The Death Shot: A Story Retold

The intelligent creature well understands what is wanted, and with nose to the ground goes instantly off. But for the check string it would soon outstrip them for its eager action tells it has caught scent of a trail.

At first lifting it along the ford road, but only for a few yards. Then abruptly turning left, the dog is about to strike into the timber, when the hand of the master restrains it.

The instinct of the animal is no longer needed. They perceive the embouchure of a path, that looks like the entrance to a cave, dark and forbidding as the back door of a jail. But surely a trace leading in among the trees, which the plumed horsemen have taken.

After a second or two spent in arranging the order of march, they also take it, Clancy now assuming command.

They proceed with caution greater than ever; more slowly too, because along a path, dark, narrow, unknown, shaggy with thorns. They have to grope every inch of their way; all the while in surprise at the Indians having chosen it. There must be a reason, though none of them can think what it is.

They are not long left to conjectures. A light before their eyes throws light upon the enigma that has been baffling their brains. There is a break in the timber, where the moonbeams fall free to the earth.

Gliding on, silently, with undiminished caution, they arrive on the edge of an opening, and there make stop, but inside the underwood that skirts it.

Clancy and Woodley stand side by side, crouchingly; and in this attitude interrogate the ground before them.

They see the great tree, with its white shroud above, and deep obscurity beneath – the moonlit ring around it. But at first nothing more, save the fire-flies scintillating in its shadow.

After a time, their eyes becoming accustomed to the cross light, they see something besides; a group of figures close in to the tree’s trunk, apparently composed of horses and men. They can make out but one of each, but they take it there are two, with two women as well. While scanning the group, they observe a light larger and redder than that emitted by the winged insects. Steadier too; for it moves not from its place. They might not know it to be the coal upon a tobacco pipe, but for the smell of the burning “weed” wafted their way.

Sniffing it, Sime says:

“That’s the lot, sure; tho’ thar appears but the half o’t. I kin only make out one hoss, an’ one man, wi’ suthin’ astreetch long the groun – one o’ the squaws in coorse. The skunk on his feet air smokin’. Strange they hain’t lit a fire! True ’tain’t needed ’ceptin’ for the cookin’ o’ thar supper. Maybe they’ve hed it, an’ only kim hyar to get a spell o’ sleep. But ef thet’s thar idee why shed yon ’un be stannin’ up. Wal; I guess, he’s doin’ sentry bizness, the which air allers needcessary out hyar. How shell we act, Charley? Rush right up an’ tackle ’em? That’s your way, I take it.”

“It is – why not?”

“Because thar’s a better – leastwise a surer to prevent spillin’ thar blood. Ye say, you don’t want that?”

“On no account. If I thought there was a likelihood of it, I’d go straight back to our camp, and leave them alone. They may be harmless creatures, on some innocent errand. If it prove so, we musn’t molest them.”

“Wal; I’m willin’, for thet,” rejoins Woodley, adding a reservation, “Ef they resist, how are we to help it? We must eyther kill, or be kilt.”

There is reason in this, and Clancy perceives it. While he is cogitating what course to take, Woodley, resuming speech, points it out.

“’Thar’s no use for us to harm a hair on thar beads, supposin’ them to be innercent. For all thet, we shed make sure, an’ take preecaushin in case o’ them cuttin’ up ugly. It air allers the best way wi redskins.”

“How do you propose, Sime?”

“To surround ’em. Injuns, whether it be bucks or squaws, air slickery as eels. It’s good sixty yurds to whar they’re squatted yonner. Ef we push strait torst ’em, they’ll see us crossin’ that bit o’ moonshine, an’ be inter the timmer like greased lightnin’ through the branches o’ a gooseberry bush. Tho’ out o’ thar seddles now, an’ some o’ ’em streetched ’long the airth, apparently sleepin’, they’d be up an’ off in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail. Tharefor, say I, let’s surround ’em.”

“If you think that the better way,” rejoins Clancy, “let us. But it will take time, and call for the greatest caution. To get around the glade, without their seeing us, we must keep well within the timber. Through that underwood it won’t be easy. On second thoughts, Sime, I’m inclined to chance it the other way. They can’t possibly escape us. If they do take to their horses, they couldn’t gallop off beyond reach of our rifles. We can easily shoot their animals down. Besides, remember there’s two to get mounted on each. We may as well run right up, and determine the thing at once. I see no difficulty.”

“Wheesht!” exclaims Woodley, just as Clancy ceases speaking.

“What is it? Do you hear anything, Sime?”

“Don’t you, Charley?”

Clancy sets himself to listen, but at first hears nothing, save the usual sounds of the forest, of which it is now full. A spring night, a sultry one, the tree-crickets are in shrillest cry, the owls and goatsuckers joining in the chorus.

But in the midst of its continuous strain there is surely a sound, not animal, but human? Surely the voice of a man?

After a time, Clancy can distinguish it.

One is talking, in tone not loud, but with an accent which appears to be that of boasting or triumph. And the voice is not like an Indian’s, while exclamations, at intervals uttered, are certainly such as could only proceed from the lips of a white man.

All this is strange, and causes astonishment to the travellers – to Clancy something more. But before he has time to reflect upon, or form conjectures about it, he hears that which compels him to cast aside every restraint of prudence; and springing forward, he signals the others to follow him.

They do, without a word; and in less than twenty seconds’ time, they have entered the shadowed circle, and surrounded the group at which they have been so long gazing.

Only three figures after all! A man, a horse, with what may be woman, but looks less like one living than dead!

The man, Indian to all appearance, thus taken by surprise, plucks the pipe from between his teeth. It is struck out of his hand, the sparks flying from it, as Woodley on one side and Heywood the other, clutching, drag him toward the light.

When the moon shines on it, they behold a face which both have seen before.

Under its coating of charcoal and chalk they might not recognise it, but for the man making himself known by speech, which secures his identification. For he, too, sees a familiar face, that of Simeon Woodley; and under the impression he is himself recognised, mechanically pronounces the backwoodsman’s name.

“Bill Bosley!” shouts the astonished Sime, “Good Lord! Painted Injun! What’s this for? Some devil’s doings ye’re arter as ye allers war. Explain it, Bill! Tell the truth ’ithout preevaricashun. Ef ye lie, I’ll split your thrapple like I wud a water-millyun.”

“Sime Woodley! Ned Heywood! Joe Harkness!” gaspingly ejaculates the man, as in turn the three faces appear before him. “God Almighty! what’s it mean?”

“We’ll answer that when we’ve heern your story. Quick, tell it.”

“I can’t; your chokin’ me. For God’s sake, Heywood, take your hand off my throat. O Sime! sure you don’t intend killin’ me? – ye won’t, ye won’t.”

“That depends – ”

“But I aint to blame. Afore heaven, I swear I aint. You know that, Harkness? You heard me protest against their ugly doin’s more than once. In this business, now, I’m only actin’ under the captin’s order. He sent me ’long with the lootenant to take care of – ”

“The lieutenant!” interrupts Clancy. “What name?”

“Phil Quantrell, we call him; though I guess he’s got another – ”

“Where is he?” inquires Clancy, tortured with a terrible suspicion.

“He went t’other side the tree, takin’ the young lady along.”

At that moment comes a cry from behind the oak – a woman’s voice calling “Help! help!”

Clancy stays not to hear more, but rushes off with the air of a man struck with sudden phrenzy!

On turning the trunk, he sees other forms, a horse with man mounted, a woman before him he endeavours to restrain, who, struggling, thirsts for succour.

It is nigh, though near being too late. But for a fortunate circumstance, it would be. The horse, headed towards the forest, is urged in that direction. But, frayed by the conflict on his back, he refuses to advance; instead, jibbing and rearing, he returns under the tree.

Clancy, with rifle raised, is about to shoot the animal down. But at thought of danger to her calling “help!” he lowers his piece; and rushing in, lays hold of the bridle-rein. This instantly let go, to receive in his arms the woman, released from the ruffian’s grasp, who would otherwise fall heavily to the earth.

The horse, disembarrassed, now obeying the rein, shoots out from under the oak, and headed across the moonlit belt makes straight for the timber beyond.