty yurds to whar they’re squatted yonner. Ef we push strait torst ’em, they’ll see us crossin’ that bit o’ moonshine, an’ be inter the timmer like greased lightnin’ through the branches o’ a gooseberry bush. Tho’ out o’ thar seddles now, an’ some o’ ’em streetched ’long the airth, apparently sleepin’, they’d be up an’ off in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail. Tharefor, say I, let’s surround ’em.”
“If you think that the better way,” rejoins Clancy, “let us. But it will take time, and call for the greatest caution. To get around the glade, without their seeing us, we must keep well within the timber. Through that underwood it won’t be easy. On second thoughts, Sime, I’m inclined to chance it the other way. They can’t possibly escape us. If they do take to their horses, they couldn’t gallop off beyond reach of our rifles. We can easily shoot their animals down. Besides, remember there’s two to get mounted on each. We may as well run right up, and determine the thing at once. I see no difficulty.”
“Wheesht!” exclaims Woodley, just as Clancy ceases speaking.
“What is it? Do you hear anything, Sime?”
“Don’t you, Charley?”
Clancy sets himself to listen, but at first hears nothing, save the usual sounds of the forest, of which it is now full. A spring night, a sultry one, the tree-crickets are in shrillest cry, the owls and goatsuckers joining in the chorus.
But in the midst of its continuous strain there is surely a sound, not animal, but human? Surely the voice of a man?
After a time, Clancy can distinguish it.
One is talking, in tone not loud, but with an accent which appears to be that of boasting or triumph. And the voice is not like an Indian’s, while exclamations, at intervals uttered, are certainly such as could only proceed from the lips of a white man.
All this is strange, and causes astonishment to the travellers – to Clancy something more. But before he has time to reflect upon, or form conjectures about it, he hears that which compels him to cast aside every restraint of prudence; and springing forward, he signals the others to follow him.
They do, without a word; and in less than twenty seconds’ time, they have entered the shadowed circle, and surrounded the group at which they have been so long gazing.
Only three figures after all! A man, a horse, with what may be woman, but looks less like one living than dead!
The man, Indian to all appearance, thus taken by surprise, plucks the pipe from between his teeth. It is struck out of his hand, the sparks flying from it, as Woodley on one side and Heywood the other, clutching, drag him toward the light.
When the moon shines on it, they behold a face which both have seen before.
Under its coating of charcoal and chalk they might not recognise it, but for the man making himself known by speech, which secures his identification. For he, too, sees a familiar face, that of Simeon Woodley; and under the impression he is himself recognised, mechanically pronounces the backwoodsman’s name.
“Bill Bosley!” shouts the astonished Sime, “Good Lord! Painted Injun! What’s this for? Some devil’s doings ye’re arter as ye allers war. Explain it, Bill! Tell the truth ’ithout preevaricashun. Ef ye lie, I’ll split your thrapple like I wud a water-millyun.”
“Sime Woodley! Ned Heywood! Joe Harkness!” gaspingly ejaculates the man, as in turn the three faces appear before him. “God Almighty! what’s it mean?”
“We’ll answer that when we’ve heern your story. Quick, tell it.”
“I can’t; your chokin’ me. For God’s sake, Heywood, take your hand off my throat. O Sime! sure you don’t intend killin’ me? – ye won’t, ye won’t.”
“That depends – ”
“But I aint to blame. Afore heaven, I swear I aint. You know that, Harkness? You heard me protest against their ugly doin’s more than once. In this business, now, I’m only actin’ under the captin’s order. He sent me ’long with the lootenant to take care of – ”
“The lieutenant!” interrupts Clancy. “What name?”
“Phil Quantrell, we call him; though I guess he’s got another – ”
“Where is he?” inquires Clancy, tortured with a terrible suspicion.
“He went t’other side the tree, takin’ the young lady along.”
At that moment comes a cry from behind the oak – a woman’s voice calling “Help! help!”
Clancy stays not to hear more, but rushes off with the air of a man struck with sudden phrenzy!
On turning the trunk, he sees other forms, a horse with man mounted, a woman before him he endeavours to restrain, who, struggling, thirsts for succour.
It is nigh, though near being too late. But for a fortunate circumstance, it would be. The horse, headed towards the forest, is urged in that direction. But, frayed by the conflict on his back, he refuses to advance; instead, jibbing and rearing, he returns under the tree.
Clancy, with rifle raised, is about to shoot the animal down. But at thought of danger to her calling “help!” he lowers his piece; and rushing in, lays hold of the bridle-rein. This instantly let go, to receive in his arms the woman, released from the ruffian’s grasp, who would otherwise fall heavily to the earth.
The horse, disembarrassed, now obeying the rein, shoots out from under the oak, and headed across the moonlit belt makes straight for the timber beyond.
