The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover

They were not only prepared to repudiate, but talked of his refunding, and even threatened to lynch him upon the spot.

So far from making his claim, he was but too glad to get out of their company.

It is probable they would have insisted upon the repayment, or put lynching in practice, but for fear of the scandal that either must necessarily create in the community. To this was Jerry indebted for his escape from their vengeful indignation.

“Who could have told them that Pierre Robideau still lived?”

This was the question put by Jerry Rook to himself, as he rode back to his house, filled with mortification. He asked it a score of times, amid oaths and angry ejaculations.

It could not have been Pierre himself, who was now his welcome guest, and had been so ever since the night of that strange rencontre under the cottonwood? Though the returned gold-seeker had strolled about the clearing, with Lena for a companion, he had never once gone beyond its boundaries, and could scarce have been seen by any outsider. No one – neighbour or stranger – had been near the house. The half-dozen negroes who belonged to Jerry Rook, had no previous acquaintance with Pierre Robideau’s person; and, even had it been otherwise, they would scarce have recognised him now. It was not through them the information had reached Alfred Brandon and his associates. Who, then, could have been the informer?

For the life of him Jerry Rook could not guess; and Pierre himself, when told of it, was equally puzzled upon the point.

The only conjecture at all probable, was, that some one had seen and identified him – one of the gang themselves; or it might have been some individual totally uninterested, who, by chance, had seen and recognised him, soon after his arrival at the stand.

Now that his being alive was known to them, there was no longer any object in his keeping concealed; and he went about the settlements as of yore, at times visiting the town of Helena, for the purchase of such commodities as he required.

He had taken up his stay at the house of his former host, and was so often seen in the company of his host’s daughter, that it soon became talked of in the neighbourhood. Those who took any interest in the affairs of Jerry Rook’s family were satisfied that his daughter, so long resisting, had at length yielded her heart to the dark-skinned, but handsome stranger, who was staying at her father’s house.

There were few accustomed to have communication with either the quondam squatter or his people. It was a time when there were many new comers among the surrounding settlements, and a stranger, of whatever kind, attracted but slight attention. Under these circumstances Pierre Robideau escaped much notice, and many remarks that might otherwise have been made about him.

There were more than one, however, keenly sensible of his existence – his success with Lena Rook – who saw with black bitterness that the smiles of that young lady were being bestowed upon him.

Bill Buck was among the number of these disappointed aspirants; but the chief sufferer was Alfred Brandon. With heart on fire, and bosom brimful of jealous rage, he heard all the talk about Jerry Rook’s daughter and her stranger sweetheart.

It in no way tranquilised his spirits when Jerry Rook returned him his loan of stores and dollars, and promptly on the first demand. It but farther embittered it; for he could not help knowing whence the money had come. He saw that his wealth would no longer avail him. There would be no chance now of reducing the parent to that penury that would give him power over the child. His scheme had fallen through? and he set himself to the concoction of some new plan that would help him either to Lena Rook or revenge.

He spent nearly the whole of his time in reflecting upon his atrocious purpose – brooding over it until he had come to the determination of committing murder!

Several times he had thought of this, but on each occasion had recoiled at the thought, less from horror of the crime itself, than through fear of the consequences.

He had half resolved to make common cause with Bill Buck, and induce him to become a confederate in the foul deed. But the doubtful character of the horse-dealer’s son, each day getting darker, had scared him from entering into such a perilous partnership; and he still kept his designs locked up within his own troubled bosom.

Strange enough, Buck was at the same time entertaining in his own mind a scheme of assassination, and with the same victim in view.

Without suspecting it, Pierre Robideau was in double danger.

It was about ten days after the returned gold-seeker had taken up his residence at the house of Jerry Rook, when an errand called him to the town of Helena. It was the mending of his bridle-bit, which had been broken by accident, and required to be half an hour in the hands of a blacksmith.

It was the bridle he had brought with him from the Choctaw country – an Indian article with reins of plaited horsehair – and as he had no other, it necessitated his going afoot.

In this way he started from Jerry Rook’s house, leaving Jerry Rook’s daughter at the door, looking lovingly after and calling him to come soon back.

The distance was not great; and in less than an hour after he was standing in the blacksmith’s shop, a tranquil spectator to the welding of his broken bit.

There was one who saw him there, whose spirit was less composed – one who had seen him entering the town, and had sauntered after at a distance, careless like, but closely watching him. This was not a citizen of the place; but a man in planter costume, who, by the spurs on his heels, had evidently ridden in from the country. In his hand he carried a rifle, as was common at the time to all going abroad, no matter to what distance, on horseback.

The man thus armed and accoutred was Alfred Brandon.

There were plenty of other people in the streets, and but few took note of him as he walked carelessly along. No one noticed the lurid light in his eye, nor the tight contraction of his lips that spoke of some dangerous design.

Much less were these indications observed by the man who was calling them forth. Standing beside the blacksmith’s forge, quietly watching the work, Pierre Robideau had no thought of the eyes that were upon him, nor did he even know that Brandon was in the town.

Little dreamt he at that moment how near was a treacherous enemy thirsting for his blood.

Brandon’s design was to pick a quarrel with the stranger, and before the latter could draw in his defence, shoot him down in his track. In this there would be nothing strange for the streets of Helena, nor anything very reprehensible. Pierre was armed with knife and pistol, but both were carried unseen.

All at once the planter appeared to recoil from his purpose, and looking askant, he spent some time in surveying his intended victim, and as if calculating the chances of a rencontre. Perhaps the stalwart frame and strong vigorous arms of the ci-devant gold-seeker rendered him apprehensive about the issue, and caused him to change his resolution. The protruding breast of Pierre Robideau’s coat told of pistol or other weapon, and should the first fire fail, his own life, and not that of his unsuspecting adversary, might be the forfeit in the affray.

While thus communing with his own mind, a still fouler thought came into it, kindling in his eye with more sinister lights.

Suddenly turning away, as if from some change of design, he patrolled back along the street, entered the stable where he had left his horse, and, mounting inside the stable-yard, rode hastily out of the town.

Story 1-Chapter XXVI.

A Revanche

About half an hour after the planter had taken his departure from the house, Pierre Robideau paid for the mending of his bridle; and having no other errand to detain him in the town, started homewards afoot as he had come.

The road to Jerry Rook’s house still corresponded with that leading to Little Rock, only that the latter, now much travelled, no longer passed through the well-known glade – a better crossing of Caney Creek having caused it to diverge before it entered the natural clearing.

The old trace, however, was that taken by any one going to Rook’s house, and to it Pierre Robideau was making his return from the town.

With the bridle lashed belt-like across his shoulders, he was walking unsuspectingly along, thinking how pleased Lena Rook would be at seeing him so soon back.

On entering the glade a change came over his spirit, indicated by a dark cloud suddenly overspreading his face. It was natural enough at sight of that too well-remembered tree, recalling not only his own agonies, but the foul murder there committed, for he knew that upon that same tree his unfortunate father, whom he could not think otherwise than innocent, had been sacrificed to the madness of a frantic mob.

There still was the branch extended towards him, as if mockingly to remind him of a vengeance still unsatisfied!

An impulse came over him he was unable to resist; and yielding to it, he stopped in his track, and stood gazing upon the tree – a strange lurid light shining in his eyes.

All at once he felt a shock in the left arm, accompanied by a stinging sensation, as if from the bite of an insect; but it was not this, for, almost at the same instant, he heard the “spang” of a rifle, and saw a puff of smoke flirting up over some bushes directly before him.

It was a shot that had been fired; and the blood spirting from his torn coat-sleeve left no doubt of it having been fired at himself.

Nor could there be as to the deadly intention, though the damage done was only a slight abrasion of the arm, scarce deeper than the thickness of the skin.

Pierre Robideau did not stay to reflect on this. The moment he saw the smoke he sprang forward, and ran on until he had reached the spot where the bushes were still enveloped in the low, scattering, sulphurous vapour.

He could see no one there; but this did not surprise him. It was not likely that such an assassin would stay to be discovered; but he must still be near, stealing off among the trees.

Suspending his breath Pierre stood to listen.

For a time he could hear nothing, not even the rustling of a leaf, and he was beginning to fear that he might again be made the mark of an unseen murderer’s bullet, when the screech of a jay came sharply through the trees.

It gave him instant relief, for he knew by the compressed scolding of the bird that some one was intruding upon its haunts. It must be the retreating assassin!

Guided by the chattering of the jay, he recommenced the pursuit.