The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover

“I must have her for my wife.”

Rook recoiled at the proposal. He was thinking of Alf Brandon and the plantation, the grand estate he had so long coveted, and set his heart upon having.

On the other side were the six hundred dollars a-year. But what was this in comparison? And coupled with a young man for his son-in-law, who was not even a full-blooded white – poor, perhaps penniless. No doubt he had come back without a dollar in his pocket.

Was this certain? He had been to California, the country of gold. From what could be seen of him in the dim light, he appeared well dressed, and his speech proclaimed him well instructed. He had certainly changed much from the time of his departure. He may not have returned either so fortuneless or friendless.

These conjectures kept Jerry Rook from making any immediate answer.

Taking advantage of his silence, the young man continued —

“I know, Jerry Rook, you will be wanting for your son-in-law some one with means; at least, enough to support your daughter in a decent position in society. I am fortunate enough to have this, obtained by hard toil, in the gold placers of California. If you wish satisfaction on this head, I can refer to the Pacific Banking Company of San Francisco, where, three years ago, I deposited my three year’s gatherings – in all, I believe, about fifty thousand dollars.”

“Fifty thousand dollars! D’ye mean that, Pierre Robideau?”

“I mean it. If I had a light here, I could show you the proof of the deposit.”

“Come into the house, Pierre. I don’t mean for a light. Ye’ll stay all night? Thar’s a spare bed; and Lena’ll see to your heving some supper. Come along in.”

The lucky gold-seeker made no opposition to the proffered hospitality; and in five minutes after he was seated by the fireside of the man who, but five minutes before, had been chafing at having lost the opportunity of spilling his blood!

Story 1-Chapter XXIV.

Another Eavesdropper

Jerry Rook and his guest had scarce closed the door behind them, when a man, who had been skulking behind the cottonwood, came out into the front, and paused upon the spot they had abandoned.

He had been on the other side of the tree, from the time they had commenced their conversation, and heard it all.

The man was Alfred Brandon!

What had brought Alfred Brandon back to the cottonwood?

The explanation is easy enough.

The six resurrectionists did not go to Helena, as Jerry Rook had hinted they might do.

On getting out of Jerry’s clearing, only five of them turned towards the town, Brandon going off towards his own home, which was not far off, in the opposite direction.

The planter, on parting with the others, instead of continuing homewards, sat down upon a stump by the side of the path, and taking out a cigar, commenced smoking it.

He had no particular reason for thus stopping on his way, only that after such a disappointment he knew he could not sleep, and the cigar might do something to compose his exasperated spirit.

The night was a lovely one, and he could pass a half-hour upon the stump with reflections not more wretched than those that awaited him in his sleeping-chamber.

He was still within earshot of Jerry Rook’s house, and he had scarce ignited his cigar, when a sound reached his ear from that direction.

It was the yelp of a hound, close followed by the animal’s howling.

Soon after was heard the voice of a man speaking in harsh accents, and soon after this another voice – a woman’s.

On the still silent night they were borne to Brandon’s ears with sufficient distinctness for him to recognise them as the voices of Jerry Rook and his daughter. It did not need either the angry accent of the one, nor the affecting tone of the other, to draw Alf Brandon to the spot.

Starting up from the stump, and flinging himself over the fence, he proceeded towards the place where the voices were still heard in excited and earnest conversation.

Had Brandon not feared discovering himself to the speakers, he might have been up in time to see Pierre Robideau step forth from the cavity of the tree, and Lena Rook protecting him from the wrath of her father.

But the necessity of approaching unobserved, by skulking along the creek and keeping under cover of the canes, delayed him, and he only arrived behind the cottonwood as the young lady was being ordered into the house.

For Alfred Brandon, there was surprise enough without that. The presence of Pierre Robideau, whose name he had heard distinctly pronounced, with the sight of a tall form, dimly shaded under the tree, which he knew must be that of the murdered man, was sufficient to astonish him to his heart’s content.

It had this effect; and he stood behind the cottonwood, whose shelter he had reached, in speechless wonder, trembling from the crown to the toes.

Though his fear soon forsook him, his wonder was scarce diminished, when the dialogue between Jerry Rook and Pierre Robideau furnished him with a key to the mysterious re-appearance of the latter upon the banks of Caney Creek.

“God a mercy!” gasped he, stepping from behind the huge tree trunk, and looking after them as they were entering the house. “Here’s news for Messrs Buck, Slaughter, Grubbs, Spence, and Randall! Glad they’ll be to hear it, and at last get relief from their debts. This I reckon’ll cancel it.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, adding a fearful oath; “it’s all very well for them, but what matters the money to me? I’d pay it ten times over and all my life to have that girl; and hang me if I don’t have her yet for a wife or for worse. Choc still alive and kicking! Cut down then before he got choked outright! Darned if I didn’t more than half suspect it from the way old Rook talked about the burying of the body. The precious old pirate; hasn’t he bilked us nicely?

“Mr Pierre Robideau! yes that was the name, and this is the very fellow. I remember his voice, as if it were but yesterday. Missing for six years! Been to California! and picked up fifty thousand worth of yellow gravel! Lodged it in a bank, too, at San Francisco. No doubt going there again, and will be wanting to take Lena Rook along with him.”

At this thought another fierce oath leaped from his lips, and the light of the fire-flies as they flitted past his face showed an expression upon it that might have done credit to the stage of a suburban theatre.

“Never!” he ejaculated. “Never shall she go, if I can find means to prevent it.”

He stood for a time reflecting.

“There’s a way,” he again broke forth, “a sure way. Buck would be the man to lend a hand in it. He’s crazed about the girl himself, and when he knows there’s no chance for him, and thinks it’s this fellow stands in the way; besides, he wants money, and wouldn’t mind risking something to get it. Buck’s the man!”

“If he don’t I’ll do it myself. I will, by the Etarnal! I’d rather die upon the scaffold than this Indian should have her – he or any one else. I’ve been wild about her for six years. Her refusing has only made me worse.

“There can’t be much danger if one only gets the chance. He’s been away once, and nobody missed him. He can go gold gathering again – this time never to return. He shall do it.”

An oath again clinched the ambiguous threat.

Apparently relieved by having expressed his dark determination, he proceeded in a calmer strain.

“Won’t they be glad to hear of this resurrection! I wonder if they’re still at Slaughter’s. They went there – sure to be there yet. I’ll go. It’ll make their hearts happier than all the liquor in the tavern. Good night, Jerry Rook! Take care of your guest. Next time he goes off it won’t be by your sending of him.”

After this sham apostrophe he struck off across the field, and, once more clambering over the fence, he took the road leading to Helena.

Story 1-Chapter XXV.

The Stranger Guest

The fifth instalment of “hush-money,” that had been paid to Jerry Rook, proved to be the last.

On meeting the contracting parties, and applying for the sixth, he found to his great surprise, as well as chagrin, that the grand secret was gone out of his keeping, and his power over them at an end!