The Death Shot: A Story Retold

“If not, he shan’t now. I’ll take care he don’t have the chance.”

“How are ye to help it? You don’t intend killin’ him?”

“Not yet; thar’s a golden egg in that goose. His silence can be secured without resortin’ to that. He must be kep’ separate from the others.”

“But some o’ them ’ll have to look after him, or he may cut away from us.”

“Fernandez will do that. I can trust him with Clancy’s name, – with anything. Slip out, Luke, and see if they’ve got it among them. If they have, it’s all up, so far as that game goes. If not, I’ll fix things safe, so that when we’ve spent Monsheer Dupré’s silver, we may still draw cheques on the bank of San Antonio, signed Ephraim Darke.”

Chisholm obeying, brings back a satisfactory report.

“The boys know nothin’ o’ Clancy’s name, nor how we disposed o’ him. In coorse, Watts, Stocker, an’ Driscoll, haint sayed anything ’bout that. They’ve told the rest we let him go, not carin’ to keep him; and that you only wanted the yellow fellow to wait on ye.”

“Good! Go again, and fetch Fernandez here.”

Chisholm once more turns out of the tent, soon after re-entering it, the half-blood behind him.

“Nandy,” says Borlasse; calling the latter by a name mutually understood. “I want you to take charge of that mulatto, and keep him under your eye. You musn’t let any of the boys come nigh enough to hold speech wi’ him. You go, Luke, and give them orders they’re not to.” Chisholm retires.

“And, Nandy, if the nigger mentions any name – it may be that of his master – mind you it’s not to be repeated to any one. You understand me?”

“I do, capitan.”

“All serene. I know I can depend on ye. Now, to your duty.”

Without another word, the taciturn mestizo glides out of the tent, leaving Borlasse alone. Speaking to himself, he says: —

“If Quantrell’s turned traitor, thar’s not a corner in Texas whar he’ll be safe from my vengeance. I’ll sarve the whelp as I’ve done ’tother, – a hound nobler than he. An’ for sweet Jessie Armstrong, he’ll have strong arms that can keep her out o’ mine. By heavens! I’ll hug her yet. If not, hell may take me!”

Thus blasphemously delivering himself, he clutches at the bottle of brandy, pours out a fresh glass, and drinking it at a gulp, sits down to reflect on the next step to be taken.

Chapter Seventy Five.

A Transformation

Night has spread its sable pall over the desert plain, darker in the deep chasm through which runs Coyote Creek. There is light enough in the encampment of the prairie pirates; for the great fire kindled for cooking their dinners still burns, a constant supply of resinous pine-knots keeping up the blaze, which illuminates a large circle around. By its side nearly a score of men are seated in groups, some playing cards, others idly carousing. No one would suppose them the same seen there but a few hours before; since there is not the semblance of Indian among them. Instead, they are all white men, and wearing the garb of civilisation; though scarce two are costumed alike. There are coats of Kentucky jeans, of home-wove copperas stripe, of blanket-cloth in the three colours, red, blue, and green; there are blouses of brown linen, and buckskin dyed with dogwood ooze; there are Creole jackets of Attakapas “cottonade,” and Mexican ones of cotton velveteen. Alike varied is the head, leg, and foot-wear. There are hats of every shape and pattern; pantaloons of many a cut and material, most of them tucked into boots with legs of different lengths, from ankle to mid-thigh. Only in the under garment is there anything like uniformity; nine out of ten wearing shirts of scarlet flannel – the fashion of the frontier.

A stranger entering the camp now, would suppose its occupants to be a party of hunters; one acquainted with the customs of South-Western Texas, might pronounce them mustangers– men who make their living by the taking and taming of wild horses. And if those around the fire were questioned about their calling, such would be the answer. – In their tents are all the paraphernalia used in this pursuit; lassoes for catching the horses; halters and hobbles for confining them; bits for breaking, and the like; while close by is a “corral” in which to keep the animals when caught.

All counterfeit! There is not a real mustanger among these men, nor one who is not a robber; scarce one who could lay his hand upon his heart, and say he has not, some time or other in his life, committed murder! For though changed in appearance, since last seen, they are the same who entered the camp laden with Luis Dupré’s money – fresh from the massacre of his slaves. The transformation took place soon as they snatched a hasty meal. Then all hurried down to the creek, provided with pieces of soap; and plunging in, washed the paint from their hands, arms, and faces.

The Indian costume has not only been cast aside, but secreted, with all its equipments.

If the encampment were searched now, no stained feathers would be found; no beads or belts of wampum; no breech-clouts, bows, or quivers; no tomahawks or spears. All have been “cached” in a cave among the rocks; there to remain till needed for some future maraud, or massacre.

Around their camp-fire the freebooters are in full tide of enjoyment. The dollars have been divided, and each has his thousands. Those at the cards are not contented, but are craving more. They will be richer, or poorer. And soon; playing “poker” at fifty dollars an “ante.”

Gamesters and lookers on alike smoke, drink, and make merry. They have no fear now, not the slightest apprehension. If pursued, the pursuers cannot find the way to Coyote creek. If they did, what would they see there? Certainly not the red-skinned savages, who plundered the San Saba mission, but a party of innocent horse hunters, all Texans. The only one resembling an Indian among them is the half-breed – Fernand. But he is also so metamorphosed, that his late master could not recognise him. The others have changed from red men to white; in reverse, he has become to all appearance a pure-blooded aboriginal.

Confident in their security, because ignorant of what has taken place under the live-oak, they little dream that one of their confederates is in a situation, where he will be forced to tell a tale sure to thwart their well-constructed scheme, casting it down as a house of cards. Equally are they unaware of the revelation which their own prisoner, the mulatto, could make. They suppose him and his master to be but two travellers encountered by accident, having no connection with the San Saba settlers. Borlasse is better informed about this, though not knowing all. He believes Clancy to have been en route for the new settlement, but without having reached it. He will never reach it now.

In hope of getting a clearer insight into many things still clouded, while his followers are engaged at their games, he seeks the tent to which Jupiter has been consigned, and where he is now under the surveillance of the half-blood, Fernand.

Ordering the mestizo to retire, he puts the prisoner through a course of cross-questioning.

The mulatto is a man of no ordinary intelligence. He had the misfortune to be born a slave, with the blood of a freeman in his veins; which, stirring him to discontent with his ignoble lot, at length forced him to become a fugitive. With a subtlety partly instinctive, but strengthened by many an act of injustice, he divines the object of the robber captain’s visit.

Not much does the latter make of him, question as he may. Jupe knows nothing of any Phil Quantrell, or any Richard Darke. He is the slave of the young gentleman who has been separated from him. He makes no attempt to conceal his master’s name, knowing that Borlasse is already acquainted with Clancy, and must have recognised him. They were on their way to join the colony of Colonel Armstrong, with a party from the States. They came up from the Colorado the night before, camping in the San Saba bottom, where he believes them to be still. Early in the morning, his master left the camp for a hunt, and the hound had tracked a bear up the gully. That was why they were on the upper plain; they were trying for the track of the bear, when taken.

The mulatto has no great liking for his master, from whom he has had many a severe flogging. In proof he tells the robber chief to turn up his shirt, and see how his back has been scored by the cowhide. Borlasse – does so; and sure enough there are the scars, somewhat similar to those he carries himself.

If not pity, the sight begets a sort of coarse sympathy, such as the convict feels for his fellow; an emotion due to the freemasonry of crime. Jupiter takes care to strengthen it, by harping on the cruelty of his master – more than hinting that he would like to leave him, if any other would but buy him. Indeed he’d be willing to run away, if he saw the chance.

“Don’t trouble yerself ’bout that,” says the bandit, ’as the interview comes near its end, “maybe, I’ll buy ye myself. At all events, Mister Clancy ain’t likely to flog you any more. How’d ye like me for yer master?”

“I’d be right glad, boss.”

“Are ye up to takin’ care of horses?”

“That’s just what Masser Clancy kept me for.”

“Well; he’s gone on to the settlement without you. As he’s left you behind that careless way, ye can stay with us, an’ look after my horse. It’s the same ye’ve been accustomed to. I swopped with your master ’fore we parted company.”

Jupe is aware that Clancy’s splendid steed is in the camp. Through a chink in the tent he saw the horse ridden in, Borlasse on his back; wondering why his master was not along, and what they had done with him. He has no faith in the tale told him, but a fear it is far otherwise. It will not do to show this, and concealing his anxiety, he rejoins: —

“All right, masser. I try do my best. Only hope you not a gwine where we come cross Masser Clancy. If he see me, he sure have me back, and then I’se get the cowhide right smart. He flog me dreadful.”

“You’re in no danger. I’ll take care he never sets eye on you again.

“Here, Nandy!” he says to the mestizo, summoned back. “You can remove them ropes from your prisoner. Give him somethin’ to eat and drink. Treat him as ye would one o’ ourselves. He’s to be that from this time forrard. Spread a buffler skin, an’ get him a bit o’ blanket for his bed. Same time, for safety’s sake, keep an eye on him.”

The caution is spoken sotto voce, so that the prisoner may not hear it. After which, Borlasse leaves the two together, congratulating himself on the good speculation he will make, not by keeping Jupe to groom his horse, but selling him as a slave to the first man met willing to purchase him.

In the fine able-bodied mulatto, he sees a thousand dollars cash – soon as he can come across a cotton-planter.

Chapter Seventy Six.

Mestizo and mulatto

While their chief has been interrogating his prisoner, the robbers around the fire have gone on with their poker-playing, and whisky drinking.

Borlasse joining in the debauch, orders brandy to be brought out of his tent, and distributed freely around. He drinks deeply himself; in part to celebrate the occasion of such a grand stroke of business done, but as much to drown his disappointment at the captives not yet having come in. – The alcohol has its effect; and ere long rekindles a hope, which Chisholm strengthens, saying, all will yet be well, and the missing ones turn up, if not that night, on the morrow.

Somewhat relieved by this expectation, Borlasse enters into the spirit of the hour, and becomes jovial and boisterous as any of his subordinates. The cards are tossed aside, the play abandoned; instead, coarse stories are told, and songs sung, fit only for the ears of such a God-forsaken crew.

The saturnalia is brought to a close, when all become so intoxicated they can neither tell story nor sing song. Then some stagger to their tents, others dropping over where they sit, and falling fast asleep.

By midnight there is not a man of them awake, and the camp is silent, save here and there a drunken snore disturbing its stillness.