The interment complete, Borlasse makes a sign to the rest to retire; then, placing himself in front, with arms akimbo, stands looking Clancy straight in the face. No pen could paint that glance. It can only be likened to that of Lucifer.
For a while he speaks not, but in silence exults over his victim. Then, bending down and tossing back his plumed bonnet, he asks, “D’ye know me, Charley Clancy?”
Receiving no reply, he continues, “I’ll lay a hundred dollars to one, ye will, after I’ve told ye a bit o’ a story, the which relates to a circumstance as happened jest twelve months ago. The scene o’ that affair was in the public square o’ Nacodosh, whar a man was tied to a post an—”
“Whipped at it, as he deserved.”
“Ha!” exclaims Borlasse, surprised, partly at being recognised, but as much by the daring avowal. “You do remember that little matter? And me too?”
“Perfectly; so you may spare yourself the narration. You are Jim Borlasse, the biggest brute and most thorough scoundrel in Texas.”
“Curse you!” cries the ruffian enraged, poising his spear till its point almost touches Clancy’s head, “I feel like driving this through your skull.”
“Do so!” is the defiant and desperate rejoinder. It is what Clancy desires. He has no hope of life now. He wishes death to come at once, and relieve him from the long agony he will otherwise have to endure.
Quick catching this to be his reason, Borlasse restrains himself, and tosses up the spear, saying:—
“No, Mister; ye don’t die that eesy way—not if I know it. You and yours kept me two days tied like a martyr to the stake, to say nothin’ of what came after. So to make up for’t I’ll give you a spell o’ confinement that’ll last a leetle longer. You shall stay as ye are, till the buzzarts peck out your eyes, an’ the wolves peel the skin from your skull—ay, till the worms go crawlin’ through your flesh. How’ll ye like that, Charley Clancy?”