The Death Shot: A Story Retold

“He murdered him. He may intend the same with me. I care not now.”

Again the voice of the self-accused assassin:

“You know me now?”

She is silent as ever, and once more motionless; the convulsive spasm having passed. Even the beating of her heart seems stilled.

Is she dead? Has his fell speech slain her? In reality it would appear so.

“Ah, well;” he says, “you won’t recognise me? Perhaps you will after seeing my face. Sight is the sharpest of the senses, and the most reliable. You shall no longer be deprived of it. Let me take you to the light.”

Lifting, he carries her out to where the moonbeams meet the tree’s shadow, and there lays her along. Then dropping to his knees, he draws out something that glistens. Two months before he stooped over the prostrate form of her lover, holding a photograph before his eyes – her own portrait. In her’s he is about to brandish a knife!

One seeing him in this attitude would suppose he intended burying its blade in her breast. Instead, he slits open the serape in front of her face, tossing the severed edges back beyond her cheeks.

Her features exposed to the light, show wan and woeful; withal, lovely as ever; piquant in their pale beauty, like those of some rebellious nun hating the hood, discontented with cloister and convent.

As she sees him stooping beside, with blade uplifted, she feels sure he designs killing her. But she neither shrinks, nor shudders now. She even wishes him to end her agony with a blow. Were the knife in her own hand, she would herself give it.

It is not his intention to harm her that way. Words are the weapons by which he intends torturing her. With these he will lacerate her heart to its core.

For he is thinking of the time when he threw himself at her feet, and poured forth his soul in passionate entreaty, only to have his passion spurned, and his pride humiliated. It is her turn to suffer humiliation, and he has determined she shall. Recalling his own, every spark of pity, every pulsation of manhood, is extinguished within him. The cup of his scorned love has become a chalice filled with the passion of vengeance.

Sheathing the knife, he says:

“I’ve been longing for a good look at you. Now that I’ve got it, I should say you’re pretty as ever, only paler. That will come right, and the roses return to your cheeks, in this recuperative climate of Texas; especially in the place where I intend taking you. But you hav’nt yet looked at my face. It’s just had a washing for your sake. Come give it a glance! I want you to admire it, though it may not be quite so handsome as that of Charley Clancy.”

She averts her eyes, instinctively closing them.

“Oh, well, you won’t? Never mind, now. There’s a time coming when you’ll not be so coy, and when I shan’t any longer kneel supplicating you. For know, Nell, you’re completely in my power, and I can command, do with you what I will. I don’t intend any harm, nor mean to be at all unkind. It’ll be your own fault if you force me to harshness. And knowing that, why shouldn’t there be truce between us? What’s the use of fretting about Clancy? He’s dead as a door nail, and your lamenting won’t bring him to life again. Better take things as they are, and cheer up. If you’ve lost one sweetheart, there’s another left, who loves you more than ever did he. I do, Helen Armstrong; by God, I do!”

The ruffian gives emphasis to his profane assertion, by bending before her, and laying his hand upon his heart.

Neither his speech nor attitude moves her. She lies as ever, still, silent. Wrapped in the Mexican blanket – whose pattern of Aztec design bears striking resemblance to the hieroglyphs of Egypt – this closed and corded round her figure, she might easily be mistaken for a mummy, one of Pharaoh’s daughters taken out of the sarcophagus in which for centuries she has slept. Alone, the face with its soft white skin, negatives the comparison: though it appears bloodless, too. The eyes tell nought; their lids are closed, the long dark lashes alone showing in crescent curves. With difficulty could one tell whether she be asleep, or dead.

Richard Darke does not suppose she is either; and, incensed at receiving no reply, again apostrophises her in tone more spiteful than ever. He has lost control of his temper, and now talks unfeelingly, brutally, profanely.

“Damn you!” he cries. “Keep your tongue in your teeth, if you like. Ere long I’ll find a way to make it wag; when we’re man and wife, as we shall soon be – after a fashion. A good one, too, practised here upon the prairies of Texas. Just the place for a bridal, such as ours is to be. The nuptial knot tied, according to canons of our own choice, needing no sanction of church, or palaver of priests, to make it binding.”

The ruffian pauses in his ribald speech. Not that he has yet sated his vengeance, for he intends continuing the torture of his victim unable to resist. He has driven the arrow deep into her heart, and leaves it to rankle there.

For a time he is silent, as if enjoying his triumph – the expression on his countenance truly satanic. It is seen suddenly to change, apprehension taking its place, succeeded by fear.

The cause: sounds coming from the other side of the tree; human voices!

Not those of Bosley, or his captive; but of strange men speaking excitedly!

Quick parting from his captive, and gliding up to the trunk, he looks cautiously around it.

In the shadow he sees several figures clustering around Bosley and his horse; then hears names pronounced, one which chills the blood within his veins – almost freezing it.

He stands transfixed; cowering as one detected in an act of crime, and by a strong hand held in the attitude in which caught! Only for a short while thus; then, starting up, he rushes to regain his horse, jerks the bridle from the back, and drags the animal in the direction of his captive. Tossing her upon the pommel of the saddle, he springs into it. But she too has heard names, and now makes herself heard, shouting, “Help – help!”

Chapter Sixty Two.

“Help! Help!”

Baulked in their attempt to ambuscade the supposed Indians, Clancy and his companions thought not of abandoning the search for them. On the contrary, they continued it with renewed eagerness, their interest excited by the unexplained disappearance of the party.

And they have succeeded in finding it, for it is they who surround Bosley, having surprised him unsuspectingly puffing away at his pipe. How they made approach, remains to be told.

On reaching the river’s bank, and there seeing nought of the strange equestrians, their first feeling was profound astonishment. On Woodley’s part, also, some relapse to a belief in the supernatural; Heywood, to a certain degree, sharing it.

“Odd it air!” mutters Sime, with an ominous shake of the head. “Tarnashun odd! Whar kin they hev been, an’ whar hev they goed?”

“Maybe back, across the river?” suggests Heywood.

“Unpossible. Thar ain’t time. They’d be wadin’ now, an’ we’d see ’em. No. They’re on this side yit, if anywhar on airth; the last bein’ the doubtful.”

“Supposin’ they’ve taken the trace we came by? They might while we were up the road.”

“By the jumpin’ Jeehosofat!” exclaims Woodley, startled by this second suggestion, “I never thought o’ that. If they hev, thar’s our horses, an’ things. Let’s back to camp quick as legs kin take us.”

“Stay!” interposes Clancy, whose senses are not confused by any unearthly fancies. “I don’t think they could have gone that way. There may be a trail up the bank, and they’ve taken it. There must be, Sime. I never knew a stream without one.”

“Ef there be, it’s beyont this child’s knowledge. I hain’t noticed neery one. Still, as you say, sech is usooal, ef only a way for the wild beasts. We kin try for it.”

“Let us first make sure whether they came out here at all. We didn’t watch them quite in to the shore.”

Saying this, Clancy steps down to the water’s edge, the others with him.

They have no occasion to stoop. Standing erect they can see hoof-marks, conspicuous, freshly made, filled with water that has fallen from the fetlocks.

Turning, they easily trace them up the shelving bank; but not so easily along the road, though certain they continue that way. It is black as pitch beneath the shadowing trees. Withal, Woodley is not to be thus baffled. His skill as a tracker is proverbial among men of his calling; moreover, he is chagrined at their ill success so far; and, but for there being no time, the ex-jailer, its cause, would catch it. He does in an occasional curse, which might be accompanied by a cuff, did he not keep well out of the backwoodsman’s way.

Dropping on all fours, Sime feels for hoof-prints of the horses that have just crossed, groping in darkness. He can distinguish them from all others by their being wet. And so does, gaining ground, bit by bit, surely if slowly.

But Clancy has conceived a more expeditious plan, which he makes known, saying:

“No need taking all that trouble, Sime. You may be the best trailer in Texas; and no doubt you are, for a biped: still here’s one can beat you.”

“Who?” asks the backwoodsman, rising erect, “show me the man.”

“No man,” interrupts the other with a smile. “For our purpose something better. There stands your competitor.”

“You’re right; I didn’t think o’ the dog. He’ll do it like a breeze. Put him on, Charley!”

“Come, Brasfort!” says Clancy, apostrophising the hound, while lengthening the leash, and setting the animal on the slot. “You tell us where the redskin riders have gone.”