The Death Shot: A Story Retold

The drinking debauch is continued till a late hour, Quantrell paying shot for the whole party. Maudlin as most of them have become, they still wonder that a man so shabbily dressed can command so much cash and coin. Some of them are not a little perplexed by it.

Borlasse is less so than any of his fellow-tipplers. He has noted certain circumstances that give him a clue to the explanation; one, especially, which seems to make everything clear. As the stranger, calling himself Phil Quantrell, stands holding his glass in hand, his handkerchief employed to wipe the wine from his lips, and carelessly returned to his pocket, slips out, and fails upon the floor. Borlasse stooping, picks it up, but without restoring it to its owner.

Instead, he retires to one side; and, unobserved, makes himself acquainted with a name embroidered on its corner.

When, at a later hour, the two sit together, drinking a last good-night draught, Borlasse places his lips close to the stranger’s ear, whispering as if it were Satan himself who spoke, “Your name is not Philip Quantrell: ’tis Richard Darke!”

Chapter Thirty Three.

The murderer unmasked

A rattlesnake sounding its harsh “skirr” under the chair on which the stranger is sitting could not cause him to start up more abruptly than he does, when Borlasse says: —

“Your name is not Philip Quantrell: ’tis Richard Darke!”

He first half rises to his feet, then sits down again; all the while trembling in such fashion, that the wine goes over the edge of his glass, sprinkling the sanded floor.

Fortunately for him, all the others have retired to their beds, it being now a very late hour of the night – near midnight. The drinking “saloon” of the Choctaw Chief is quite emptied of its guests. Even Johnny, the bar-keeper, has gone kitchen-wards to look after his supper.

Only Borlasse witnesses the effect of his own speech; which, though but whispered, has proved so impressive.

The speaker, on his side, shows no surprise. Throughout all the evening he has been taking the measure of his man, and has arrived at a clear comprehension of the case. He now knows he is in the company of Charles Clancy’s assassin. The disguise which Darke has adopted – the mere shaving off moustaches and donning a dress of home-wove “cottonade” – the common wear of the Louisiana Creole – with slouch hat to correspond, is too flimsy to deceive Captain Jim Borlasse, himself accustomed to metamorphoses more ingenious, it is nothing new for him to meet a murderer fleeing from the scene of his crime – stealthily, disguisedly making way towards that boundary line, between the United States and Texas – the limit of executive justice.

“Come, Quantrell!” he says, raising his arm in a gesture of reassurance, “don’t waste the wine in that ridikelous fashion. You and me are alone, and I reckin we understand one another. If not, we soon will – the sooner by your puttin’ on no nonsensical airs, but confessin’ the clar and candid truth. First, then, answer me this questyun: Air you, or air you not, Richard Darke? If ye air, don’t be afeerd to say so. No humbuggery! Thar’s no need for’t. An’ it won’t do for Jim Borlasse.”

The stranger, trembling, hesitates to make reply.

Only for a moment. He sees it will be of no use denying his identity. The man who has questioned him – of giant size and formidable aspect – notwithstanding the copious draughts he has swallowed, appears cool as a tombstone, and stern as an Inquisitor. The bloodshot eyes look upon him with a leer that seems to say: “Tell me a lie, and I’m your enemy.”

At the same time those eyes speak of friendship; such as may exist between two scoundrels equally steeped in crime.

The murderer of Charles Clancy – now for many days and nights wandering the earth, a fugitive from foiled justice, taking untrodden paths, hiding in holes and corners, at length seeking shelter under the roof of the Choctaw Chief, because of its repute, sees he has reached a haven of safety.

The volunteered confessions of Borlasse – the tale of his hostility to Clancy, and its cause – inspire him with confidence about any revelations he may make in return. Beyond all doubt his new acquaintance stands in mud, deep as himself. Without further hesitation, he says – “I am Richard Darke.”

“All right!” is the rejoinder. “And now, Mr Darke, let me tell you, I like your manly way of answerin’ the question I’ve put ye. Same time, I may as well remark, ’twould ’a been all one if ye’d sayed no! This child hain’t been hidin’ half o’ his life, ’count o’ some little mistakes made at the beginnin’ of it, not to know when a man’s got into a sim’lar fix. First day you showed your face inside the Choctaw Chief I seed thar war something amiss; tho’, in course, I couldn’t gie the thing a name, much less know ’thar that ugly word which begins with a M. This evenin’, I acknowledge, I war a bit put out – seein’ you round thar by the planter’s, spyin’ after one of them Armstrong girls; which of them I needn’t say.”

Darke starts, saying mechanically, “You saw me?”

“In coorse I did – bein’ there myself, on a like lay.”

“Well?” interrogates the other, feigning coolness.

“Well; that, as I’ve said, some leetle bamboozled me. From your looks and ways since you first came hyar, I guessed that the something wrong must be different from a love-scrape. Sartint, a man stayin’ at the Choctaw Chief, and sporting the cheap rig as you’ve got on, wan’t likely to be aspirin’ to sech dainty damsels as them. You’ll give in, yourself, it looked a leetle queer; didn’t it?”

“I don’t know that it did,” is the reply, pronounced doggedly, and in an assumed tone of devil-may-care-ishness.

“You don’t! Well, I thought so, up to the time o’ gettin’ back to the tavern hyar – not many minutes afore my meetin’ and askin’ you to jine us in drinks. If you’ve any curiosity to know what changed my mind, I’ll tell ye.”

“What?” asks Darke, scarcely reflecting on his words.

“That ere newspaper you war readin’ when I gave you the invite. I read it afore you did, and had ciphered out the whole thing. Puttin’ six and six thegither, I could easy make the dozen. The same bein’, that one of the young ladies stayin’ at the hotel is the Miss Helen Armstrong spoke of in the paper; and the man I observed watchin’ her is Richard Darke, who killed Charles Clancy —yourself!”

“I – I am – I won’t – I don’t deny it to you, Mr Borlasse. I am Richard Darke. I did kill Charles Clancy; though I protest against its being said I murdered him.”

“Never mind that. Between friends, as I suppose we can now call ourselves, there need be no nice distinguishin’ of tarms. Murder or manslaughter, it’s all the same, when a man has a motive sech as yourn. An’ when he’s druv out o’ the pale of what they call society, an’ hunted from the settlements, he’s not like to lose the respect of them who’s been sarved the same way. Your bein’ Richard Darke an’ havin’ killed Charles Clancy, in no ways makes you an enemy o’ Jim Borlasse – except in your havin’ robbed me of a revenge I’d sworn to take myself. Let that go now. I ain’t angry, but only envious o’ you, for havin’ the satisfaction of sendin’ the skunk to kingdom come, without givin’ me the chance. An’ now, Mister Darke, what do you intend doin’?”

The question comes upon the assassin with a sobering effect. His copious potations have hitherto kept him from reflecting.

Despite the thieve’s confidence with which Borlasse has inspired him, this reference to his future brings up its darkness, with its dangers; and he pauses before making response.

Without waiting for it, his questioner continues:

“If you’ve got no fixed plan of action, and will listen to the advice of a friend, I’d advise you to become one o’ us.”

“One of you! What does that mean, Mr Borlasse?”

“Well, I can’t tell you here,” answers Borlasse, in a subdued tone. “Desarted as this bar-room appear to be, it’s got ears for all that. I see that curse, Johnny, sneakin’ about, pretendin’ to be lookin’ after his supper. If he knew as much about you as I do, you’d be in limbo afore you ked get into your bed. I needn’t tell you thar’s a reward offered; for you seed that yourself in the newspaper. Two thousand dollars for you, an’ five hundred dollars for the fellow as I’ve seed about along wi’ you, and who I’d already figured up as bein’ jailer Joe Harkness. Johnny, an’ a good many more, would be glad to go halves with me, for tellin’ them only half of what I now know. I ain’t goin’ to betray you. I’ve my reasons for not. After what’s been said I reckon you can trust me?”

“I can,” rejoins the assassin, heaving a sigh of relief.

“All right, then,” resumes Borlasse; “we understand one another. But it won’t do to stay palaverin hyar any longer. Let’s go up to my bedroom. We’ll be safe there; and I’ve got a bottle of whisky, the best stuff for a nightcap. Over that we can talk things straight, without any one havin’ the chance to set them crooked. Come along!”

Darke, without protest, accepts the invitation. He dares not do otherwise. It sounds more like a command. The man extending it has now full control over him; can deliver him to justice – have him dragged to a jail.

Chapter Thirty Four.

“Will you be one of us?”

Once inside his sleeping apartment, Borlasse shuts the door, points out a chair to his invited guest, and plants himself upon another. With the promised bottle of whisky between them, he resumes speech.

“I’ve asked you, Quantrell, to be one o’ us. I’ve done it for your own good, as you ought to know without my tellin’ ye. Well; you asked me in return what that means?”

“Yes, I did,” rejoins Darke, speaking without purpose.

“It means, then,” continues Borlasse, taking a gulp out of his glass, “that me, an’ the others you’ve been drinking with, air as good a set of fellows as ever lived. That we’re a cheerful party, you’ve seen for yourself. What’s passed this night ain’t nowheres to the merry times we spend upon the prairies out in Texas – for it’s in Texas we live.”

“May I ask, Mr Borlasse, what business you follow?”

“Well; when we’re engaged in regular business, it’s mostly horse-catchin’. We rope wild horses, mustangs, as they’re called; an’ sometimes them that ain’t jest so wild. We bring ’em into the settlements for sale. For which reason we pass by the name of mustangers. Between whiles, when business isn’t very brisk, we spend our time in some of the Texas towns – them what’s well in to’rds the Rio Grande, whar there’s a good sprinklin’ of Mexikins in the population. We’ve some rare times among the Mexikin girls, I kin assure you. You’ll take Jim Borlasse’s word for that, won’t you?”

“I have no cause to doubt it.”

“Well, I needn’t say more, need I? I know, Quantrell, you’re fond of a pretty face yourself, with sloe-black eyes in it. You’ll see them among the Mexikin saynoritas, to your heart’s content. Enough o’ ’em, maybe, to make you forget the pair as war late glancin’ at you out of the hotel gallery.”

“Glancing at me?” exclaims Darke, showing surprise, not unmixed with alarm.

“Glancing at ye; strait custrut; them same eyes as inspired ye to do that little bit of shootin’, wi’ Charley Clancy for a target.”