The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover

He did not hear it, but he noticed the embarrassed air of the young lady, and the quick change that came over her countenance as she adroitly evaded the answer.

From that moment Jerry Rook was no longer regarded. A third personage had appeared upon the scene, and the pleasing look with which Jerry Rook’s daughter appeared to receive him sent a pang through the heart of Pierre Robideau.

The exclamation had told him who the new comer was. But he did not heed that.

No time could efface from his memory the image of one who had so cruelly outraged him, and six years had produced but little change in Alf Brandon.

Pierre knew him on sight.

With heart beating wildly, he remained a silent witness of the scene that ensued.

At first it beat bitterly, as he marked and misinterpreted the complaisant look with which Lena regarded his rival.

Ere long came a delightful change, as he listened to the dialogue – plainly overheard where he stood – and, when he heard the final speech, and saw the discomfited lover stride off towards the gate, he could scarce restrain himself from a shout of joy.

He was fain to have sprung across the creek, and once more enfolded that fair form in his passionate embrace. But he saw that mischief might spring from such imprudence; and, turning from the spot, he walked silently away – his heart now swelling with triumph, now subsiding into sweet contentment.

Story 1-Chapter XIX.

A Conclave of Scoundrels

There was a time when “Slaughter’s Hotel” was the first and only house of its kind in the town of Helena. That was when Slaughter, senior, presided over its destinies. Now that he was no more, and his son walked rather slipshod in his shoes, it had sunk into a second-rate place of entertainment – an establishment more respectable, or, at all events, more pretentious, having swung out its sign.

In Slaughter’s hostelry bonâ fide travellers had become scarce. Still it was not without guests and patrons in plenty. There were enough “sportsmen” in the place, with adventurers of other kinds, to give the house a custom, and these principally patronised it. From a family hotel, it had changed into a drinking and gambling saloon, and in this respect was prosperous enough. It was the resort of all the dissipated young men of the neighbourhood – and the old ones too. It had public and private parlours, and one of the latter, the landlord’s own, was only accessible to the select of his acquaintances – his cronies of a special type.

On the evening of that day in which Alfred Brandon had received his dismissal from the daughter of Jerry Rook, this apartment was occupied by six persons, including the landlord himself. They were the same who had figured in the hanging frolic, of which young Robideau had been so near being the victim. On this account, it is not necessary to give their names nor any description of them, farther than to say that all six were as wild and wicked as ever, or, to speak with greater exactitude, wilder and more wicked.

It might seem strange that chance had brought these young men together without any other company, but the closed door, and the order for no one to be admitted, showed that their meeting was not by mere accident. Their conversation, already commenced, told that they had met by appointment, as also the purpose of their assembling.

It was Alfred Brandon who had summoned them to the secret conclave, and he who made the opening speech, declaring his object in having done so.

After “drinks all round,” Brandon had said: —

“Well, boys, I’ve sent for you to meet me here, and here we are, guests; you know why?”

“I guess we don’t,” bluntly responded Buck.

“Choc?” suggested Slaughter.

“Well, we know it’s about Choc,” assented the son of the horse dealer; “any fool might guess that. But what about him? Let’s hear what you’ve got to say, Alf.”

“Well, not much, after all. Only that I think it’s high time we took some steps to get rid of this infernal tax we’ve been paying.”

“Oh! you’re come to that, are you? I thought you would, sometime. But for you, Alf Brandon, we might have done somethin’ long ago. I’m out o’ pocket clear five hundred dols, and damn me if I intend to pay another cent, come what will or may.”

“Ditto with you, Bill Buck,” endorsed Slaughter.

Grubbs, Randall, and Spence were silent, though evidently inclined to the same way of thinking.

“I’ve sworn every year I’d stop it,” continued Buck, “an’ I’d have done so but for Alf there. It’s all very well for him. He’s rich, and can stand it. With some of the rest of us it’s dog-gone different.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Brandon. “My being rich had nothing to do with it. I was as anxious as any of you to get the load off my shoulders, only I could never see how it was to be done.”

“Do you see now?” asked Spence.

“Not very clearly, I confess.”

“It’s clear as mud to me – one way is – ” said Slaughter.

“And to me,” chimed in Buck. “What way? Tell us?” demanded the store-keeper. “I’m ready for most anything that’ll clear us of that tax.”

“You can get clear, then, by making a clear of the collector.”

The suggestion was Slaughter’s, the last part of it made in a significant whisper.

“Them’s just my sentiments,” said Buck, speaking louder and with more determination. “I’d have put ’em in practice before this, if Alf Brandon had showed the pluck to agree to it. Durned if I wouldn’t!”

“What!” said the young planter, affecting ignorance of the suggested scheme, “carry the collector off? Is that what you mean?”

“Oh! you’re very innocent, Alf Brandon, you are, my sucking dove!”

It was Slaughter who spoke.

“Yes,” said Buck, who answered to the interrogatory, “carry him off, and so far that there’ll be no danger o’ his coming back again. That’s what we mean. Have you got anything better to propose? If you have, let’s hear it. If not, what’s the use of all this palaverin’?”

“Well,” said Brandon, “I’ve been thinking we might carry something else off that might answer our purpose as well, and without getting us into any scrape worth talking about.”

“Carry what off? The girl – Rook’s daughter?”

“No, no; Brandon don’t mean that, and don’t need it. He is going to take her to church, and there’s no danger about his getting consent.”

It was Buck who made the remark, and with some bitterness, being himself one of Lena Rook’s unsuccessful admirers.

Brandon felt the sting all the more keenly from what had that day occurred. Moreover, he knew that Buck was upon the list of his rivals, and saw that the speech was meant for a slur.

The lurid light in his eye, and the pallor suddenly overspreading his lips, showed the depth of his chagrin. But he said nothing, fearful of defeating the scheme he had traced out for himself in relation to Lena Rook.

“Come, gentlemen,” said Randall, for the first time entering into the conversation, “this talk only wastes time, and the subject is too serious for that. Let us hear Brandon out. I’m as anxious as any of you to settle this unpleasant matter, and if there be any safe plan we can all agree about, the sooner it’s carried out the better. I needn’t remind you the time’s close at hand when the old Shylock will call for another pound of flesh. If any one can suggest a way to escape paying it, I think the most of us would be but too willing to stand the best champagne supper Jim Slaughter can get up for us, and a ‘jury’ into the bargain.”

“Certain we’ll all go snacks for that.”

“Speak out, Brandon!”

“The fact is,” said Brandon, thus appealed to, “we’ve been all a lot of fools to stand this thing so long. Supposing we have the old scoundrel, and dare him to do his worst, what evidence has he got against us only his own oath?”

“An’ the girl’s.”

“No; the girl saw nothing, at least, only what was circumstantial. She couldn’t swear to the deed; nor he neither, as far as that goes, though he makes pretence that he can. Suppose he does swear, what then? There are six of us – six oaths to one. I needn’t ask whether you are all willing?”