The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover

“No, you needn’t,” was the unanimous rejoinder.

“Good, so far. I think you all know that Jerry Rook’s oath wouldn’t go far about these parts, and if we stick together and deny the thing in toto, I’d like to know how a jury could give against us. We’ve been fools not to try it. I’d have proposed it long ago, only that, like some of the rest, I’ve been thin-skinned about it, and didn’t like to stir up stinking waters.”

“Yes,” cried Buck; “you’ve been thin-skinned ’bout it – no mistake o’ that. Your damned thin-skinnedness, as you call it, has cost me five hundred silver dollars.”

“Me the same,” said Slaughter.

“Well, for that matter, we all had to pay alike; and now let us all agree to share alike in any law expenses, in case it should come to that; for my part, I don’t think it will.”

“And why won’t it?” asked Randall, whose law experience, himself being a practitioner, guided him to a different conclusion. “You don’t suppose that the old Shylock will yield without a trial? Trust me, fellows, he’ll fight hard to stick to that six hundred dollars per annum he’s been so long pulling out of us.”

“Damn him! let him fight! What can he do? Let him tell his story, and what evidence can he bring to support it? As I’ve said, his oath won’t count for anything against all six of ours.”

“But, Alf; you forget the body?”

This reminiscence called up by Randall, caused all the others to start; for all had forgotten it – Brandon alone excepted.

“No, I don’t,” replied the latter, with an air of triumph at his own astuteness.

“Well, he’d bring that up, wouldn’t he?”

“No doubt he would, if we’re fools enough to let him.”

“Ah! I see what you’re driving at.”

“So do we all.”

“We know where it lies; we’ve had good reason to. We’ve been soft to let it lie there so long, and we’d be softer still to let it lie there any longer.”

“Darn it, there’s something in what he says.”

“What do you propose, Alf?”

“That we go in for a good bit of quiet exhumation, and transfer that body, or bones, or whatever relics be left of it, to a safer place. After that’s done let Jerry Rook do his worst.”

“A good idea!”

“Jest the thing, by God!”

“Let’s carry it out, then!”

“When?”

“To-morrow night; we’re not prepared now, or it might be to-night. Let us provide the tools for to-morrow night, and meet about midnight. We can come together in the glade, and go from there. You must all of you come, and all have a hand in it.”

“Agreed! We’ll do the grave-digging!”

“Enough, boys! Let’s fill up and drink to our success!”

Amidst the clinking of glasses was sealed the singular compact; and the body-stealers, that were to be, soon after separated, to come together again upon the morrow.

Story 1-Chapter XX.

The Tryst under the Tree

Under the canopy of the great cottonwood the tryst of the lovers was to be kept.

Pierre was there first, and stood within the shadow of the tree, expectant.

There had been nothing to interfere with his coming, either to hinder or retard it. He had left the tavern at an early hour, telling them he might not return that night; and slowly sauntering through the woods, had reached the place of appointment some time before that agreed upon.

Having arrived under the tree, and taken a survey of the ground, he regretted having chosen it as a rendezvous.

Better need not have been desired had the night been dark; but it was not; on the contrary, a clear moon was sailing through the sky.

When Pierre Robideau last stood under that tree there was brushwood around it, with a cane-brake along the edge of the creek. Both were now gone; burnt off long ago to enlarge the little clearing that had sufficed for the cabin of the squatter. There were the stumps of other trees still, and a rough rail fence running up to the corner of the house; but with the exception of these, any one approaching from the house side would find no cover to prevent them from being seen.

It occurred to Pierre Robideau that his sweetheart might be watched. He had reason to believe that her father kept a close eye upon her, and might be suspicious of her movements. What he had seen and heard the day before told him how things stood between Jerry Rook and Alf Brandon.

Once under the cottonwood there would be no danger; even the white dress of a woman could not be descried in the deep shadow of the moss-laden branches – at least, not from any distance, and in case of any one passing accidentally near, the young man knew that the tree was hollow – a huge cavity opening into its trunk, capable of holding a horse. More than once, when a boy, had he and little Lena played hide and seek in this capacious tree-chamber.

On the other side, that opposite to the house, the tree could be approached under cover, along the edge of the creek, where a thin strip of wood had been left standing undisturbed. It was through this he had himself come, after crossing the creek some distance above.

Eleven o’clock came, as he knew by a clock striking inside the house, and then a long spell that seemed nearly a day, though it was not quite an hour. Still no sign of his sweetheart, nor of living thing anywhere outside the dwelling of Jerry Rook.

He could see the porch, and one of the windows beyond it; through this came the light of a lamp or candle indistinct under the bright shimmer of the moonbeams.

Upon the window his eyes were habitually kept, and he indulged in conjecture as to who was the occupant of the lighted room. At first he supposed it to be Lena; but as the time passed without the appointment being kept, he began to fancy it might be her father.

He had no knowledge of the interior of the house; but if the lighted window belonged to the kitchen, it was like enough the old hunter was inside, sitting in a huge arm-chair, and smoking his pipe, a habit that Pierre knew him to indulge in days long past. Moreover, he might set very late up into the morning hours, as he had been often accustomed to do in those same days.

The remembrance made Pierre uneasy, especially as the time stole past, and still no appearance of the expected one.

He was beginning to despair of an interview that night, when the light upon which his eyes had been fixed appeared to have been put out, as the glass showed black under the moonbeams.

“It was she, then,” he muttered to himself. “She has been waiting till all were well asleep. She will come now.”

Forsaking the window, his gaze became fixed upon the porch, within whose shadow he expected her to appear.

She did so, but not until another long interval had elapsed – a fresh trial of the lover’s patience.

Before it was exhausted, however, a form became outlined in the dark doorway – the door having been silently opened – and soon after the moon shone down upon the drapery of a woman’s dress.

The white kerchief upon her head would have enabled Pierre Robideau to recognise her. But that was not needed. The direction she took on stepping out of the porch, told him it was she whom he expected.

She came on, but not as one who walks without fear. She kept along the fence, on its shadowy side, and close in to the rails. Now and then she stopped, looked behind, and listened. That she feared was evidently not abroad, but at home. Some serious cause had detained her beyond her time.

Pierre watched her with eager eyes, with heart beating impatiently, until he felt hers beating against it?