Майн Рид
The Death Shot: A Story Retold
Chapter Seventy Two.
The prairie stocks
Silent is Clancy, sullen as a tiger just captured and encaged. As the moments pass, and he listens to the lawless speech of his captors, more than ever is he vexed with himself for having so tamely submitted to be taken.
Though as yet no special inhumanity has been shown him, he knows there will ere long. Coarse jests bandied between the robbers, whispered innuendoes, forewarn him of some fearful punishment about to be put upon him. Only its nature remains unknown.
He does not think they intend killing him outright. He has overheard one of his guards muttering to the other, that such is not the chiefs intention, adding some words which make the assurance little consolatory. “Worse than death” is the fragment of a sentence borne ominously to his ears.
Worse than death! Is it to be torture?
During all this time Borlasse has not declared himself, or given token of having recognised his prisoner. But Clancy can tell he has done so. He saw it in the Satanic glance of his eye as they first came face to face. Since, the robber has studiously kept away from him, riding at the head of the line, the prisoners having place in its centre.
On arrival at the underwood, all dismount; but only to slake their thirst, as that of their horses. The spring is unapproachable by the animals; and leathern buckets are called into requisition. With these, and other marching apparatus, the freebooters are provided. While one by one the horses are being watered, Borlasse draws off to some distance, beckoning Chisholm to follow him; and for a time the two seem engaged in earnest dialogue, as if in discussion. The chief promised his followers a spectacle, – a “bit of sport,” as he facetiously termed it. Clancy has been forecasting torture, but in his worst fear of it could not conceive any so terrible as that in store for him. It is in truth a cruelty inconceivable, worthy a savage, or Satan himself. Made known to Chisholm, though hardened this outlaw’s heart, he at first shrinks from assisting in its execution – even venturing to remonstrate.
But Borlasse is inexorable. He has no feelings of compassion for the man who was once the cause of his being made to wince under the whip. His vengeance is implacable; and will only be satisfied by seeing Clancy suffer all that flesh can. By devilish ingenuity he has contrived a scheme to this intent, and will carry it out regardless of consequences.
So says he, in answer to the somewhat mild remonstrance of his subordinate.
“Well, cap,” rejoins the latter, yielding, “if you’re determined to have it that way, why, have it. But let it be a leetle privater than you’ve spoke o’. By makin’ it a public spectacle, an’ lettin’ all our fellars into your feelins, some o’ ’em mightn’t be so much amused. An some might get to blabbin’ about it afterwards, in such a way as to breed trouble. The originality an’ curiousness o’ the thing would be sure to ’tract attention, an’ the report o’t would run through all Texas, like a prairie on fire. ’Twould never sleep as long’s there’s a soger left in the land; and sure as shootin’ we’d have the Rangers and Regulators hot after us. Tharfore, if you insist on the bit o’ interment, take my advice, and let the ceremony be confined to a few friends as can be trusted wi’ a secret.”
For some seconds Borlasse is silent, pondering upon what Chisholm has said. Then responds: —
“Guess you’re about right, Luke. I’ll do as you suggest. Best way will be to send the boys on ahead. There’s three can stay with us we can trust – Watts, Stocker, and Driscoll. They’ll be enough to do the grave-digging. The rest can go on to the rendezvous. Comrades!” he adds, moving back towards his men, who have just finished watering their horses, “I spoke o’ some sport I intended givin’ you here. On second thinkin’ it’ll be better defarred till we get to head-quarters. So into your saddles and ride on thar – takin’ the yeller fellow along wi’ ye. The other I’ll look after myself. You, Luke Chisholm, stay; with Watts, Stocker, and Driscoll. I’ve got a reason for remaining here a little longer. We’ll soon be after, like enough overtake ye ’fore you can reach the creek. If not, keep on to camp without us. An’, boys; once more I warn ye about openin’ them boxes. I know what’s in them to a dollar. Fernand! you’ll see to that.”
The half-blood, of taciturn habit, nods assent, Borlasse adding: —
“Now, you damned rascals! jump into your saddles and be off. Take the nigger along. Leave the white gentleman in better company, as befits him.”
With a yell of laughter at the coarse sally, the freebooters spring upon their horses. Then, separating Clancy from Jupe, they ride off, taking the latter. On the ground are left only the chief, Chisholm, and the trio chosen to assist at some ceremony, mysteriously spoken of as an “interment.”
After all it is not to be there. On reflection, Borlasse deems the place not befitting. The grave he is about to dig must not be disturbed, nor the body he intends burying disinterred.
Though white traveller never passes that solitary tree, red ones sometimes seek relaxation under its shade. Just possible a party of Comanches may come along; and though savages, their hearts might still be humane enough to frustrate the nefarious scheme of a white man more savage than they. To guard against such contingency Borlasse has bethought him of some change in his programme, which he makes known to Chisholm, saying: —
“I won’t bury him here, Luke. Some strayin’ redskin might come along, and help him to resurrection. By God! he shan’t have that, till he hears Gabriel’s trumpet. To make sure we must plant him in a safer place.”
“Can we find safer, cap?”
“Certainly we can.”
“But whar?”
“Anywhare out o’ sight of here. We shall take him to some distance off, so’s they can’t see him from the spring. Up yonder’ll do.”
He points to a part of the plain northward, adding: —
“It’s all alike which way, so long’s we go far enough.”
“All right!” rejoins Chisholm, who has surrendered his scruples about the cruelty of what they intend doing, and only thinks of its being done without danger.
“Boys!” shouts Borlasse to the men in charge of Clancy, “bring on your prisoner! We’re going to make a leetle deflection from the course – a bit o’ a pleasure trip – only a short un.”
So saying, he starts off in a northerly direction, nearly at right angles to that they have been hitherto travelling.
After proceeding about a mile, the brigand chief, still riding with Chisholm in the advance, comes to a halt, calling back to the others to do the same – also directing them to dismount their prisoner.
Clancy is unceremoniously jerked out of his saddle; and, after having his arms pinioned, and limbs lashed together, laid prostrate along the earth. This leaves them free for the infernal task, they are now instructed to perform. One only, Watts, stays with the prisoner; the other two, at the chiefs command, coming on to where he and Chisholm have halted. Then all four cluster around a spot he points out, giving directions what they are to do.
With the point of his spear Borlasse traces a circle upon the turf, some twenty inches in diameter; then tells them to dig inside it.
Stocker and Driscoll draw their tomahawks, and commence hacking at the ground; which, though hard, yields to the harder steel of hatchets manufactured for the cutting of skulls. As they make mould, it is removed by Chisholm with the broad blade of his Comanche spear.
As all prairie men are accustomed to making caches, they are expert at this; and soon sink a shaft that would do credit to the “crowing” of a South African Bosjesman. It is a cylinder full five feet in depth, with a diameter of less than two. Up to this time its purpose has not been declared to either Stocker, or Driscoll, though both have their conjectures. They guess it to be the grave of him who is lying along the earth – his living tomb!
At length, deeming it deep enough, Borlasse commands them to leave off work, adding, as he points to the prisoner: “Now, plant your saplin’! If it don’t grow there it ought to.”
The cold-blooded jest extorts a smile from the others, as they proceed to execute the diabolical order.
And they do it without show of hesitation – rather with alacrity. Not one of the five has a spark of compassion in his breast – not one whose soul is unstained with blood.
Clancy is dragged forward, and plunged feet foremost into the cavity. Standing upright, his chin is only an inch or two above the surface of the ground. A portion of the loose earth is pushed in, and packed around him, the ruffians trampling it firm. What remains they kick and scatter aside; the monster, with horrible mockery, telling them to make a “neat job of it.”
During all this time Brasfort has been making wild demonstrations, struggling to free himself, as if to rescue his master. For he is also bound, tied to the stirrup of one of the robber’s horses. But the behaviour of the faithful animal, instead of stirring them to compassion, only adds to their fiendish mirth.
The interment complete, Borlasse makes a sign to the rest to retire; then, placing himself in front, with arms akimbo, stands looking Clancy straight in the face. No pen could paint that glance. It can only be likened to that of Lucifer.
For a while he speaks not, but in silence exults over his victim. Then, bending down and tossing back his plumed bonnet, he asks, “D’ye know me, Charley Clancy?”
Receiving no reply, he continues, “I’ll lay a hundred dollars to one, ye will, after I’ve told ye a bit o’ a story, the which relates to a circumstance as happened jest twelve months ago. The scene o’ that affair was in the public square o’ Nacodosh, whar a man was tied to a post an – ”
“Whipped at it, as he deserved.”
“Ha!” exclaims Borlasse, surprised, partly at being recognised, but as much by the daring avowal. “You do remember that little matter? And me too?”
“Perfectly; so you may spare yourself the narration. You are Jim Borlasse, the biggest brute and most thorough scoundrel in Texas.”
“Curse you!” cries the ruffian enraged, poising his spear till its point almost touches Clancy’s head, “I feel like driving this through your skull.”
“Do so!” is the defiant and desperate rejoinder. It is what Clancy desires. He has no hope of life now. He wishes death to come at once, and relieve him from the long agony he will otherwise have to endure.
Quick catching this to be his reason, Borlasse restrains himself, and tosses up the spear, saying: —
“No, Mister; ye don’t die that eesy way – not if I know it. You and yours kept me two days tied like a martyr to the stake, to say nothin’ of what came after. So to make up for’t I’ll give you a spell o’ confinement that’ll last a leetle longer. You shall stay as ye are, till the buzzarts peck out your eyes, an’ the wolves peel the skin from your skull – ay, till the worms go crawlin’ through your flesh. How’ll ye like that, Charley Clancy?”
“There’s no wolf or vulture on the prairies of Texas ugly as yourself. Dastardly dog!”
“Ah! you’d like to get me angry? But you can’t. I’m cool as a cowkumber – aint I? Your dander’s up, I can see. Keep it down. No good your gettin’ excited. I s’pose you’d like me to spit in your face. Well, here goes to obleege ye.”
At this he stoops down, and does as said. After perpetrating the outrage, he adds: —
“Why don’t ye take out your handkercher an’ wipe it off. It’s a pity to see such a handsome fellow wi’ his face in that fashion. Ha! ha! ha!”
His four confederates, standing apart, spectators of the scene, echo his fiendish laughter.
“Well, well, my proud gentleman;” he resumes, “to let a man spit in your face without resentin’ it! I never expected to see you sunk so low. Humiliated up to the neck – to the chin! Ha! ha! ha!”
Again rings out the brutal cachinnation, chorused by his four followers.
In like manner the monster continues to taunt his helpless victim; so long, one might fancy his spite would be spent, his vengeance sated.
But no – not yet. There is still another arrow in his quiver – a last shaft to be shot – which he knows will carry a sting keener than any yet sent.
When his men have remounted, and are ready to ride off, he returns to Clancy, and, stooping, hisses into his ear: —
“Like enough you’ll be a goodish while alone here, an’ tharfore left to your reflections. Afore partin’ company, let me say somethin’ that may comfort you. Dick Darke’s got your girl; ’bout this time has her in his arms!”
Chapter Seventy Three.
Helpless and hopeless
“O God!”
Charles Clancy thus calls upon his Maker. Hitherto sustained by indignation, now that the tormentor has left him, the horror of his situation, striking into his soul in all its dread reality, wrings from him the prayerful apostrophe.
A groan follows, as his glance goes searching over the plain. For there is nothing to gladden it. His view commands the half of a circle – a great circle such as surrounds you upon the sea; though not as seen from the deck of a ship, but by one lying along the thwarts of a boat, or afloat upon a raft.
The robbers have ridden out of sight, and he knows they will not return. They have left him to die a lingering death, almost as if entombed alive. Perhaps better he were enclosed in a coffin; for then his sufferings would sooner end.
He has not the slightest hope of being succoured. There is no likelihood of human creature coming that way. It is a sterile waste, without game to tempt the hunter, and though a trail runs across it, Borlasse, with fiendish forethought, has placed him so far from this, that no one travelling along it could possibly see him. He can just descry the lone cottonwood afar off, outlined against the horizon like a ship at sea. It is the only tree in sight; elsewhere not even a bush to break the drear monotony of the desert.
He thinks of Simeon Woodley, Ned Heywood, and those who may pursue the plunderers of the settlement. But with hopes too faint to be worth entertaining. For he has been witness to the precautions taken by the robbers to blind their trail, and knows that the most skilled tracker cannot discover it. Chance alone could guide the pursuit in that direction, if pursuit there is to be. But even this is doubtful. For Colonel Armstrong having recovered his daughters, and only some silver stolen, the settlers may be loath to take after the thieves, or postpone following them to some future time. Clancy has no knowledge of the sanguinary drama that has been enacted at the Mission, else he would not reason thus. Ignorant of it, he can only be sure, that Sime Woodley and Ned Heywood will come in quest of, but without much likelihood of their finding them. No doubt they will search for days, weeks, months, if need be; and in time, but too late, discover – what? His head —
“Ha!”
His painful reflections are interrupted by that which but intensifies their painfulness: a shadow he sees flitting across the plain.
His eyes do not follow it, but, directed upward, go in search of the thing which is causing it. “A vulture!”
The foul bird is soaring aloft, its black body and broad expanded wings outlined against the azure sky. For this is again clear, the clouds and threatening storm having drifted off without bursting. And now, while with woe in his look he watches the swooping bird, well knowing the sinister significance of its flight, he sees another, and another, and yet another, till the firmament seems filled with them.
Again he groans out, “O God!”
A new agony threatens, a new horror is upon him. Vain the attempt to depict his feelings, as he regards the movements of the vultures. They are as those of one swimming in the sea amidst sharks. For, although the birds do not yet fly towards him, he knows they will soon be there. He sees them sailing in spiral curves, descending at each gyration, slowly but surely stooping lower, and coming nearer. He can hear the swish of their wings, like the sough of an approaching storm, with now and then a raucous utterance from their throats – the signal of some leader directing the preliminaries of the attack, soon to take place.
At length they are so close, he can see the ruff around their naked necks, bristled up; the skin reddened as with rage, and their beaks, stained with bloody flesh of some other banquet, getting ready to feast upon his. Soon he will feel them striking against his skull, pecking out his eyes. O, heavens! can horror be felt further?
Not by him. It adds not to his, when he perceives that the birds threatening to assail him will be assisted by beasts. For he now sees this. Mingling with the shadows flitting over the earth, are things more substantial – the bodies of wolves. As with the vultures, at first only one; then two or three; their number at each instant increasing, till a whole pack of the predatory brutes have gathered upon the ground.
Less silent than their winged allies – their competitors, if it come to a repast. For the coyote is a noisy creature, and those now assembling around Clancy’s head – a sight strange to them – give out their triple bark, with its prolonged whine, in sound so lugubrious, that, instead of preparing for attack, one might fancy them wailing a defeat.
Clancy has often heard that cry, and well comprehends its meaning. It seems his death-dirge. While listening to it no wonder he again calls upon God – invokes Heaven to help him!
Chapter Seventy Four.
Coyote Creek
A stream coursing through a cañoned channel whose banks rise three hundred feet above its bed. They are twin cliffs that front one another, their façades not half so far apart. Rough with projecting points of rock, and scarred by water erosion, they look like angry giants with grim visages frowning mutual defiance. In places they approach, almost to touching; then, diverging, sweep round the opposite sides of an ellipse; again closing like the curved handles of callipers. Through the spaces thus opened the water makes its way, now rushing in hoarse torrent, anon gently meandering through meadows, whose vivid verdure, contrasting with the sombre colour of the enclosing cliffs, gives the semblance of landscape pictures set in rustic frame.
The traveller who attempts to follow the course of the stream in question will have to keep upon the cliffs above: for no nearer can he approach its deeply-indented channel. And here he will see only the sterile treeless plain; or, if trees meet his eye, they will be such as but strengthen the impression of sterility – some scrambling mezquite bushes, clumps of cactaceae, perhaps the spheroidal form of a melocactus, or yucca, with its tufts of rigid leaves – the latter resembling bunches of bayonets rising above the musket “stacks” on a military parade ground.
He will have no view of the lush vegetation that enlivens the valley a hundred yards below the hoofs of his horse. He will not even get a glimpse of the stream itself; unless by going close to the edge of the precipice, and craning his neck over. And to do this, he must needs diverge from his route to avoid the transverse rivulets, each trickling down the bed of its own deep-cut channel.
There are many such streams in South-Western Texas; but the one here described is that called Arroyo de Coyote– Anglice, “Coyote Creek” – a tributary of the Colorado.
In part it forms the western boundary of the table-land, already known to the reader, in part intersecting it. Approaching it from the San Saba side, there is a stretch of twenty miles, where its channel cannot be reached, except by a single lateral ravine leading down to it at right angles, the entrance to which is concealed by a thick chapparal of thorny mezquite trees. Elsewhere, the traveller may arrive on the bluff’s brow, but cannot go down to the stream’s edge. He may see it far below, coursing among trees of every shade of green, from clearest emerald to darkest olive, here in straight reaches, there sinuous as a gliding snake. Birds of brilliant plumage flit about through the foliage upon its banks, some disporting themselves in its pellucid wave; some making the valley vocal with their melodious warblings, and others filling it with harsh, stridulous cries. Burning with thirst, and faint from fatigue, he will fix his gaze on the glistening water, to be tortured as Tantalus, and descry the cool shade, without being able to rest his weary limbs beneath it.
But rare the traveller, who ever strays to the bluffs bounding Coyote Creek: rarer still, those who have occasion to descend to the bottom-land through which it meanders.
Some have, nevertheless, as evinced by human sign observable upon the stream’s bank, just below where the lateral ravine leads down. There the cliffs diverging, and again coming near, enclose a valley of ovoidal shape, for the most part overgrown with pecan-trees. On one side of it is a thick umbrageous grove, within which several tents are seen standing. They are of rude description, partly covered by the skins of animals, partly scraps of old canvas, here and there eked out with a bit of blanket, or a cast coat. No one would mistake them for the tents of ordinary travellers, while they are equally unlike the wigwams of the nomadic aboriginal. To whom, then, do they appertain?
Were their owners present, there need be no difficulty in answering the question. But they are not. Neither outside, nor within, is soul to be seen. Nor anywhere near. No human form appears about the place; no voice of man, woman, or child, reverberates through the valley. Yet is there every evidence of recent occupation. In an open central space, are the ashes of a huge fire still hot, with fagots half-burnt, and scarce ceased smoking; while within the tents are implements, utensils, and provisions – bottles and jars of liquor left uncorked, with stores of tobacco unconsumed. What better proof that they are only temporarily deserted, and not abandoned? Certainly their owners, whether white men or Indians, intend returning to them.
It need scarce be told who these are. Enough to say, that Coyote Creek is the head-quarters of the prairie pirates, who assaulted the San Saba settlement.
Just as the sun is beginning to decline towards the western horizon, those of them sent on ahead arrive at their rendezvous; the chief, with Chisholm and the other three, not yet having come up.
On entering the encampment, they relieve their horses of the precious loads. Then unsaddling, turn them into a “corral” rudely constructed among the trees. A set of bars, serving as a gate, secures the animals against straying.
This simple stable duty done, the men betake themselves to the tents, re-kindle the fire, and commence culinary operations. By this, all are hungry enough, and they have the wherewithal to satisfy their appetites. There are skilful hunters among them, and the proceeds of a chase, that came off before starting out on their less innocent errand, are seen hanging from the trees, in the shape of bear’s hams and haunches of venison. These taken down, are spitted, and soon frizzling in the fire’s blaze; while the robbers gather around, knives in hand, each intending to carve for himself.
As they are about to commence their Homeric repast, Borlasse and the others ride up. Dismounting and striding in among the tents, the chief glances inquiringly around, his glance soon changing to disappointment. What he looks for is not there! “Quantrell and Bosley,” he asks, “ain’t they got here?”
“No, capting,” answers one. “They hain’t showed yet.”
“And you’ve seen nothin’ of them?”
“Nary thing.”
His eyes light up with angry suspicion. Again doubts he the fidelity of Darke, or rather is he now certain that the lieutenant is a traitor.
Uttering a fearful oath, he steps inside his tent, taking Chisholm along with him.
“What can it mean, Luke?” he asks, pouring out a glass of brandy, and gulping it down.
“Hanged if I can tell, cap. It looks like you was right in supposin’ they’re gin us the slip. Still it’s queery too, whar they could a goed, and wharf ore they should.”
“There’s nothing so strange about the wherefore; that’s clear enough to me. I suspected Richard Darke, alias Phil Quantrell, would play me false some day, though I didn’t expect it so soon. He don’t want his beauty brought here, lest some of the boys might be takin’ a fancy to her. That’s one reason, but not all. There’s another – to a man like him ’most as strong. He’s rich, leastaways his dad is, an’ he can get as much out o’ the old ’un as he wants, – will have it all in time. He guesses I intended squeezin’ him; an’ thar he was about right, for I did. I’d lay odds that’s the main thing has moved him to cut clear o’ us.”
“A darned mean trick if it is. You gied him protection when he was chased by the sheriffs, an’ now – ”
“Now, he won’t need it; though he don’t know that; can’t, I think. If he but knew he ain’t after all a murderer! See here, Luke; he may turn up yet. An’ if so, for the life o’ ye, ye mustn’t tell him who it was we dibbled into the ground up thar. I took care not to let any of them hear his name. You’re the only one as knows it.”
“Ye can trust me, cap. The word Clancy won’t pass through my teeth, till you gie me leave to speak it.”
“Ha!” exclaims Borlasse, suddenly struck with an apprehension. “I never thought of the mulatto. He may have let it out?”
“He mayn’t, however!”
“If not, he shan’t now. I’ll take care he don’t have the chance.”
“How are ye to help it? You don’t intend killin’ him?”
“Not yet; thar’s a golden egg in that goose. His silence can be secured without resortin’ to that. He must be kep’ separate from the others.”
“But some o’ them ’ll have to look after him, or he may cut away from us.”
“Fernandez will do that. I can trust him with Clancy’s name, – with anything. Slip out, Luke, and see if they’ve got it among them. If they have, it’s all up, so far as that game goes. If not, I’ll fix things safe, so that when we’ve spent Monsheer Dupré’s silver, we may still draw cheques on the bank of San Antonio, signed Ephraim Darke.”
Chisholm obeying, brings back a satisfactory report.
“The boys know nothin’ o’ Clancy’s name, nor how we disposed o’ him. In coorse, Watts, Stocker, an’ Driscoll, haint sayed anything ’bout that. They’ve told the rest we let him go, not carin’ to keep him; and that you only wanted the yellow fellow to wait on ye.”
“Good! Go again, and fetch Fernandez here.”
Chisholm once more turns out of the tent, soon after re-entering it, the half-blood behind him.
“Nandy,” says Borlasse; calling the latter by a name mutually understood. “I want you to take charge of that mulatto, and keep him under your eye. You musn’t let any of the boys come nigh enough to hold speech wi’ him. You go, Luke, and give them orders they’re not to.” Chisholm retires.
“And, Nandy, if the nigger mentions any name – it may be that of his master – mind you it’s not to be repeated to any one. You understand me?”
“I do, capitan.”
“All serene. I know I can depend on ye. Now, to your duty.”
Without another word, the taciturn mestizo glides out of the tent, leaving Borlasse alone. Speaking to himself, he says: —
“If Quantrell’s turned traitor, thar’s not a corner in Texas whar he’ll be safe from my vengeance. I’ll sarve the whelp as I’ve done ’tother, – a hound nobler than he. An’ for sweet Jessie Armstrong, he’ll have strong arms that can keep her out o’ mine. By heavens! I’ll hug her yet. If not, hell may take me!”
Thus blasphemously delivering himself, he clutches at the bottle of brandy, pours out a fresh glass, and drinking it at a gulp, sits down to reflect on the next step to be taken.
