The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover

The speaker appeared to be groping the ground with his feet.

“Alf Brandon!” whispered the girl, with her lips close to her companion’s ear.

The others gathered around the spot indicated by Brandon.

Two who carried spades commenced digging, while a like number of shovel-men followed, throwing out the loose earth.

“Wonder how deep the old skunk has buried him?” asked one.

“Not very deep, I reck’n. Jerry Rook’s too lazy to a dug far down. We’ll soon come to it.”

These were the voices of Bill Buck and Slaughter, the hotel-keeper, recognised by Lena Rook, though not by her companion.

“Do you think there’s a coffin?” inquired one who had not yet spoken. It was Spence.

“No,” answered another new speaker, recognised as Lawyer Randall, “I should say not. The old squatter wasn’t likely to take that trouble for such a creature as Choc, and, as the fellow had no other friends, I think you’ll find him in his deerskin shirt – that is, if Jerry harn’t taken the pains to strip him.”

“The shirt wasn’t worth it,” remarked a sixth speaker, who was the store-keeper, Grubbs.

“The six who hanged you, Pierre!” whispered the girl to him by her side. “The very same!”

Pierre made no reply. He was too much occupied in endeavouring to interpret the strange talk, and comprehend the singular scene passing before him.

“It’s getting hard down here,” said one of the spadesmen. “Seems to me I’ve touched bottom.”

“Old Jerry must have tramped him tight down,” remarked another, adding a slight laugh.

“Don’t speak so loud, boys!” commanded Brandon. “Look at the house, ’tisn’t twenty yards off, and there’s a weasel in it that seldom sleeps. If we’re heard, you know what’ll follow. Keep silent, it may save each of you a hundred dollars a-year.”

At this appeal the diggers turned their eyes towards the house; but only to give a cursory glance, and back to the ground again.

Lena Rook looked longer in that direction, for there was the man she most feared – her father.

Intimately acquainted with the precincts of the dwelling, and, of course, better able to tell if anything was stirring, she saw – what had escaped the notice of the body-stealers – the front door standing open! It should have been shut; for, on coming out, she had carefully closed it behind her!

She had scarce made the discovery when she saw a figure in the doorway, that, after standing a moment as if to reconnoitre and listen, stole out into the porch, and then, stealthily descending the steps, glided crouchingly towards the cover of the orchard. Only for a moment was it under the moonlight; but the young girl had no difficulty in recognising the form of her father!

Something in his hands glistened in the moonlight. It appeared to be a gun.

Pierre’s attention is called to it by a significant pressure on his arm. Pierre also saw the flitting figure and knew whose it was.

The weasel, as Alf Brandon termed him, had not been asleep!

And just like a weasel he had acted; in sight only for six seconds, as he shot across the open space between the porch and the peach trees.

Once among these, he was invisible to the only eyes that had seen him, those of his daughter and Pierre Robideau.

But both expected soon to see him again. He had not gone into the orchard for nothing, and his cat-like movements told that he had suspicion of something astir under the cottonwood, and was stealing round by the creek to approach it unobserved.

Whether he yet saw the excavators could not be known, but he must have heard the clinking of their tools as he stood in the doorway.

Not one of them either heard or saw him, as, without pausing, they continued their work, Brandon having once again counselled them to silence.

“Darned if ’taint the bottom! I told you so,” said Bill Buck, striking his spade point against the ground under his feet. “Thar’s been neyther pick nor spade into this not since the days of old Noah, I reckon. There! try for yourself, Alf Brandon!”

Brandon took the implement offered, and struck it upon the space already stripped, and sunk some eighteen inches below the surface. The ring was that of solid earth that had never been disturbed by a spade.

He tried it in several places, all of which gave back the same sound!

“Clear out the loose mould!” commanded he.

This was done, and once more was the test applied.

“There’s no grave there,” remarked Randall.

“Nor body,” said Spence.

“Not so much as a bone,” added Buck; “no, nor never has been. Dog-gone my cats, if old Rook hasn’t been humbuggin’ us!”

“Ha-ha! He – he – he – he!”

The sounds thus represented were intended for a laugh, that came from the other side of the tree, and in a voice that did not belong to any of the excavating party.

Whatever mirth may have been in the man who uttered them, it failed to communicate itself to any of the six grave-diggers, all of whom, startled at the strange noise, stood staring wildly around them.

If the body for which they had been searching had suddenly appeared in their midst, and given utterance to that unearthly cachination, they could not have been more astonished.

And their astonishment lasted until a man, well known to them, stepped from behind the tree, and discovered himself in the clear moonlight.

“Jerry Rook, by the Eternal!”

Story 1-Chapter XXII.

The Diggers Dismissed

“Yes, Jerry Rook, by the Eternal!” exclaimed the old hunter, with another mocking laugh. “An’ why thet, I shed like to know? Do it astonish ye to see a man by the side o’ his own gurden? I reckin this chile hev got more reezun to be surprised at seem you hyar, one an’ all o’ ye. Who air ye anyhow?” he asked, drawing nearer to the party, and pretending to examine their faces. “Ef this chile ain’t mistaken he heard Bill Buck among ye. Yes, Billee, thet’s you, an’ Mr Planter Brandon, an’ as thar’s four more o’ ye, I reckin’ I kin guess who the t’others air. An’ what mout ye a been doin’? Spades and shovels! Ho – ho! ye’ve been a grave-diggin’, hev ye? Wal, I hope ye’ve goed deep enough. You’re a gwine to berry somebidy, air ye?”

There was no reply. The six excavators had thrown down their tools, and stood in sullen silence.

“Maybe ye were arter the other thing. Doin’ a bit of dissinterry as they call it? Wal, I hope ye foun’ what ye hev been rootin’ for?”

Still no response.

“An’ so, Mr Bill Buck, you think thet Jerry Rook hez been a humbuggin’ ye?”

“I do,” replied Buck, doggedly.

“And so do I.”