Thus concluding, he is about to mount and meet him, when stayed by a strange reflection.
“I’ll let Jupe have a look at his old master,” he mutters to himself. “He too had old scores to settle with him—many a one recorded upon his skin. It may give him satisfaction to know how the thing has ended.”
Meanwhile the mulatto—for it is he—comes on; at first slowly, and with evident caution in his approach.
Soon he is seen to quicken his step, changing it to a run; at length arriving at the rock, breathless as one who reaches the end of a race. The sight which meets him there gives him but slight surprise. He has been prepared for it.
In answer to Clancy’s inquiry, he briefly explains his presence upon the spot. Disobedient to the instructions given him, instead of proceeding towards the San Saba bottom, he had remained upon the steppe. Not stationary, but following his master as fast as he could, and keeping him in view so long as the distance allowed. Two things were in his favour—the clear moonlight and Darke’s trail doubling back upon itself. For all, he had at length lost sight of the tracking horseman, but not till he had caught a glimpse of him tracked, fleeing before. It was the straight tail-on-end chase that took both beyond reach of his vision. Noting the direction, he still went hastening after, soon to hear a sound which told him the chase had come to a termination, and strife commenced. This was the report of a gun, its full, round boom proclaiming it a smooth-bore fowling-piece. Remembering that his old master always carried this—his new one never—it must be the former who fired the shot. And, as for a long while no other answered it, he was in despair, believing the latter killed. Then reached his ear the angry bay of the bloodhound, with mens’ voices intermingled; ending all the dear, sharp crack of a rifle; which, from the stillness that succeeded continuing, he knew to be the last shot.
“An’ it war the last, as I can see,” he says, winding up his account, and turning towards the corpse. “Ah! you’ve gi’n him what he thought he’d guv you—his death shot!”
“Yes, Jupe. He’s got it at last; and strange enough in the very place where he hit me. You see where my bullet has struck him?”
The mulatto, stooping down over Darke’s body, examines the wound, still dripping blood.
“You’re right, Masser Charle; it’s in de adzack spot. Well, that is curious. Seems like your gun war guided by de hand of that avengin’ angel you spoke o’.”
Having thus delivered himself, the fugitive slave becomes silent and thoughtful, for a time, bending over the body of his once cruel master, now no more caring for his cruelty, or in fear of being chastised by him.