The Death Shot: A Story Retold

“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!

Chapter Fifty Seven.

Planning a capture

Speechless with surprise, the two men stand gazing at the odd apparition; with something more than surprise, a supernatural feeling, not unmingled with fear. Such strange unearthly sight were enough to beget this in the stoutest hearts; and, though none stouter than theirs, for a time both are awed by it.

Only so long as the spectral equestrians were within the shadow of the trees on the opposite side. But soon as arriving at mid-stream the mystery is at an end; like most others, simple when understood. Their forms, outlined against the moonlit surface of the water, show a very natural phenomenon – two horses carrying double.

Woodley is the first to announce it, though Clancy has made the discovery at the same instant of time.

“Injuns!” says the backwoodsman, speaking in a whisper. “Two astride o’ each critter. Injuns, for sure. See the feathers stickin’ up out o’ their skulls! Them on the krupper look like squaws; though that’s kewrous too. Out on these Texas parayras the Injun weemen hez generally a hoss to theirselves, an’ kin ride ’most as well as the men. What seem queerier still is thar bein’ only two kupple; but maybe there’s more comin’ on ahint. An’ yet thar don’t appear to be. I don’t see stime o’ anythin’ on tother side the river. Kin you?”

“No. I think there’s but the two. They’d be looking back if there were others behind. What ought we to do with them?”

“What every white man oughter do meetin’ Injuns out hyar – gie ’em a wide berth: that’s the best way.”

“It may not in this case; I don’t think it is.”

“Why?”

“On my word, I scarce know. And yet I have an idea we ought to have a word with them. Likely they’ve been up to the settlement and will be able to tell us something of things there. As you know, Sime, I’m anxious to hear about – ”

“I know all that. Wal, ef you’re so inclined, let it be as ye say. We kin eezy stop ’em, an’ hear what they’ve got to say for theirselves. By good luck, we’ve the devantage o’ ’em. They’re bound to kum ’long the big trail. Tharfor, ef we throw ourselves on it, we’ll intercep’ an’ take ’em as in a trap. Jess afore we turned in hyar, I noticed a spot whar we kin ambuskade.”

“Let us do so; but what about these?” Clancy points to the other three, still seemingly asleep. “Hadn’t we better awake them? At all events, Heywood: we may need him.”

“For that matter, no. Thar’s but two buck Injuns. The does wont count for much in a skrimmage. Ef they show thar teeth I reckin we two air good for uglier odds than that. Howsomever, it’ll be no harm to hev Ned. We kin roust him up, lettin’ Harkness an’ the mulattar lie. Ye’es; on second thinkin’ it’ll be as well to hev him along. Ned! Ned!”

The summons is not spoken aloud, but in a whisper, Woodley stooping down till his lips touch Heywood’s ear. The young hunter hearing him, starts, then sits up, and finally gets upon his feet, rubbing his eyes while erecting himself. He sees at once why he has been awakened. A glance cast upon the river shows him the strangely ridden horses; still visible though just entering the tree-shadow on its nether bank.

In a few hurried words Woodley makes known their intention; and for some seconds the three stand in consultation, all having hold of their rifles.

They do not deem it necessary to rouse either the ex-jailer or Jupiter. It is not advisable, in view of the time that would be wasted. Besides, any noise, now, might reach the ears of the Indians, who, if alarmed, could still retreat to the opposite side, and so escape. Woodley, at first indifferent about their capture, has now entered into the spirit of it. It is just possible some information may be thus obtained, of service to their future designs. At all events, there can be no harm in knowing why the redskins are travelling at such an untimely hour.

“As a gen’ral rule,” he says, “Tair best let Injuns go thar own way when thar’s a big crowd thegitter. When thar aint, as it chances hyar, it may be wisest to hev a leetle palaver wi’ them. They’re putty sure to a been arter some diviltry anyhow. ’S like ’s not this lot’s been a pilferin’ somethin’ from the new settlement, and air in the act o’ toatin’ off thar plunder. Ef arter gruppin’ ’em, we find it aint so, we kin let go again, an’ no dammidge done. But first, let’s examine ’em, an’ see.”

“Our horses?” suggests Heywood, “oughtn’t we to take them along?”

“No need,” answers Woodley. “Contrarywise, they’d only hamper us. If the redskins make to rush past, we kin eezy shoot down thar animals, an’ so stop ’em. Wi’ thar squaws along, they ain’t like to make any resistance. Besides, arter all, they may be some sort that’s friendly to the whites. Ef so, ’twould be a pity to kill the critters. We kin capter ’em without sheddin’ thar blood.”

“Not a drop of it,” enjoins Clancy, in a tone of authority. “No, comrades. I’ve entered Texas to spill blood, but not that of the innocent – not that of Indians. When it comes to killing I shall see before me – . No matter; you know whom I mean.”

“I guess we do,” answers Woodley. “We both o’ us understand your feelins, Charley Clancy; ay, an’ respect ’em. But let’s look sharp. Whilst we stan’ palaverin the Injuns may slip past. They’ve arready reech’d the bank, an’ – Quick, kum along!”

The three are about starting off, when a fourth figure appears standing erect. It is Jupiter. A life of long suffering has made the mulatto a light sleeper, and he has been awake all the time they were talking. Though they spoke only in whispers, he has heard enough to suspect something about to be done, in which there may be danger to Clancy. The slave, now free, would lay down his life for the man who has manumitted him.

Coming up, he requests to be taken along, and permitted to share their exploit, however perilous.

As there can be no great objection, his request is granted, and he is joined to the party.

But this necessitates a pause, for something to be considered. What is to be done with the ex-jailer? Though not strictly treated as a prisoner, still all along they have been keeping him under surveillance. Certainly, there was something strange in his making back for the States, in view of what he might there expect to meet for his misdemeanour; and, considering this, they have never been sure whether he may not still be in league with the outlaws, and prove twice traitor.

Now that they are approaching the spot where events may be expected, more than ever is it thought necessary to keep an eye on him.

It will not do to leave him alone, with their horses. What then?

While thus hesitating, Woodley cuts the Gordian knot by stepping straight to where Harkness lies, grasping the collar of his coat, and rudely arousing him out of his slumber, by a jerk that brings him erect upon his feet. Then, without waiting word of remonstrance from the astonished man, Sime hisses into his ear: —

“Kum along, Joe Harkness! Keep close arter us, an’ don’t ask any questyuns. Thar, Jupe; you take charge o’ him!”

At this, he gives Harkness a shove which sends him staggering into the arms of the mulatto.

The latter, drawing a long stiletto-like knife, brandishes it before the ex-jailer’s eyes, as he does so, saying:

“Mass Harkness; keep on afore me; I foller. If you try leave the track look-out. This blade sure go ’tween your back ribs.”

The shining steel, with the sheen of Jupiter’s teeth set in stern determination, is enough to hold Harkness honest, whatever his intent. He makes no resistance, but, trembling, turns along the path.

Once out of the glade, they fall into single file, the narrow trace making this necessary; Woodley in the lead; Clancy second, holding his hound in leash; Heywood third; Harkness fourth; Jupiter with bared knife-blade bringing up the rear.

Never marched troop having behind it a more inexorable file-closer, or one more determined on doing his duty.

Chapter Fifty Eight.

Across the ford

No need to tell who are the strange equestrians seen coming across the river; nor to say, that those on the croup are not Indian women, but white ones – captives. The reader already knows they are Helen and Jessie Armstrong.

Had Charles Clancy or Sime Woodley but suspected this at the time, they would not have waited for Heywood, or stood dallying about the duplicity of Harkness. Instead, they would have rushed right on to the river, caring little what chances might be against them. Having no suspicion of its being ought save two travelling redskins, accompanied by their squaws, they acted otherwise.

The captives themselves know they are not in charge of Indians. After hearing that horrid laughter they are no longer in doubt. It came from the throats of white men: for only such could have understood the speeches that called it forth.

This discovery affords them no gratification, but the opposite. Instead of feeling safer in the custody of civilised men, the thought of it but intensifies their fears. From the red savage, pur sang, they might look for some compassion; from the white one they need not expect a spark of it.

And neither does; both have alike lost heart and sunk into deepest dejection. Never crossed Acheron two spirits more despairing – less hopeful of happiness beyond.

They are silent now. To exchange speech would only be to tempt a fresh peal of that diabolical laughter yet ringing in their ears. Therefore, they do not speak a word – have not since, nor have their captors. They, too, remain mute, for to converse, and be heard, would necessitate shouting. The horses are now wading knee-deep, and the water, in continuous agitation, makes a tumultuous noise; its cold drops dashed back, clouting against the blankets in which the forms of the captives are enfolded.

Though silent, these are busy with conjectures. Each has her own about the man who is beside her. Jessie thinks she is sharing the saddle with the traitor, Fernand. She trembles at recalling his glances from time to time cast upon her – ill-understood then, too well now. And now in his power, soon to be in his arms! Oh, heavens – it is horror. – Something like this she exclaims, the wild words wrung from her in her anguish. They are drowned by the surging noise.

Almost at the same instant, Helen gives out an ejaculation. She, too, is tortured with a terrible suspicion about him whose body touches her own. She suspects him to be one worse than traitor; is almost sure he is an assassin!

If so, what will be her fate? Reflecting on it, no wonder she cries out in agony, appealing to heaven – to God!

Suddenly there is silence, the commotion in the water having ceased. The hoofs strike upon soft sand, and soon after with firmer rebound from the bank.

For a length or two the horses strain upward; and again on level ground are halted, side by side and close together. The man who has charge of Helen, speaking to the other, says: —

“You’d better go ahead, Bill. I aint sure about the bye-path to the big tree. I’ve forgotten where it strikes off. You know, don’t you?”

“Yes, lootenant; I guess I kin find where it forks.”

No thought of Indians now – nor with Jessie any longer a fear of Fernand. By his speech, the man addressed as Bill cannot be the half-blood. It is something almost to reassure her. But for Helen – the other voice! Though speaking in undertone, and as if with some attempt at disguise, she is sure of having heard it before; then with distrust, as now with loathing. She hears it again, commanding: – “Lead on!”

Bill does not instantly obey, but says in rejoinder: —

“Skuse me, lootenant, but it seems a useless thing our goin’ up to the oak. I know the Cap’ sayed we were to wait for them under it. Why cant we just as well stay heer? ’Taint like they’ll be long now. They wont dally a minute, I know, after they’ve clutched the shiners, an’ I guess they got ’em most as soon as we’d secured these pair o’ petticoats. Besides they’ll come quicker than we’ve done, seeing as they’re more like to be pursooed. It’s a ugly bit o’ track ’tween here an’ the big tree, both sides thorny bramble that’ll tear the duds off our backs, to say nothin’ o’ the skin from our faces. In my opinion we oughter stay where we air till the rest jeins us.”

“No,” responds the lieutenant, in tone more authoritative, “We mustn’t remain here. Besides, we cant tell what may have happened to them. Suppose they have to fight for it, and get forced to take the upper crossing. In that case – ”

The speaker makes pause, as if perceiving a dilemma.

“In that case,” interpolates the unwilling Bill, “we’d best not stop heer at all, but put straight for head-quarters on the creek. How d’ye incline to that way of it?”