Chapter Forty One.
A repentant sinner.
Nearly three weeks after Borlasse and his brigands crossed the Sabine, a second party is seen travelling towards the same river through the forests of Louisiana, with faces set for the same fording-place.
In number they are but a third of that composing the band of Borlasse; as there are only four of them. Three are on horseback, the fourth bestriding a mule.
The three horsemen are white; the mule-rider a mulatto.
The last is a little behind; the distance, as also a certain air of deference—to say nothing of his coloured skin—proclaiming him a servant, or slave.
Still further rearward, and seemingly careful to keep beyond reach of the hybrid’s heels, is a large dog—a deer-hound. The individuals of this second cavalcade will be easily identified, as also the dog that accompanies it. The three whites are Charles Clancy, Simeon Woodley, and Ned Heywood; he with the tawny complexion Jupiter; while the hound is Clancy’s—the same he had with him when shot down by Richard Darke.
Strange they too should be travelling, as if under an apprehension of being pursued! Yet seems it so, judging from the rapid pace at which they ride, and there anxious glances occasionally cast behind. It is so; though for very different reasons from those that affected the freebooters.
None of the white men has reason to fear for himself—only for the fugitive slave whom they are assisting to escape from slavery. Partly on this account are they taking the route, described as rarely travelled by honest men. But not altogether. Another reason has influenced their selection of it while in Natchitoches they too have put up at the Choctaw Chief; their plans requiring that privacy which an obscure hostelry affords. To have been seen with Jupiter at the Planter’s House might have been for some Mississippian planter to remember, and identify, him as the absconded slave of Ephraim Darke. A contretemps less likely to occur at the Choctaw Chief, and there stayed they. It would have been Woodley’s choice anyhow; the hunter having frequently before made this house his home; there meeting many others of his kind and calling.
On this occasion his sojourn in it has been short; only long enough for him and his travelling companions to procure a mount for their journey into Texas. And while thus occupied they have learnt something, which determined them as to the route they should take. Not the direct road for Nacogdoches by which Colonel Armstrong and his emigrants have gone, some ten days before; but a trail taken by another party that had been staying at the Choctaw Chief, and left Natchitoches at an earlier period—that they are now on.
Of this party Woodley has received information, sufficiently minute for him to identify more than one of the personages composing it. Johnny has given him the clue. For the Hibernian innkeeper, with his national habit of wagging a free tongue, has besides a sort of liking for Sime, as an antipathy towards Sime’s old enemy, Jim Borlasse. The consequence of which has been a tale told in confidence to the hunter, about the twelve men late sojourning at the Choctaw Chief, that was kept back from the Sheriff on the morning after their departure. The result being, that in choice of a route to Texas, Woodley has chosen that by which they are now travelling. For he knows—has told Clancy—that by it has gone Jim Borlasse, and along with him Richard Darke.
The last is enough for Clancy. He is making towards Texas with two distinct aims, the motives diametrically opposite. One is to comfort the woman he loves, the other to kill the man he hates.
For both he is eagerly impatient; but he has vowed that the last shall be first—sworn it upon the grave of his mother.
Having reached the river, and crossed it, Clancy and his travelling companions, just as Borlasse and his, seek relaxation under the shade of the trees. Perhaps, not quite so easy in their minds. For the murderer, on entering Texas, may feel less anxiety than he who has with him a runaway slave!
Still in that solitary place—on a path rarely trodden—there is no great danger; and knowing this, they dismount and make their bivouac sans souci. The spot chosen is the same as was occupied by Borlasse and his band. Near the bank of the river is a spreading tree, underneath which a log affords sitting accommodation for at least a score of men. Seated on this, smoking his pipe, after a refection of corn-bread and bacon, Sime Woodley unburdens himself of some secrets he obtained in the Choctaw Chief, which up to this time he has kept back from the others.
“Boys!” he begins, addressing himself to Clancy and Heywood, the mulatto still keeping respectfully apart. “We’re now on a spot, whar less’n two weeks agone, sot or stud, two o’ the darndest scoundrels as iver made futmark on Texan soil. You know one o’ ’em, Ned Heywood, but not the tother. Charley Clancy hev akwaintance wi’ both, an’ a ugly reccoleckshun o’ them inter the bargain.”
The hunter pauses in his speech, takes a whiff or two from his pipe, then resumes:—
“They’ve been hyar sure. From what thet fox, Johnny, tolt me, they must a tuk this trail. An’ as they hed to make quick tracks arter leavin’ Naketosh, they’d be tired on gettin’ this fur, an’ good as sartin to lay up a bit. Look! thar’s the ashes o’ thar fire, whar I ’spose they cooked somethin’. Thar hain’t been a critter crossed the river since the big rain, else we’d a seed tracks along the way. For they started jest the day afore the rain; and that ere fire hez been put out by it. Ye kin tell by them chunks showin’ only half consoomed. Yis, by the Eturnal! Roun’ the bleeze o’ them sticks has sot seven, eight, nine, or may be a dozen, o’ the darndest cut-throats as ever crossed the Sabine; an’ that’s sayin’ a goodish deal. Two o’ them I kin swar to bein’ so; an’ the rest may be counted the same from their kumpny—that kumpny bein’ Jim Borlasse an’ Dick Darke.”
After thus delivering himself, the hunter remains apparently reflecting, not on what he has said, but what they ought to do. Clancy has been all the while silent, brooding with clouded brow—only now and then showing a faint smile as the hound comes up, and licks his outstretched hand. Heywood has nothing to say; while Jupiter is not expected to take any part in the conversation.
For a time they all seem under a spell of lethargy—the lassitude of fatigue. They have ridden a long way, and need rest. They might go to sleep alongside the log, but none of them thinks of doing so, least of all Clancy. There is that in his breast forbidding sleep, and he is but too glad when Woodley’s next words arouse him from the torpid repose to which he has been yielding. These are:—
“Now we’ve struck thar trail, what, boys, d’ye think we’d best do?”
Neither of the two replying, the hunter continues:—
“To the best of my opeenyun, our plan will be to put straight on to whar Planter Armstrong intends settin’ up his sticks. I know the place ’most as well as the public squar o’ Natchez. This chile intends jeinin’ the ole kurnel, anyhow. As for you, Charley Clancy, we know whar ye want to go, an’ the game ye intend trackin’ up. Wal; ef you’ll put trust in what Sime Woodley say, he sez this: ye’ll find that game in the neighbourhood o’ Helen Armstrong;—nigh to her as it dar’ ventur’.”
The final words have an inflammatory effect upon Clancy. He springs up from the log, and strides over the ground, with a wild look and strangely excited air. He seems impatient to be back in his saddle.
“In coorse,” resumes Woodley, “we’ll foller the trail o’ Borlasse an’ his lot. It air sure to lead to the same place. What they’re arter ’tain’t eezy to tell. Some deviltry, for sartin. They purtend to make thar livin’ by ropin’ wild horses? I guess he gits more by takin’ them as air tame;—as you, Clancy, hev reezun to know. I hain’t a doubt he’d do wuss than that, ef opportunity offered. Thar’s been more’n one case o’ highway robbery out thar in West Texas, on emigrant people goin’ that way; an’ I don’t know a likelier than Borlasse to a had a hand in’t. Ef Kurnel Armstrong’s party wan’t so strong as ’tis, an’ the kurnel hisself a old campayner, I mout hev my fears for ’em. I reckin they’re safe enuf. Borlasse an’ his fellurs won’t dar tech them. Johnny sez thar war but ten or twelve in all. Still, tho’ they moutn’t openly attack the waggon train, thar’s jest a chance o’ their hangin’ on its skirts, an’ stealin’ somethin’ from it. Ye heerd in Naketosh o’ a young Creole planter, by name Dupray, who’s goed wi’ Armstrong, an’s tuk a big count o’ dollars along. Jest the bait to temp Jim Borlasse; an’ as for Dick Darke, thar’s somethin’ else to temp him. So—”
“Woodley!” exclaims Clancy, without waiting for the hunter to conclude; “we must be off from here. For God’s sake let us go!”
His comrades, divining the cause of Clancy’s impatience, make no attempt to restrain him. They have rested and sufficiently refreshed themselves. There is no reason for their remaining any longer on the ground.
Rising simultaneously, each unhitches his horse, and stands by the stirrup, taking in the slack of his reins.
Before they can spring into their saddles, the deer-hound darts off from their midst—as he does so giving out a growl.
The stroke of a hoof tells them of some one approaching, and the next moment a horseman is seen through the trees.
Apparently undaunted, he comes on towards their camp ground; but when near enough to have fair view of their faces, he suddenly reins up, and shows signs of a desire to retreat.
If this be his intention, it is too late.
Before he can wrench round his horse a rifle is levelled, its barrel bearing upon his body; while a voice sounds threateningly in his ears, in clear tone, pronouncing the words,—
“Keep yur ground, Joe Harkness! Don’t attempt retreetin’. If ye do, I’ll send a bullet through ye sure as my name’s Sime Woodley.”
The threat is sufficient. Harkness—for it is he—ceases tugging upon his rein, and permits his horse to stand still.
Then, at a second command from Woodley, accompanied by; a similar menace, he urges the animal into action, and moves on towards their bivouac.
In less than sixty seconds after, he is in their midst, dismounted and down upon his knees, piteously appealing to them to spare his life.
The ex-jailor’s story is soon told, and that without any reservation. The man who has connived at Richard Darke’s escape, and made money by the connivance, is now more than repentant for his dereliction of duty. For he has not only been bullied by Borlasse’s band, but stripped of his ill-gotten gains. Still more, beaten, and otherwise so roughly handled that he has been long trying to get quit of their company. Having stolen away from their camp—while the robbers were asleep—he is now returning along the trail they had taken into Texas, on his way back to the States, with not much left him, except a very sorry horse and a sorrowing heart.
His captors soon discover that, with his sorrow, there is an admixture of spite against his late associates. Against Darke in particular, who has proved ungrateful for the great service done him.
All this does Harkness communicate to them, and something besides.
Something that sets Clancy well-nigh crazed, and makes almost as much impression upon his fellow-travellers.
After hearing it they bound instantly to their saddles, and spur away from the spot; Harkness, as commanded, following at their horses’ heels. This he does without daring to disobey; trotting after, in company with the dog, seemingly less cur than himself.
They have no fear of his falling back. Woodley’s rifle, whose barrel has been already borne upon him, can be again brought to the level in an instant of time.
The thought holds him secure, as if a trail-rope attached him to the tail of the hunter’s horse.