Chapter Twenty Nine.
An Exulting Fiend.
“I has found you, has I?”
“Crookleg!”
“Yes, it am Crookleg.”
“A drop of water, for the love of God; a drop of water!”
“If de whole place war a lake, dis chile wouldn’t sprinkle you parched lips with a drop out ob it.”
“What do you mean, Crookleg?”
“Ha! the time I been waitin’ for has come at last. It hab been long, but it am come! Do you know war you son Warren am?”
“Thank heaven! away from this, and in safety.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Safe; yes, he am safe enough wid a big bullet through his brain!”
Elias Rody, with an effort, raised himself into a sitting posture, and glared upon the speaker.
“Dead!”
“Yes, dead; and it war me dat bro’t him to it. Ha! ha! ha!”
“Who are you? Has hell let loose its fiends to mock me?”
“Perhaps it have. Who am I? Don’t you know me yet, Rody—Massa Rody?”
“No, devil! I know you not. My son dead—oh, God! what have I done to deserve all this?”
“What hab you done? What hab you not done? You had done ebery ting that de black heart ob a white man do, and de day of recknin’ am come at last. So you don’t know me, don’t you?”
“Away, fiend, and let me die in peace!”
“In peace—no; you shall die as you hab made oders live—in pain! When you can’t hear dis nigga’s voice plainly, he’ll hiss it in at your ear, so it may reach your infernal soul, in de last minutes of you life!”
“Who—who are you?”
“I am Reuben, de son of Esther.”
“Esther!”
“Yes, Esther, your father’s slave. You was de cause ob her death. Do you know me now?”
Rody groaned.
“Dey call me Crookleg, kase I was lame. Who made me lame?”
Still no answer.
“It war you dat put de ball in my leg for sport, when you war a boy, and I war de same. I have been close to you for years, but you didn’t know me. I war too mean—too much below de notice of a proud gentleman like you. But I hab a good memory, and de oath I’d taken to be even wid ye, am kept. My mother war a slave, but she war my mother for all dat, an’ if I war a black man I war still a human bein’, although you and de likes of you didn’t think so. Do you know me now?”
Rody uttered not a word.
“When I war forced to limp away from your father’s plantation, I war but a boy, but de boy had de same hate for de cruel massa dat de lame nigga hab now for Elias Rody. Days and years hab passed since den, but de hate war kept hot as ever; and I’se happy now when I knows dat de dyin’ planter am at de mercy of de mean slave. Don’t be skear’d, I wouldn’t lift dis hand to help you eider die or live. All I’se a going to do is to sit hyar an’ watch ober you till you am cold and stiff. Every flutter you wicked soul makes to get free from you ugly body, will be a joy to me!”
“Oh, devil!” exclaimed the wounded man, in the depth of his agony.
“Debbil! Yes, I is a debbil, and you has made me one!”
The negro, as he said this, knelt down by Rody’s side and thrust his face close up to that of the dying man, while a demoniac joy lit up his horrid features.
And he continued to gaze upon his victim until the grey shadow of dissolution stole over his countenance, the senses wandered, and the once bright eyes were becoming dimmed with the film of death.
At last a scream burst from the lips of the dying man, followed by words of piteous appeal.
“Ha—help—water—water! My soul’s on fire! Devils—demons! Away—away! Let me go! Unloose your burning hands from my heart! Unloose—ah, horror!”
The cries ceased.
Elias Rody was dead!
Remorselessly did the negro glare upon his expiring enemy as he uttered these last frantic speeches, and when, at last, the spirit had passed away, he bounded to his feet and began to exult over his now unconscious victim.
At this moment another personage appeared upon the scene.
At some little distance from the spot a man, leaning upon his rifle, stood taking a survey of the smoking ruins.
He had been for some time ignorant that any living being but himself was upon the hill.
His attention was now called to Crookleg, who, assured of his enemy’s death, could no longer restrain his immense joy, but was giving vent to it in cries and fantastic caperings.
“Ho, ho—dead! It am ’plendid sport to de ole nigga! Only to tink dat dis poor ole lame darkey hab been de cause ob a war ’tween de whites and de red-skins! Ha, ha, ha! it am most too good to be beliebed! But it am true—it am true!”
As the monstrous creature concluded the speech he was seen to spring suddenly into the air and fall flat upon his face—a corpse!
A long hunting-knife had penetrated his back!
“There, ye black hound! If you have been the cause of one war, you’ll never have a hand in another. I swore not to fight agin my own blood, nor to take part agin the red-skins, but black blood don’t count in my bargain!”
Saying this, Cris Carrol drew his blade from the negro’s body and coolly sauntered away from the spot.