The Death Shot: A Story Retold

Chapter Sixty Nine.

Shadows behind

When once more upon the trail of the man he intends killing, Clancy keeps on after his hound, with eager eyes watching every movement of the animal. That Brasfort is dead upon the scent can be told by his excited action, and earnest whimpering.

All at once he is checked up, his master drawing him back with sudden abruptness.

The dog appears surprised at first, so does Jupiter. The latter, looking round, discovers the cause: something which moves upon the plain, already observed by Clancy. Not clearly seen, for it is still dark.

“What goes yonder?” he asks, eagerly scanning it, with hands over his eyes.

“It don’t go, Masser Charle, whatever it is. Dat thing ’pears comin’.”

“You’re right. It is moving in this direction. A dust-cloud; something made it. Ah! horses! Are there men on their backs? No. Bah! it’s but a drove of mustangs. I came near taking them for Comanches; not that we need care. Just now the red gentry chance to be tied by a treaty, and are not likely to harm us. We’ve more to fear from fellows with white skins. Yes, the wild horses are heading our way; scouring along as if all the Indians in Texas were after them. What does that signify? Something, I take it.”

Jupiter cannot say. He is, as he has confessed, inexperienced upon the prairies, ill understanding their “sign.” However well acquainted with the craft of the forest, up in everything pertaining to timber, upon the treeless plains of Texas, an old prairie man would sneeringly pronounce him a “greenhorn.”

Clancy, knowing this, scarce expects reply; or, if so, with little hope of explanation.

He does not wait for it, having himself discovered why the wild horses are going at such a rate. Besides the dust stirred up by their hooves, is another cloud rising in the sky beyond. The black belt just looming along the horizon proclaims the approach of a “norther.” The scared horses are heading southward, in the hope to escape it.

They come in full career towards the spot where the two have pulled up – along a line parallel to the trend of the cliff, at some distance from its edge. Neighing, snorting, with tossed manes, and streaming tails, they tear past, and are soon wide away on the other side.

Clancy keeping horse and hound in check, waits till they are out of sight. Then sets Brasfort back upon the scent, from which he so unceremoniously jerked him.

Though without dent of hoof on the dry parched grass, the hound easily retakes it, straining on as before.

But he is soon at fault, losing it. They have come upon the tracks of the mustangs, these having spoiled the scent – killed it.

Clancy, halting, sits dissatisfied in the saddle; Jupiter sharing his dissatisfaction.

What are they to do now? The mulatto suggests crossing the ground trodden by the mustangs, and trying on the other side.

To this Clancy consents. It is the only course that seems rational.

Again moving forward, they pass over the beaten turf; and, letting Brasfort alone, look to him. The hound strikes ahead, quartering.

Not long till the vibration of his tail tells he is once more on the scent.

Now stiffer than ever, and leading in a straight line. He goes direct for the copse of timber, which is now only a very short distance off.

Again Clancy draws the dog in, at the same time reining up his horse.

Jupe has done the same with his mule; and both bend their eyes upon the copse – the grove of black-jack oaks – scanning it with glances of inquiry. If Clancy but knew what is within, how in a glade near its centre, is the man they are seeking, he would no longer tarry for Brasfort’s trailing, but letting go the leash altogether, and leaping from his horse, rush in among the trees, and bring to a speedy reckoning him, to whom he owes so much misery.

Richard Darke dreams not of the danger so near him. He is in a deep sleep – the dreamless, helpless slumber of intoxication.

But a like near danger threatens Clancy himself, of which he is unconscious. With face towards the copse, and eyes eagerly scrutinising it, he thinks not of looking behind.

By the way his hound still behaves, there must be something within the grove. What can it be? He does not ask the question. He suspects – is, indeed, almost certain – his enemy is that something. Muttering to the mulatto, who has come close alongside, he says: —

“I shouldn’t wonder, Jupe, if we’ve reached our journey’s end. Look at Brasfort! See how he strains! There’s man or beast among those black-jacks – both I take it.”

“Looks like, masser.”

“Yes; I think we’ll there find what we’re searching for. Strange, too, his making no show. I can’t see sign of a movement.”

“No more I.”

“Asleep, perhaps? It won’t do for us to go any nearer, till sure. He’s had the advantage of me too often before. I can’t afford giving it again. Ha! what’s that?”

The dog has suddenly slewed round, and sniffs in the opposite direction. Clancy and Jupe, turning at the same time, see that which draws their thoughts from Richard Darke, driving him altogether out of their minds.

Their faces are turned towards the east, where the Aurora reddens the sky, and against its bright background several horsemen are seen en silhouette, their number each instant increasing. Some are already visible from crown to hoof; others show only to the shoulders; while the heads of others can just be distinguished surmounting the crest of the cliff. In the spectacle there is no mystery, nor anything that needs explanation. Too well does Charles Clancy comprehend. A troop of mounted men approaching up the pass, to all appearance Indians, returning spoil-laden from a raid on some frontier settlement. But in reality white men, outlawed desperadoes, the band of Jim Borlasse, long notorious throughout South-Western Texas.

One by one, they ascend en échelon, as fiends through a stage-trap in some theatric scene, showing faces quite as satanic. Each, on arriving at the summit, rides into line alongside their leader, already up and halted. And on they come, till nineteen can be counted upon the plain.

Clancy does not care to count them. There could be nothing gained by that. He sees there are enough to make resistance idle. To attempt it were madness.

And must he submit? There seems no alternative.

There is for all that; one he is aware of – flight. His horse is strong and swift. For both these qualities originally chosen, and later designed to be used for a special purpose – pursuit. Is the noble animal now to be tried in a way never intended – retreat?

Although that dark frowning phalanx, at the summit of the pass, would seem to answer “yes,” Clancy determines “no.” Of himself he could still escape – and easily. In a stretch over that smooth plain, not a horse in their troop would stand the slightest chance to come up with him, and he could soon leave all out of sight. But then, he must needs also leave behind the faithful retainer, from whose lips has just issued a declaration of readiness to follow him to the death.

He cannot, will not; and if he thinks of flight, it is instinctively, and but for an instant; the thought abandoned as he turns towards the mulatto, and gives a glance at the mule. On his horse he could yet ride away from the robbers, but the slow-footed hybrid bars all hope for Jupiter. The absconding slave were certain to be caught, now; and slave or free, the colour of his skin would ensure him cruel treatment from the lawless crew.

But what better himself taken? How can he protect poor Jupe, his own freedom – his life – equally imperilled? For he has no doubt but that Borlasse will remember, and recognise, him. It is barely twelve months since he stood beside that whipping-post in the town of Nacogdoches, and saw the ruffian receive chastisement for the stealing of his horse – the same he is now sitting upon. No fear of the horse-thief having forgotten that episode of his life.

He can have no doubt but that Borlasse will retaliate; that this will be his first thought, soon as seeing him. It needs not for the robber chief to know what has occurred by the big oak; that Bosley is a prisoner, Quantrell a fugitive, their prisoners released, and on their way back to the Mission. It is not likely he does know, as yet. But too likely he will soon learn. For Darke will be turning up ere long, and everything will be made clear. Then to the old anger of Borlasse for the affair of the scourging, will be added new rage, while that of Darke himself will be desperate.

In truth, the prospect is appalling; and Charles Clancy, almost as much as ever in his life, feels that life in peril.

Could he look into the courtyard of the San Saba Mission, and see what is there, he might think it even more so. Without that, there is sufficient to shake his resolution about standing his ground; enough to make him spur away from the spot, and leave Jupiter to his fate.

“No – never!” he mentally exclaims, closing all reflection. “As a coward I could not live. If I must die, it shall be bravely. Fear not, Jupe! We stand or fall together!”

Chapter Seventy.

Surrounded and disarmed

Borlasse, riding at the head of his band, has been the first to arrive at the upper end of the gorge.

Perceiving some figures upon the plain, he supposes them to be Quantrell and Bosley with the captives. For his face is toward the west, where the sky is still night-shadowed, and he can but indistinctly trace the outlines of horses and men. As their number corresponds to that of his missing comrades, he has no thought of its being other than they. How could he, as none other are likely to be encountered there?

Congratulating himself on his suspicions of the lieutenant’s defection proving unfounded, and that he will now clutch the prize long coveted, he gives his horse the spur, and rides gaily out of the gorge.

Not till then does he perceive that the men before him are in civilised costume, and that but one is on horseback, the other bestriding a mule. And they have no captives, the only other thing seen beside them being a dog!