“Why?” echoes the man of many titles, again striking the counter, and causing decanters and glasses to jingle. “Why? Because that Clancy—that same Clancy—is the skunk that, before a packed jury, half o’ them yellar-bellied Mexikins, in the town of Nacogdoches, swore I stealed a horse from him. Not only swore it, but war believed; an’ got me—me, Jim Borlasse—tied for twenty-four hours to a post, and whipped into the bargain. Yes, boys, whipped! An’ by a damned Mexikin nigger, under the orders o’ one o’ their constables, they call algazeels. I’ve got the mark o’ them lashes on me now, and can show them, if any o’ ye hev a doubt about it. I ain’t ’shamed to show ’em to you fellows; as ye’ve all got something o’ the same, I guess. But I’m burnin’ mad to think that Charley Clancy’s escaped clear o’ the vengeance I’d sworn again him. I know’d he was comin’ back to Texas, him and his. That’s what took him out thar, when I met him at Nacogdoches. I’ve been waitin’ and watchin’ till he shed stray this way. Now, it appears, somebody has spoilt my plans—somebody o’ the name Richard Darke. An’, while I envy this Dick Darke, I say damn him for doin’ it!”
“Damn Dick Darke! Damn him for doin’ it!” they shout, till the walls re-echo their ribald blasphemy.
The drinking debauch is continued till a late hour, Quantrell paying shot for the whole party. Maudlin as most of them have become, they still wonder that a man so shabbily dressed can command so much cash and coin. Some of them are not a little perplexed by it.
Borlasse is less so than any of his fellow-tipplers. He has noted certain circumstances that give him a clue to the explanation; one, especially, which seems to make everything clear. As the stranger, calling himself Phil Quantrell, stands holding his glass in hand, his handkerchief employed to wipe the wine from his lips, and carelessly returned to his pocket, slips out, and fails upon the floor. Borlasse stooping, picks it up, but without restoring it to its owner.
Instead, he retires to one side; and, unobserved, makes himself acquainted with a name embroidered on its corner.
When, at a later hour, the two sit together, drinking a last good-night draught, Borlasse places his lips close to the stranger’s ear, whispering as if it were Satan himself who spoke, “Your name is not Philip Quantrell: ’tis Richard Darke!”