The Death Shot: A Story Retold

“Something in what you say,” answers the lieutenant. Then adding, after a pause, “It isn’t likely they’ll meet any obstruction. The half-breed Indian said he had arranged everything clear as clock-work. They’re safe sure to come this way, and ’twont do for us to go on without them. Besides, there’s a reason you appear not to think of. Neither you nor I know the trail across the upper plain. We might get strayed there, and if so, we’d better be in hell?”

After the profane utterance succeeds a short interval of silence, both men apparently cogitating. The lieutenant is the first to resume.

“Bosley,” he says, speaking in a sage tone, and for the first time addressing the subordinate by his family name. “On the prairies, as elsewhere, one should always be true to a trust, and keep it when one can. If there were time, I could tell you a curious story of one who tried but couldn’t. It’s generally the wisest way, and I think it’s that for us now. We might make a mess of it by changing from the programme understood – which was for us to wait under the oak. Besides I’ve got a reason of my own for being there a bit – something you can’t understand, and don’t need telling about. And time’s precious too; so spin ahead, and find the path.”

“All right,” rejoins the other, in a tone of assumed resignation. “Stayin’ or goin’s jest the same to me. For that matter I might like the first way best. I kin tell ye I’m precious tired toatin this burden at my back, beauty though she be; an’ by remainin’ heer I’ll get the sooner relieved. When Cap’ comes he’ll be wantin’ to take her off my hands; to the which I’ll make him welcome as the flowers o’ May.”

With his poetical wind-up, the reluctant robber sets his horse in motion, and leads on. Not far along the main road. When a few yards from the ford, he faces towards a trail on his left, which under the shadow is with difficulty discernible. For all this, he strikes into it with the confidence of one well acquainted with the way.

Along it they advance between thick standing trees, the path arcaded over by leafy branches appearing as dark as a tunnel. As the horses move on, the boughs, bent forward by their breasts, swish back in rebound, striking against the legs of their riders; while higher up the hanging llianas, many of them beset with spines, threaten to tear the skin from their faces.

Fortunately for the captives, theirs are protected by the close-woven serapes. Though little care they now: thorns lacerating their cheeks were but trivial pain, compared to the torture in their souls. They utter no complaint, neither speaking a word. Despair has stricken them dumb; for, moving along that darksome path, they feel as martyrs being conducted to stake or scaffold.

Chapter Fifty Nine.

A Foiled Ambuscade

Almost at the same instant the double-mounted steeds are turning off the main road, Woodley and those with him enter upon it; only at a point further away from the ford.

Delayed, first in considering what should be done with Harkness, and afterwards by the necessity of going slowly, as well as noiselessly along the narrow trace, they have arrived upon the road’s edge just in time to be too late.

As yet they are not aware of this, though Woodley has his apprehensions; these becoming convictions, after he has stood for a time listening, and hears no sound, save that of the water, which comes in hoarse hiss between the trees, almost deafening the ear. For at this point the stream, shallowing, runs in rapid current over a pebbly bed, here and there breaking into crests.

Woodley’s fear has been, that before he and his companions reach the road, the Indians might get past. If so, the chances of taking them will be diminished perhaps gone altogether. For, on horseback, they would have an advantage over those following afoot; and their capture could only be effected by the most skilful stalking, as such travellers have the habit of looking behind.

The question is – Have they passed the place, where it was intended to waylay them?

“I don’t think they hev,” says Woodley, answering it. “They have hardly hed time. Besides ’tain’t nat’ral they’d ride strait on, jest arter kimmin’ acrosst the river. It’s a longish wade, wi’ a good deal o’ work for the horses. More like they’ve pulled up on reachin’ the bank, an’ air thar breathin’ the critters a bit.”

None of the others offering an opinion, he adds —

“Thur’s a eezy way to make sure, an’ the safest, too. Ef they’ve good by hyar, they can’t yet be very far off. Ridin’ as they air they won’t think o’ proceedin’ at a fast pace. Therefore, let’s take a scout ’long the road outwards. Ef they’re on it, we’ll soon sight ’em, or we may konklude they’re behind on the bank o’ the river. They’re bound to pass this way, ef they hain’t arready. So we’ll eyther overtake, or meet ’em when returnin’, or what mout be better’n both, ketch ’em a campin’ by the water’s edge. In any case our surest way air first to follow up the road. Ef that prove a failure, we kin ’bout face, an’ back to the river.”

“Why need we all go?” asks Heywood. “Supposing the rest of you stay here, while I scout up the road, and see whether they’ve gone along it.”

“What ud be the use o’ that?” demands Sime. “S’posin’ ye did, an’ sighted ’em, ye ain’t goin’ to make thar capture all o’ yourself. Look at the time lost whiles ye air trottin’ back hyar to tell us. By then, they’d get out into the clear moonlight, whar ther’d be no chance o’ our comin’ up to them without thar spyin’ us. No, Ned: your idee won’t do. What do you think, Charley?”

“That your plan seems best. You’re sure there’s no other way for them to pass out from the river?”

“This chile don’t know o’ any, ceptin’ this trace we’ve ourselves kum off o’.”

“Then, clearly, our best plan is first to try along the road – all together.”

“Let’s on, then!” urges Woodley. “Thar’s no time to waste. While we stan’ talkin’ hyar, them redskins may ride to the jumpin’-off place o’ creashun.”

So saying, the hunter turns face to the right, and goes off at a run, the others moving in like manner behind him.

After proceeding some two or three hundred yards, they arrive at a place where the trees, standing apart, leave an open space between. There a saddle-like hollow intersects the road, traversing it from side to side. It is the channel of a rivulet when raining; but now nearly dry, its bed a mortar of soft mud. They had crossed it coming in towards the river, but without taking any notice of it, further than the necessity of guiding their tired steeds to guard against their stumbling. It was then in darkness, the twilight just past, and the moon not risen. Now that she is up in mid heaven, it is flooded by her light, so that the slightest mark in the mud can be clearly distinguished.

Running their eyes over its surface, they observe tracks they have not been looking for, and more than they have reason to expect. Signs to cause them surprise, if not actual alarm. Conspicuous are two deep parallel ruts, which they know have been made by the wheels of the emigrant wagons. A shower of rain, since fallen, has not obliterated them; only washed off their sharp angles, having done the same with the tracks of the mule teams between, and those of the half hundred horses ridden alongside, as also the hoof-marks of the horned cattle driven after.

It is not any of these that gives them concern. But other tracks more recent, made since the ram – in fact, since the sun lose that same morning – made by horses going towards the river, and with riders on their backs. Over twenty in all, without counting their own; some of them shod, but most without iron on the hoof. To the eyes of Sime Woodley – to Clancy’s as well – these facts declare themselves at a single glance; and they only dwell upon further deductions. But not yet. For while scanning the slough they see two sets of horse tracks going in the opposite direction – outward from the river. Shod horses, too; their hoof-prints stamped deep in the mud, as if both had been heavily mounted.

This is a matter more immediate. The redskins, riding double, have gone past. If they are to be overtaken, nor a moment must be spent thinking of aught else.

Clancy has risen erect, ready to rush on after them. So Heywood and the rest. But not Woodley, who, still stooping over the slough, seems unsatisfied. And soon he makes a remark, which not only restrains the others, but causes an entire change in their intention.

“They aint fresh,” he says, speaking of the tracks last looked at. “Thet is, they hain’t been made ’ithin the hour. Tharfor, it can’t be them as hev jest crossed the stream. Take a squint at ’em, Charley.”

Clancy, thus called upon, lowering his eyes, again looks at the tracks. Not for long. A glance gives him evidence that Woodley is right. The horses which made these outgoing tracks cannot be the same seen coming across.

And now, the others being more carefully scrutinised, these same two are discovered among them, with the convexity of the hoof turned towards the river!

In all this there is strangeness, though it is not the time to inquire into it. That must be left till later. Their only thought now is, where are the Indians; for they have certainly not come on along the road.

“Boys!” says Woodley, “we’ve been makin’ a big roundabout ’ithout gainin’ a great deal by it. Sartin them redskins hev stopped at the river, an’ thar mean squatting for the remainder o’ this night. That’ll suit our purpiss to a teetotum. We kin capter ’em in thar camp eezier than on the backs o’ thar critters. So, let’s go right on an’ grup ’em!”

With this he turns, and runs back along the road, the others keeping close after.

In ten minutes more they are on the river’s bank, where it declined to the crossing. They see no Indians there – no human creatures of any kind – nor yet any horses!

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!”