The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover

“An’ ye tell me, Dick Tarleton, they find these sort o’ nuts in Kaliforny lyin’ right on the surface o’ the groun’?”

“Almost the same. They dig them out of the bed of a river, and then wash the mud off them. The thing’s been just found out by a man named Captain Sutter while they were clearing out a mill-race. The fellow I got these from’s come direct from there with his bullet-pouch chock full of them, besides several pounds weight of dust in a canvas bag. He was in New Orleans to get it changed into dollars; an’ he did it, too, five thousand in all, picked up, he says, in a spell of three months’ washing. He’s going right back.”

“Burn me ef I oughten’t to go too. Huntin’ ain’t much o’ a bizness hyar any longer. Bar’s gettin’ pretty scace, an’ deer’s most run off altogither from the settlements springin’ up too thick. Besides, these young planters an’ the fellers from the towns air allers ’beout wi’ thar blasted horns, scarin’ everything out of creashun. Thar’s a ruck o’ them kine clost by hyar ’beout a hour ago, full tare arter a bar. Burn ’em! What hev they got to do wi’ bar-huntin’ – a parcel o’ brats o’ boys? Jess as much as this chile kin do’ to keep his ole karkidge from starvin’; and thar’s the gurl, too, growin’ up, an’ nothin’ provided for her but this ole shanty, an’ the patch o’ gurden groun’. I’d pull up sticks and go wi’ ye, only for one thing.”

“What is that, Rook?”

“Wal, wal; I don’t mind tellin’ you, Dick. The gurl’s good-lookin’, an’ thar’s a rich young feller ’pears a bit sweet on her. I don’t much like him myself; but he air rich, or’s boun’ to be when the old ’un goes under. He’s an only son, an’ they’ve got one o’ the slickest cotton plantations in all Arkansaw.”

“Ah, well; if you think he means marrying your girl, you had, perhaps, better stay where you are.”

“Marryin’ her! Burn him, I’ll take care o’ thet. Poor as I am myself, an’ as you know, Dick Tarleton, no better than I mout be, she hain’t no knowin’ beout that. My little gurl, Lena, air as innocent as a young doe. I’ll take precious care nobody don’t come the humbugging game over her. In coorse you’re gwine to take your young ’un along wi’ ye?”

“Of course.”

“Wal, he’ll be better out o’ hyar, any how. Thar a wild lot, the young fellars ’beout these parts; an’ I don’t think over friendly wi’ him. ’Tall events, he don’t sort wi’ them. They twit him ’beout his Injun blood, and that sort o’ thing.”

“Damn them! he’s got my blood.”

“True enuf, true enuf; an’ ef they knew thet, it wudn’t be like to git much favour for him. You dud well in makin’ him grass under the name o’ the mother. Ef the folks ’beout hyar only knowed he war the son o’ Dick Tarleton – Dick Tarleton thet – ”

“Hush! shut up, Jerry Rook! Enough that you know it. I hope you never said a word of that to the boy. I trusted you.”

“An’ ye trusted to a true man. Wi’ all my back-slidin’s I’ve been, true to you, Dick. The boy knows nothin’ ’beout what you’re been, nor me neyther. He air as innocent as my own gurl Lena, tho’ of a diffrent natur altogither. Tho’ he be three parts white, he’s got the Injun in him as much as ef he’d been the colour o’ copper. Le’s see; it air now nigh on six year gone since ye seed him. Wal, he’s wonderful growed up an’ good-lookin’; and thar arn’t anythin’ ’beout these parts kud tackle on to him fur strenth. He kin back a squirrel wi’ the pea-rifle, tho’ thet won’t count for much now ef ye’re gwine to set him gatherin’ these hyar donicks an’ dusts. Arter all, thet may be the best for him. Huntin’ ain’t no account any more. I’d gi’e it up myself ef I ked get some eezier way o’ keepin’ my wants serplied.”

The man to whom these remarks were made did not give much attention to the last of them.

A proud fire was in his eye as he listened to the eulogy passed upon the youth, who was his son by Marie Robideau, the half-breed daughter of a famous fur-trader. Perhaps, too, he was thinking of the youth’s mother, long since dead.

“He will soon be here?” he inquired, rousing himself from his reverie.

“Oughter,” was the reply. “Only went wi’ my gurl to the store to git some fixin’s. It air in Helena, ’beout three mile by the old trace. Oughter be back by this. I war expectin’ ’em afore you kim in.”

“What’s that?” asked Tarleton, as a huge bear-hound sprang from his recumbent position on the hearth, and ran growling to the door.

“Them, I reck’n. But it moutn’t be; thar’s plenty o’ other people abeout. Make safe, Dick, an’ go in thar’, into the gurl’s room, till I rickaneitre.”

The guest was about to act upon the hint, when a light footstep outside, followed by the friendly whimpering of the hound, and the soft voice of her on whom the dog was fawning, caused him to keep his place.

In another second, like a bright sunbeam, a young girl – Lena Rook – stepped softly over the threshold.

Story 1-Chapter VI.

A Cry of Distress

Lena Rook knew the father of Pierre, and curtsied as she came in.

It was six years since she had seen him; but she still remembered the man who had stayed some days at her father’s house, and left behind him a boy, who had afterwards proved such a pleasant playmate.

“Whar’s Pierre?” asked her father. “Didn’t he kum back from Helena along wi’ ye?”

The guest simultaneously asked a similar question, for both had noticed a slight shadow on the countenance of the girl.

“He did,” answered she, “as far as the clearing in the cane-brake, just over the creek.”

“He stopped thar. What for?”

“There was a party of hunters – boys.”

“Who mout they be?”

“There was Alf Brandon, and Bill Buck, and young Master Randall, the judge’s son, and there was Jeff Grubbs, the son of Mr Grubbs, that keeps the store, and Slaughter’s son, and another boy I don’t remember ever seeing before.”

“A preecious pack o’ young scamp-graces, every mother’s son o’ ’em, ’ceptin the one you didn’t know, an’ he can’t be much different, seein’ the kumpany he air in. What war they a doin’?”

“They had hounds and horses. They had killed a bear.”

“Killed a bar! Then that’s the lot that went scurryin’ up the crik, while ago. Durn ’em! they never killed the bar. The houn’s dud it for ’em. Ye see how it air, Dick? Who the Etarnal ked make his bread out o’ huntin’ hyar, when sech green goslins as them goes screamin’ through the woods wi’ a hul pack o’ houn’s to drive the game hillward! How d’ye know, gurl, thet they killed a bar?”

“I saw it lying on the ground, and the skin hanging to a tree.”

“Skinned it, too, did they?”

“Yes. They had a fire, and they had been roasting and eating some of it. I think they had been drinking too. They looked as if they had, and I could smell whiskey about the place.”

“But what kept Pierre among ’em?”

“They were trying who could hang longest to the branch of a tree. As Pierre was coming past, Alf Brandon stopped him, and challenged him to try too; then offered to make a bet – their rifles, I think – and Pierre consented, and I came away.”

“Pierre should have kum along wi’ ye, an’ left them to theirselves. I know Alf Brandon don’t owe the boy any goodwill, nor Bill Buck neyther, nor any o’ that hul lot. I reckon they must a riled him, and rousted his speerit a bit.”

As the old hunter said this, he stepped over the threshold of the door, and stood outside, as if looking out for the coming of Dick Tarleton’s son.

Seeing that he was listening, the other two, to avoid making a noise, conversed in a low tone.

“I kin hear the houn’s,” remarked Rook, speaking back into the cabin. “Thar’s a growl! Durn me, ef they hain’t started suthin’. Thar they go, an’ the curs yellin’ arter ’em as ef hell war let loose. Wonder what it kin mean? Some varmint must a crawled right inter thar camp. Wal, Pierre ain’t like to a gone along wi’ ’em, seein’ as he’s got no hoss. I reck’n we’ll soon see him hyar, an’ maybe Alf Brandon’s rifle along wi’ him. Ef it’s bin who kin hang longest to the branch of a tree, I’d back him agin the toughest-tailed possum in all these parts. Ef that be the tarms o’ the wager, he’ll git the gun.”

The old hunter returned chuckling into the cabin.

Some conversation passed between him and his daughter, about getting dinner for their guest; and then, thinking that the expected Pierre was a long time in showing himself, he went out again, and stood listening as before.

He had not been many moments in this attitude, when he was seen to start, and then listen more eagerly with an uneasy look.

Tarleton, looking from the inside, saw this, and so too the girl.

“What is it, Jerry?” inquired the former, moving hastily towards the door.

“Durned if I know. I heerd a shriek as ef some’dy war in trouble. Yes, thar ’tis agin! By the Etarnal, it’s Pierre’s voice!”