The Death Shot: A Story Retold

The ruffian gives emphasis to his profane assertion, by bending before her, and laying his hand upon his heart.

Neither his speech nor attitude moves her. She lies as ever, still, silent. Wrapped in the Mexican blanket – whose pattern of Aztec design bears striking resemblance to the hieroglyphs of Egypt – this closed and corded round her figure, she might easily be mistaken for a mummy, one of Pharaoh’s daughters taken out of the sarcophagus in which for centuries she has slept. Alone, the face with its soft white skin, negatives the comparison: though it appears bloodless, too. The eyes tell nought; their lids are closed, the long dark lashes alone showing in crescent curves. With difficulty could one tell whether she be asleep, or dead.

Richard Darke does not suppose she is either; and, incensed at receiving no reply, again apostrophises her in tone more spiteful than ever. He has lost control of his temper, and now talks unfeelingly, brutally, profanely.

“Damn you!” he cries. “Keep your tongue in your teeth, if you like. Ere long I’ll find a way to make it wag; when we’re man and wife, as we shall soon be – after a fashion. A good one, too, practised here upon the prairies of Texas. Just the place for a bridal, such as ours is to be. The nuptial knot tied, according to canons of our own choice, needing no sanction of church, or palaver of priests, to make it binding.”

The ruffian pauses in his ribald speech. Not that he has yet sated his vengeance, for he intends continuing the torture of his victim unable to resist. He has driven the arrow deep into her heart, and leaves it to rankle there.

For a time he is silent, as if enjoying his triumph – the expression on his countenance truly satanic. It is seen suddenly to change, apprehension taking its place, succeeded by fear.

The cause: sounds coming from the other side of the tree; human voices!

Not those of Bosley, or his captive; but of strange men speaking excitedly!

Quick parting from his captive, and gliding up to the trunk, he looks cautiously around it.

In the shadow he sees several figures clustering around Bosley and his horse; then hears names pronounced, one which chills the blood within his veins – almost freezing it.

He stands transfixed; cowering as one detected in an act of crime, and by a strong hand held in the attitude in which caught! Only for a short while thus; then, starting up, he rushes to regain his horse, jerks the bridle from the back, and drags the animal in the direction of his captive. Tossing her upon the pommel of the saddle, he springs into it. But she too has heard names, and now makes herself heard, shouting, “Help – help!”

Chapter Sixty Two.

“Help! Help!”

Baulked in their attempt to ambuscade the supposed Indians, Clancy and his companions thought not of abandoning the search for them. On the contrary, they continued it with renewed eagerness, their interest excited by the unexplained disappearance of the party.

And they have succeeded in finding it, for it is they who surround Bosley, having surprised him unsuspectingly puffing away at his pipe. How they made approach, remains to be told.

On reaching the river’s bank, and there seeing nought of the strange equestrians, their first feeling was profound astonishment. On Woodley’s part, also, some relapse to a belief in the supernatural; Heywood, to a certain degree, sharing it.

“Odd it air!” mutters Sime, with an ominous shake of the head. “Tarnashun odd! Whar kin they hev been, an’ whar hev they goed?”

“Maybe back, across the river?” suggests Heywood.

“Unpossible. Thar ain’t time. They’d be wadin’ now, an’ we’d see ’em. No. They’re on this side yit, if anywhar on airth; the last bein’ the doubtful.”

“Supposin’ they’ve taken the trace we came by? They might while we were up the road.”

“By the jumpin’ Jeehosofat!” exclaims Woodley, startled by this second suggestion, “I never thought o’ that. If they hev, thar’s our horses, an’ things. Let’s back to camp quick as legs kin take us.”

“Stay!” interposes Clancy, whose senses are not confused by any unearthly fancies. “I don’t think they could have gone that way. There may be a trail up the bank, and they’ve taken it. There must be, Sime. I never knew a stream without one.”

“Ef there be, it’s beyont this child’s knowledge. I hain’t noticed neery one. Still, as you say, sech is usooal, ef only a way for the wild beasts. We kin try for it.”

“Let us first make sure whether they came out here at all. We didn’t watch them quite in to the shore.”

Saying this, Clancy steps down to the water’s edge, the others with him.

They have no occasion to stoop. Standing erect they can see hoof-marks, conspicuous, freshly made, filled with water that has fallen from the fetlocks.

Turning, they easily trace them up the shelving bank; but not so easily along the road, though certain they continue that way. It is black as pitch beneath the shadowing trees. Withal, Woodley is not to be thus baffled. His skill as a tracker is proverbial among men of his calling; moreover, he is chagrined at their ill success so far; and, but for there being no time, the ex-jailer, its cause, would catch it. He does in an occasional curse, which might be accompanied by a cuff, did he not keep well out of the backwoodsman’s way.

Dropping on all fours, Sime feels for hoof-prints of the horses that have just crossed, groping in darkness. He can distinguish them from all others by their being wet. And so does, gaining ground, bit by bit, surely if slowly.

But Clancy has conceived a more expeditious plan, which he makes known, saying:

“No need taking all that trouble, Sime. You may be the best trailer in Texas; and no doubt you are, for a biped: still here’s one can beat you.”

“Who?” asks the backwoodsman, rising erect, “show me the man.”

“No man,” interrupts the other with a smile. “For our purpose something better. There stands your competitor.”

“You’re right; I didn’t think o’ the dog. He’ll do it like a breeze. Put him on, Charley!”

“Come, Brasfort!” says Clancy, apostrophising the hound, while lengthening the leash, and setting the animal on the slot. “You tell us where the redskin riders have gone.”

The intelligent creature well understands what is wanted, and with nose to the ground goes instantly off. But for the check string it would soon outstrip them for its eager action tells it has caught scent of a trail.

At first lifting it along the ford road, but only for a few yards. Then abruptly turning left, the dog is about to strike into the timber, when the hand of the master restrains it.

The instinct of the animal is no longer needed. They perceive the embouchure of a path, that looks like the entrance to a cave, dark and forbidding as the back door of a jail. But surely a trace leading in among the trees, which the plumed horsemen have taken.

After a second or two spent in arranging the order of march, they also take it, Clancy now assuming command.

They proceed with caution greater than ever; more slowly too, because along a path, dark, narrow, unknown, shaggy with thorns. They have to grope every inch of their way; all the while in surprise at the Indians having chosen it. There must be a reason, though none of them can think what it is.

They are not long left to conjectures. A light before their eyes throws light upon the enigma that has been baffling their brains. There is a break in the timber, where the moonbeams fall free to the earth.

Gliding on, silently, with undiminished caution, they arrive on the edge of an opening, and there make stop, but inside the underwood that skirts it.

Clancy and Woodley stand side by side, crouchingly; and in this attitude interrogate the ground before them.

They see the great tree, with its white shroud above, and deep obscurity beneath – the moonlit ring around it. But at first nothing more, save the fire-flies scintillating in its shadow.

After a time, their eyes becoming accustomed to the cross light, they see something besides; a group of figures close in to the tree’s trunk, apparently composed of horses and men. They can make out but one of each, but they take it there are two, with two women as well. While scanning the group, they observe a light larger and redder than that emitted by the winged insects. Steadier too; for it moves not from its place. They might not know it to be the coal upon a tobacco pipe, but for the smell of the burning “weed” wafted their way.

Sniffing it, Sime says:

“That’s the lot, sure; tho’ thar appears but the half o’t. I kin only make out one hoss, an’ one man, wi’ suthin’ astreetch long the groun – one o’ the squaws in coorse. The skunk on his feet air smokin’. Strange they hain’t lit a fire! True ’tain’t needed ’ceptin’ for the cookin’ o’ thar supper. Maybe they’ve hed it, an’ only kim hyar to get a spell o’ sleep. But ef thet’s thar idee why shed yon ’un be stannin’ up. Wal; I guess, he’s doin’ sentry bizness, the which air allers needcessary out hyar. How shell we act, Charley? Rush right up an’ tackle ’em? That’s your way, I take it.”

“It is – why not?”

“Because thar’s a better – leastwise a surer to prevent spillin’ thar blood. Ye say, you don’t want that?”

“On no account. If I thought there was a likelihood of it, I’d go straight back to our camp, and leave them alone. They may be harmless creatures, on some innocent errand. If it prove so, we musn’t molest them.”

“Wal; I’m willin’, for thet,” rejoins Woodley, adding a reservation, “Ef they resist, how are we to help it? We must eyther kill, or be kilt.”

There is reason in this, and Clancy perceives it. While he is cogitating what course to take, Woodley, resuming speech, points it out.

“’Thar’s no use for us to harm a hair on thar beads, supposin’ them to be innercent. For all thet, we shed make sure, an’ take preecaushin in case o’ them cuttin’ up ugly. It air allers the best way wi redskins.”

“How do you propose, Sime?”

“To surround ’em. Injuns, whether it be bucks or squaws, air slickery as eels. It’s good sixty yurds to whar they’re squatted yonner. Ef we push strait torst ’em, they’ll see us crossin’ that bit o’ moonshine, an’ be inter the timmer like greased lightnin’ through the branches o’ a gooseberry bush. Tho’ out o’ thar seddles now, an’ some o’ ’em streetched ’long the airth, apparently sleepin’, they’d be up an’ off in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail. Tharefor, say I, let’s surround ’em.”

“If you think that the better way,” rejoins Clancy, “let us. But it will take time, and call for the greatest caution. To get around the glade, without their seeing us, we must keep well within the timber. Through that underwood it won’t be easy. On second thoughts, Sime, I’m inclined to chance it the other way. They can’t possibly escape us. If they do take to their horses, they couldn’t gallop off beyond reach of our rifles. We can easily shoot their animals down. Besides, remember there’s two to get mounted on each. We may as well run right up, and determine the thing at once. I see no difficulty.”

“Wheesht!” exclaims Woodley, just as Clancy ceases speaking.

“What is it? Do you hear anything, Sime?”

“Don’t you, Charley?”

Clancy sets himself to listen, but at first hears nothing, save the usual sounds of the forest, of which it is now full. A spring night, a sultry one, the tree-crickets are in shrillest cry, the owls and goatsuckers joining in the chorus.

But in the midst of its continuous strain there is surely a sound, not animal, but human? Surely the voice of a man?

After a time, Clancy can distinguish it.

One is talking, in tone not loud, but with an accent which appears to be that of boasting or triumph. And the voice is not like an Indian’s, while exclamations, at intervals uttered, are certainly such as could only proceed from the lips of a white man.

All this is strange, and causes astonishment to the travellers – to Clancy something more. But before he has time to reflect upon, or form conjectures about it, he hears that which compels him to cast aside every restraint of prudence; and springing forward, he signals the others to follow him.

They do, without a word; and in less than twenty seconds’ time, they have entered the shadowed circle, and surrounded the group at which they have been so long gazing.

Only three figures after all! A man, a horse, with what may be woman, but looks less like one living than dead!

The man, Indian to all appearance, thus taken by surprise, plucks the pipe from between his teeth. It is struck out of his hand, the sparks flying from it, as Woodley on one side and Heywood the other, clutching, drag him toward the light.

When the moon shines on it, they behold a face which both have seen before.

Under its coating of charcoal and chalk they might not recognise it, but for the man making himself known by speech, which secures his identification. For he, too, sees a familiar face, that of Simeon Woodley; and under the impression he is himself recognised, mechanically pronounces the backwoodsman’s name.

“Bill Bosley!” shouts the astonished Sime, “Good Lord! Painted Injun! What’s this for? Some devil’s doings ye’re arter as ye allers war. Explain it, Bill! Tell the truth ’ithout preevaricashun. Ef ye lie, I’ll split your thrapple like I wud a water-millyun.”

“Sime Woodley! Ned Heywood! Joe Harkness!” gaspingly ejaculates the man, as in turn the three faces appear before him. “God Almighty! what’s it mean?”

“We’ll answer that when we’ve heern your story. Quick, tell it.”

“I can’t; your chokin’ me. For God’s sake, Heywood, take your hand off my throat. O Sime! sure you don’t intend killin’ me? – ye won’t, ye won’t.”

“That depends – ”

“But I aint to blame. Afore heaven, I swear I aint. You know that, Harkness? You heard me protest against their ugly doin’s more than once. In this business, now, I’m only actin’ under the captin’s order. He sent me ’long with the lootenant to take care of – ”

“The lieutenant!” interrupts Clancy. “What name?”

“Phil Quantrell, we call him; though I guess he’s got another – ”

“Where is he?” inquires Clancy, tortured with a terrible suspicion.

“He went t’other side the tree, takin’ the young lady along.”

At that moment comes a cry from behind the oak – a woman’s voice calling “Help! help!”

Clancy stays not to hear more, but rushes off with the air of a man struck with sudden phrenzy!

On turning the trunk, he sees other forms, a horse with man mounted, a woman before him he endeavours to restrain, who, struggling, thirsts for succour.

It is nigh, though near being too late. But for a fortunate circumstance, it would be. The horse, headed towards the forest, is urged in that direction. But, frayed by the conflict on his back, he refuses to advance; instead, jibbing and rearing, he returns under the tree.

Clancy, with rifle raised, is about to shoot the animal down. But at thought of danger to her calling “help!” he lowers his piece; and rushing in, lays hold of the bridle-rein. This instantly let go, to receive in his arms the woman, released from the ruffian’s grasp, who would otherwise fall heavily to the earth.

The horse, disembarrassed, now obeying the rein, shoots out from under the oak, and headed across the moonlit belt makes straight for the timber beyond.

In the struggle Clancy has let go his gun, and now vainly gropes for it in the darkness. But two others are behind, with barrels that bear upon the retreating horseman. In an instant all would be over with him, but for Clancy himself; who, rushing between, strikes up the muzzles, crying: —

“Don’t shoot, Sime! Hold your fire, Heywood! His life belongs to me!”

Strange forbearance; to the backwoodsmen, incomprehensible! But they obey; and again Richard Darke escapes chastisement for two great crimes he intended, but by good fortune failed to accomplish.

Chapter Sixty Three.

An oath to be kept

No pen could portray the feelings of Helen Armstrong, on recognising her rescuer. Charles Clancy alive! Is she dreaming? Or is it indeed he whose arms are around, folding her in firm but tender embrace? Under the moonbeams, that seem to have suddenly become brighter, she beholds the manly form and noble features of him she believed dead, his cheeks showing the hue of health, his eyes late glaring in angry excitement, now glowing with the softer light of love. Yes: it is indeed her lover long mourned, living, breathing, beautiful as ever!

She asks not if he be still true, that doubt has been long since dissipated. It needs not his presence there, nor what he has just done, to reassure her.

For a time she asks no questions; neither he. Both are too absorbed with sweet thoughts to care for words. Speech could not heighten their happiness, in the midst of caresses and kisses.

On his side there is no backwardness now; on hers no coyness, no mock modesty. They come together not as at their last interview, timid sweethearts, but lovers emboldened by betrothal. For she knows, that he proposed to her; as he, that her acceptance was sent, and miscarried. It has reached him nevertheless; he has it upon his person now – both the letter and portrait. About the last are his first words. Drawing it out, and holding it up to the light, he asks playfully:

“Helen; was it meant fo’ me?”

“No,” she evasively answers, “it was meant for me.”

“Oh! the likeness, yes; but the inscript – these pleasant words written underneath?”

“Put it back into; our pocket, Charles. And now tell me all. Am I dreaming? Or is it indeed reality?”

No wonder she should so exclaim. Never was transformation quicker, or more complete. But a few seconds before she was, as it were, in the clutches of the devil; now an angel is by her side, a seraph with soft wings to shelter, and strong arms to protect her. She feels as one, who, long lingering at the door of death, has health suddenly and miraculously restored, with the prospect of a prolonged and happy life.

Clancy replies, by again flinging his arms around, and rapturously kissing her: perhaps thinking it the best answer he can give. If that be not reality, what is?

Jessie has now joined them, and after exchanged congratulations, there succeed mutual inquiries and explanations. Clancy has commenced giving a brief account of what has occurred to himself, when he is interrupted by a rough, but kindly voice; that of Sime, saying: —

“Ye kin tell them all that at some other time, Charley; thar aint a minnit to be throwed away now.” Then drawing Clancy aside, speaking so as not to be heard by the others. “Thar’s danger in dallyin’ hyar. I’ve jest been puttin’ thet jail bird, Bosley, through a bit o’ catechism; an’ from what he’s told me the sooner we git out o’ hyar the better. Who d’ye spose is at the bottom o’ all this? I needn’t ask ye; ye’re boun to guess. I kin see the ugly brute’s name bulgin’ out yur cheeks.”

“Borlasse!”

“In course it’s he. Bosley’s confessed all. Ked’nt well help it, wi’ my bowie threetenin’ to make a red stream run out o’ him. The gang – thar’s twenty o’ ’em all counted – goed up to the Mission to plunder it – a sort o’ burglarious expedishun; Borlasse hevin’ a understandin’ wi’ a treetur that’s inside – a sort o’ sarvint to the Creole, Dupray, who only late engaged him. Wal; it seems they grupped the gurls, as they war makin’ for the house – chanced on ’em outside in the garden. Bosley an’ the other hev toated ’em this far, an’ war wait in for the rest to come on wi’ the stolen goods. They may be hyar at any minnit; an’, wi’ Jim Borlasse at thar head, I needn’t tell ye what that means. Four o’ us agin twenty – for we can’t count on Harkness – it’s ugly odds. We’d hev no show, howsomever. It ’ud end in their again grabbin’ these pretty critters, an’ ’s like ’s not end our own lives.”

Clancy needs no further speech to convince him of the danger. After what has occurred, an encounter with the robbers would, indeed, be disastrous. Richard Darke, leagued with Jim Borlasse, a noted pirate of the prairies; their diabolical plans disclosed, and only defeated by the merest accident of circumstances.

“You’re right, Sime. We mustn’t be caught by the scoundrels. As you say, that would be the end of everything. How are we to avoid them?”

“By streakin’ out o’ hyar quick as possible.”

“Do you propose our taking to the timber, and lying hid till they go past?”

“No. Our better plan ’ll be to go on to the Mission, an’ get thar soon’s we kin.”

“But we may meet them in the teeth?”

“We must, ef we take the main road up tother side – pretty sure to meet ’em. We shan’t be sech fools. I’ve thought o’ all that, an’ a way to get clear of the scrape.”

“What way?”

“That road we kim in by, ye see, leads on’ard up the bank this side. I reckin’ it goes to the upper crossin’, the which air several miles above the buildin’s. We kin take it, an’ foller it without any fear o’ encounterin’ them beauties. I’ve sent Jupe and Harkness to bring up the hosses. Ned’s tother side the tree in charge o’ Bosley.”

“You’ve arranged it right. Nothing could be better. Take the trail up this side. I can trust you for seeing them safe into their father’s arms – if he still live.”

Woodley wonders at this speech. He is about to ask explanation, when Clancy adds, pointing to the elder sister —

“I want a word with her before parting. While you are getting ready the horses – ”

“Before partin’!” interrupts Sime with increased surprise, “Surely you mean goin’ along wi’ us?”

“No, I don’t.”

“But why, Charley?”

“Well, I’ve something to detain me here.”

“What somethin’?”

“You ought to know without my telling you.”

“Dog-goned ef I do.”

“Richard Darke, then.”

“But he’s goed off; ye don’t intend follerin’ him?”

“I do – to the death. If ever I had a fixed determination in my life, ’tis that.”

“Wal, but you won’t go all by yerself! Ye’ll want some o’ us wi’ ye?”

“No.”

“Not me, nor Ned?”

“Neither. You’ll both be needed to take care of them.”

Clancy nods towards the sisters, adding: —

“You’ll have your hands full enough with Bosley and Harkness. Both will need looking after – and carefully. Jupe I’ll take with me.”

Woodley remonstrates, pointing out the danger of the course his comrade intends pursuing. He only yields as Clancy rejoins, in a tone of determination, almost command: —

“You must do as I tell you, Sime; go on to the Mission, and take them with you. As for me, I’ve a strong reason for remaining behind by myself; a silly sentiment some might call it, though I don’t think you would.”

“What is’t? Let’s hear it, an’ I’ll gie ye my opeenyun strait an’ square.”

“Simply, that in this whole matter from first to last, I’ve een making mistakes. So many, it’s just possible my courage may be called in question; or; if not that, my ability. Now, do you understand me?”

“Darned ef I do.”

“Well; a man must do something to prove himself worthy of the name; at least one deed during his lifetime. There’s one I’ve got to do – must do it, before I can think of anything else.”

“That is?”

“Kill Richard Darke, As you know, I’ve sworn it, and nothing shall come between me and my oath. No, Sime, not even she who stands yonder; though I can’t tell how it pains me to separate from her, now.”

“Good Lord! that will be a painful partin’! Poor gurl! I reckin her heart’s been nigh broke arready. She hasn’t the peach colour she used to hev. It’s clean faded out o’ her cheeks, an’ what your goin’ to do now aint the way to bring it back agin.”

“I cannot help it, Sime. I hear my mother calling me. Go, now! I wish it; I insist upon it!”

Saying this, he turns towards Helen Armstrong to speak a word, which he knows will be sad as was ever breathed into the ear of woman.

Chapter Sixty Four.

A wild farewell

On Clancy and the hunter becoming engaged in their serious deliberation, the sisters also exchange thoughts that are troubled. The first bright flash of joy at their release from captivity, with Helen’s added gratification, is once more clouded over, as they think of what may have befallen their father. Now, knowing who the miscreants are, their hearts are heavy with apprehension. Jessie may, perhaps, feel it the more, having most cause – for her dread is of a double nature. There is her affianced, as well as her father!