Майн Рид
The Death Shot: A Story Retold
Chapter Eighty Four.
The Scout’s Report
While these tragic incidents are occurring on Coyote Creek and the plain between, others almost as exciting but of less sanguinary character, take place in the valley of the San Saba.
As the morning sun lights up the ancient Mission-house, its walls still reverberate wailing cries, mingled with notes of preparation for the pursuit. Then follows a forenoon of painful suspense, no word yet from the scouters sent out.
Colonel Armstrong, and the principal men of the settlement, have ascended to the azotea to obtain a better view; and there remain gazing down the valley in feverish impatience. Just as the sun reaches meridian their wistful glances are rewarded; but by a sight which little relieves their anxiety; on the contrary, increasing it.
A horseman emerging from the timber, which skirts the river’s bank, comes on towards the Mission-building. He is alone, and riding at top speed – both circumstances having sinister significance. Has the scouting party been cut off, and he only escaped to tell the tale? Is it Dupré, Hawkins, or who? He is yet too far off to be identified.
As he draws nearer, Colonel Armstrong through a telescope makes him out to be Cris Tucker.
Why should the young hunter be coming back alone?
After a mutual interchange of questions and conjectures, they leave off talking, and silently stand, breathlessly, awaiting his arrival.
Soon as he is within hailing distance, several unable to restrain themselves, call out, inquiring the news.
“Not bad, gentlemen! Rayther good than otherways,” shouts back Oris.
His response lifts a load from their hearts, and in calmer mood they await further information. In a short time the scout presents himself before Colonel Armstrong, around whom the others cluster, all alike eager to hear the report. For they are still under anxiety about the character of the despoilers, having as yet no reason to think them other than Indians. Nor does Tucker’s account contradict this idea; though one thing he has to tell begets a suspicion to the contrary.
Rapidly and briefly as possible the young hunter gives details of what has happened to Dupré’s party, up to the time of his separating from it; first making their minds easy by assuring them it was then safe.
They were delayed a long time in getting upon the trail of the robbers, from these having taken a bye-path leading along the base of the bluff. At length having found the route of their retreat, they followed it over the lower ford, and there saw sign to convince them that the Indians – still supposing them such – had gone on across the bottom, and in all probability up the bluff beyond – thus identifying them with the band which the hunters had seen and tracked down. Indeed no one doubted this, nor could. But, while the scouters were examining the return tracks, they came upon others less intelligible – in short, perplexing. There were the hoof-marks of four horses and a mule – all shod; first seen upon a side trace leading from the main ford road. Striking into and following it for a few hundred yards, they came upon a place where men had encamped and stayed for some time – perhaps slept. The grass bent down showed where their bodies had been astretch. And these men must have been white. Fragments of biscuit, with other débris of eatables, not known to Indians, were evidence of this.
Returning from the abandoned bivouac, with the intention to ride straight back to the Mission, the scouters came upon another side trace leading out on the opposite side of the ford road, and up the river. On this they again saw the tracks of the shod horses and mule; among them the foot-prints of a large dog.
Taking this second trace it conducted them to a glade, with a grand tree, a live-oak, standing in its centre. The sign told of the party having stopped there also. While occupied in examining their traces, and much mystified by them, they picked up an article, which, instead of making matters clearer, tended to mystify them more – a wig! Of all things in the world this in such a place!
Still, not so strange either, seeing it was the counterfeit of an Indian chevelure– the hair long and black, taken from the tail of a horse.
For all, it had never belonged to, or covered, a red man’s skull – since it was that worn by Bosley, and torn from his head when Woodley and Heywood were stripping him for examination.
The scouters, of course, could not know of this; and, while inspecting the queer waif, wondering what it could mean, two others were taken up: one a sprig of cypress, the other an orange blossom; both showing as if but lately plucked, and alike out of place there.
Dupré, with some slight botanic knowledge, knew that no orange-tree grew near, nor yet any cypress. But he remembered having observed both in the Mission-garden, into which the girls had been last seen going. Without being able to guess why they should have brought sprig or flower along, he was sure they had themselves been under the live-oak. Where were they now?
In answer, Hawkins had cried: “Gone this way! Here’s the tracks of the shod horses leading up-stream, this side. Let’s follow them!”
So they had done, after despatching Tucker with the report.
It is so far satisfactory, better than any one expected; and inspires Colonel Armstrong with a feeling akin to hope. Something seems to whisper him his lost children will be recovered.
Long ere the sun has set over the valley of the San Saba his heart is filled, and thrilled, with joy indescribable. For his daughters are by his side, their arms around his neck, tenderly, lovingly entwining it, as on that day when told they must forsake their stately Mississippian home for a hovel in Texas. All have reached the Mission; for the scouting party having overtaken that of Woodley, came in along with it.
No, not all, two are still missing – Clancy and Jupiter. About the latter Woodley has made no one the wiser; though he tells Clancy’s strange experience, which, while astounding his auditory, fills them with keen apprehension for the young man’s fate.
Keenest is that in the breast of Helen Armstrong. Herself saved, she is now all the more solicitous about the safety of her lover. Her looks bespeak more than anxiety – anguish.
But there is that being done to hinder her from despairing. The pursuers are rapidly getting ready to start out, and with zeal unabated. For, although circumstances have changed by the recovery of the captives, there is sufficient motive for pursuit – the lost treasure to be re-taken – the outlaws chastised – Clancy’s life to be saved, or his death avenged.
Woodley’s words have fired them afresh, and they are impatient to set forth.
Their impatience reaches its climax, when Colonel Armstrong, with head uncovered, his white hair blown up by the evening breeze, addresses them, saying: —
“Fellow citizens! We have to thank the Almighty that our dear ones have escaped a great danger. But while grateful to God, let us remember there is a man also deserving gratitude. A brave young man, we all believed dead – murdered. He is still alive, let us hope so. Simeon Woodley has told us of the danger he is now in – death if he fall into the hands of these desperate outlaws. Friends, and fellow citizens! I need not appeal to you on behalf of this noble youth. I know you are all of one mind with myself, that come what will, cost what it may, Charles Clancy must be saved.”
The enthusiastic shout, sent up in response to the old soldier’s speech, tells that the pursuit will be at least energetic and earnest.
Helen Armstrong, standing retired, looks more hopeful now. And with her hope is mingled pride, at the popularity of him to whom she has given heart, and promised hand. Something more to make her happy; she now knows that, in the bestowing of both, she will have the approval of her father.
Chapter Eighty Five.
A change of programme
On the far frontier of Texas, still unsettled by civilised man, no chanticleer gives note of the dawn. Instead, the meleagris salutes the sunrise with a cry equally high-toned, and quite as home-like. For the gobbling of the wild turkey-cock is scarcely distinguishable from that of his domesticated brother of the farm-yard.
A gang of these great birds has roosted in the pecan grove, close to where the prairie pirates are encamped. At daylight’s approach, they fly up to the tops of the trees; the males, as is their wont in the spring months of the year, mutually sounding their sonorous challenge.
It awakes the robbers from the slumber succeeding their drunken debauch; their chief first of any.
Coming forth from his tent, he calls upon the others to get up – ordering several horses to be saddled. He designs despatching a party to the upper plain, in search of Quantrell and Bosley, not yet come to camp.
He wants another word with the mulatto; and steps towards the tent, where he supposes the man to be.
At its entrance he sees blood – inside a dead body!
His cry, less of sorrow than anger, brings his followers around. One after another peering into the tent, they see what is there. There is no question about how the thing occurred. It is clear to all. Their prisoner has killed his guard; as they say, assassinated him. Has the assassin escaped?
They scatter in search of him, by twos and threes, rushing from tent to tent. Some proceed to the corral, there to see that the bars are down, and the horses out.
These are discovered in a strip of meadow near by, one only missing. It is that the chief had seized from their white prisoner, and appropriated. The yellow one has replevined it!
The ghastly spectacle in the tent gives them no horror. They are too hardened for that. But it makes them feel, notwithstanding; first anger, soon succeeded by apprehension. The dullest brute in the band has some perception of danger as its consequence. Hitherto their security has depended on keeping up their incognito by disguises, and the secrecy of their camping place. Here is a prisoner escaped, who knows all; can tell about their travesties; guide a pursuing party to the spot! They must remain no longer there.
Borlasse recognising the necessity for a change of programme, summons his following around him.
“Boys!” he says, “I needn’t point out to ye that this ugly business puts us in a bit o’ a fix. We’ve got to clear out o’ hyar right quick. I reckon our best way ’ll be to make tracks for San Antone, an’ thar scatter. Even then, we won’t be too safe, if yellow skin turns up to tell his story about us. Lucky a nigger’s testymony don’t count for much in a Texan court; an’ thar’s still a chance to make it count for nothin’ by our knocking him on the head.”
All look surprised, their glances interrogating “How?”
“I see you don’t understan’ me,” pursues Borlasse in explanation. “It’s easy enough; but we must mount at once, an’ make after him. He won’t so readily find his way acrosst the cut-rock plain. An’ I tell yez, boys, it’s our only chance.”
There are dissenting voices. Some urge the danger of going back that way. They may meet the outraged settlers.
“No fear of them yet,” argues the chief, “but there will be if the nigger meets them. We needn’t go on to the San Saba. If we don’t overtake him ’fore reachin’ the cottonwood, we’ll hev’ to let him slide. Then we can hurry back hyar, an’ go down the creek to the Colorado.”
The course counselled, seeming best, is decided on.
Hastily saddling their horses, and stowing the plunder in a place where it will be safe till their return, they mount, and start off for the upper plain.
Silence again reigns around the deserted camp; no human voice there – no sound, save the calling of the wild turkeys, that cannot awake that ghastly sleeper.
At the same hour, almost the very moment, when Borlasse and his freebooters, ascending from Coyote Creek, set foot on the table plain, a party of mounted men, coming up from the San Saba bottom, strikes it on the opposite edge. It is scarce necessary to say that these are the pursuing settlers. Dupré at their head. Hardly have they struck out into the sterile waste, before getting bewildered, with neither trace nor track to give them a clue to the direction. But they have with them a surer guide than the foot-prints of men, or the hoof-marks of horses – their prisoner Bill Bosley.
To save his life, the wretch told all about his late associates and is now conducting the pursuers to Coyote Creek.
Withal, he is not sure of the way; and halts hesitatingly.
Woodley mistaking his uncertainty for reluctance, puts a pistol to his head, saying: —
“Bill Bosley! altho’ I don’t make estimate o’ yur life as more account than that o’ a cat, it may be, I spose, precious to yurself. An’ ye kin only save it by takin’ us strait to whar ye say Jim Borlasse an’ his beauties air. Show sign o’ preevarication, or go a yurd’s length out o’ the right track, an’ – wal, I won’t shoot ye, as I’m threetenin’. That ’ud be a death too good for sech as you. But I promise ye’ll get yer neck streetched on the nearest tree; an’ if no tree turn up, I’ll tie ye to the tail o’ my horse, an’ hang ye that way. So, take yur choice. If ye want to chaw any more corn, don’t ’tempt playin’ possum.”
“I hain’t no thought of it,” protests Bosley, “indeed I hain’t, Sime. I’m only puzzled ’bout the trail from here. Tho’ I’ve been accrost this plain several times, I never took much notice, bein’ with the others, I only know there’s a tree stands by itself. If we can reach that, the road’s easier beyont. I think it’s out yonnerways.”
He points in particular direction.
“Wal, we’ll try that way,” says Sime, adding: “Ef yer story don’t prove strait, there’ll come a crik in yur neck, soon’s it’s diskivered to be crooked. So waste no more words, but strike for the timmer ye speak o’.”
The alacrity with which Bosley obeys tells he is sincere.
Proof of his sincerity is soon after obtained in the tree itself being observed. Far off they descry it outlined against the clear sky, solitary as a ship at sea.
“Yonner it air, sure enuf!” says Woodley first sighting it. “I reck’n the skunk’s tellin’ us the truth, ’bout that stick o’ timber being a finger-post. Tharfor, no more dilly-dallying but on to’t quick as our critters can take us. Thar’s a man’s life in danger; one that’s dear to me, as I reckon he’d be to all o’ ye, ef ye knowed him, same’s I do. Ye heerd what the old kurnel sayed, as we war startin’ out: cost what it mout, Charley Clancy air to be saved. So put the prod to your critters, an’ let’s on!”
Saying this, the hunter spurs his horse to its best speed; and soon all are going at full gallop in straight course for the cottonwood.
Chapter Eighty Six.
Alone with the Dead
Beside the body of his fallen foe stands Charles Clancy, but with no intention there to tarry long. The companionship of the dead is ever painful, whether it be friend or enemy. With the latter, alone, it may appal. Something of this creeps over his spirit while standing there; for he has now no strong passion to sustain him, not even anger.
After a few moments, he turns his back on the corpse, calling Brasfort away from it. The dog yet shows hostility; and, if permitted, would mutilate the lifeless remains. Its fierce canine instinct has no generous impulse, and is only restrained by scolding and threats.
The sun is beginning to show above the horizon, and Clancy perceives Darke’s horse tearing about over the plain. He is reminded of his promise made to Jupiter.
The animal does not go clear off, but keeps circling round, as if it desired to come back again; the presence of the other horse attracting, and giving it confidence. Clancy calls to it, gesticulating in a friendly manner, and uttering exclamations of encouragement. By little and little, it draws nearer, till at length its muzzle is in contact with that of his own steed; and, seizing the bridle, he secures it.
Casting a last look at the corpse, he turns to the horses, intending to take departure from the spot. So little time has been spent in the pursuit, and the short conflict succeeding, it occurs to him he may overtake Jupiter, before the latter has reached the San Saba.
Scanning around to get bearings, his eye is attracted to an object, now familiar – the lone cottonwood. It is not much over two miles off. On Darke’s trail he must have ridden at least leagues. Its crooked course, however, explains the tree’s proximity. The circles and zig-zags have brought both pursued and pursuer nigh back to the starting point.
Since the cottonwood is there, he cannot be so far from the other place, he has such reason to remember; and, again running his eye around, he looks for it.
He sees it not, as there is nothing now to be seen, except some scattered mould undistinguishable at a distance. Instead, the rising sun lights up the figure of a man, afoot, and more than a mile off. Not standing still, but in motion; as he can see, moving towards himself. It is Jupiter!
Thus concluding, he is about to mount and meet him, when stayed by a strange reflection.
“I’ll let Jupe have a look at his old master,” he mutters to himself. “He too had old scores to settle with him – many a one recorded upon his skin. It may give him satisfaction to know how the thing has ended.”
Meanwhile the mulatto – for it is he – comes on; at first slowly, and with evident caution in his approach.
Soon he is seen to quicken his step, changing it to a run; at length arriving at the rock, breathless as one who reaches the end of a race. The sight which meets him there gives him but slight surprise. He has been prepared for it.
In answer to Clancy’s inquiry, he briefly explains his presence upon the spot. Disobedient to the instructions given him, instead of proceeding towards the San Saba bottom, he had remained upon the steppe. Not stationary, but following his master as fast as he could, and keeping him in view so long as the distance allowed. Two things were in his favour – the clear moonlight and Darke’s trail doubling back upon itself. For all, he had at length lost sight of the tracking horseman, but not till he had caught a glimpse of him tracked, fleeing before. It was the straight tail-on-end chase that took both beyond reach of his vision. Noting the direction, he still went hastening after, soon to hear a sound which told him the chase had come to a termination, and strife commenced. This was the report of a gun, its full, round boom proclaiming it a smooth-bore fowling-piece. Remembering that his old master always carried this – his new one never – it must be the former who fired the shot. And, as for a long while no other answered it, he was in despair, believing the latter killed. Then reached his ear the angry bay of the bloodhound, with mens’ voices intermingled; ending all the dear, sharp crack of a rifle; which, from the stillness that succeeded continuing, he knew to be the last shot.
“An’ it war the last, as I can see,” he says, winding up his account, and turning towards the corpse. “Ah! you’ve gi’n him what he thought he’d guv you – his death shot!”
“Yes, Jupe. He’s got it at last; and strange enough in the very place where he hit me. You see where my bullet has struck him?”
The mulatto, stooping down over Darke’s body, examines the wound, still dripping blood.
“You’re right, Masser Charle; it’s in de adzack spot. Well, that is curious. Seems like your gun war guided by de hand of that avengin’ angel you spoke o’.”
Having thus delivered himself, the fugitive slave becomes silent and thoughtful, for a time, bending over the body of his once cruel master, now no more caring for his cruelty, or in fear of being chastised by him.
With what strange reflections must that spectacle inspire him! The outstretched arms lying helpless along the earth – the claw-like fingers now stiff and nerveless – he may be thinking how they once clutched a cowhide, vigorously laying it on his own back, leaving those terrible scars.
“Come, Jupe!” says Clancy, rousing him from his reverie; “we must mount, and be off.”
Soon they are in their saddles, ready to start; but stay yet a little longer. For something has to be considered. It is necessary for them to make sure about their route. They must take precautions against getting strayed, as also another and still greater danger. Jupiter’s escape from the robbers’ den, with the deed that facilitated it, will by this have been discovered. It is more than probable he will be pursued; indeed almost certain. And the pursuers will come that way; at any moment they may appear.
This is the dark side of the picture presented to Clancy’s imagination, as he turns his eyes towards the west. Facing in the opposite direction his fancy summons up one brighter. For there lies the San Saba Mission-house, within whose walls he will find Helen Armstrong. He has now no doubt that she has reached home in safety; knows, too, that her father still lives. For the mulatto has learnt as much from the outlaws. While en route to Coyote Creek, and during his sojourn there, he overheard them speak about the massacre of the slaves, as also the immunity extended to their masters, with the reason for it. It is glad tidings to Clancy, His betrothed, restored to her father’s arms, will not the less affectionately open her own to receive him. The long night of their sorrowing has passed; the morn of their joy comes; its daylight is already dawning. He will have a welcome, sweet as ever met man.
“What’s that out yonner?” exclaims Jupiter, pointing west.
Clancy’s rapture is interrupted – his bright dream dissipated – suddenly, as when a cloud drifts over the disc of the sun.
And it is the sun which causes the change, or rather the reflection of its rays from something seen afar off, over the plain. Several points sparkle, appearing and disappearing through a semi-opaque mass, whose dun colour shows it to be dust.
Experienced in prairie-sign he can interpret this; and does easily, but with a heaviness at his heart. The things that sparkle are guns, pistols, knives, belt-buckles, bitts, and stirrups; while that through which they intermittingly shine is the stoor tossed up by the hooves of horses. It is a body of mounted men in march across the steppe.
Continuing to scan the dust-cloud, he perceives inside it a darker nucleus, evidently horses and men, though he is unable to trace the individual forms, or make out their number. No mattes for that; there is enough to identify them without. They are coming from the side of the Colorado – from Coyote Creek. Beyond doubt the desperadoes!
