The Death Shot: A Story Retold

“They took the dog with them. I saw one lead him away. They’ve let him loose, and he has scented back on the trail? That’s it. Oh! if Jupiter were but with him! No fear of their letting him off – no.”

During all this time Brasfort has continued his caresses, fondling his master’s head, affectionately as a mother her child.

Again Clancy speaks, apostrophising the animal.

“Dear old dog! you’re but come to see me die. Well; it’s something to have you here – like a friend beside the death-bed. And you’ll stay with me long as life holds out, and protect me from those skulking creatures? I know you will. Ah! You won’t need to stand sentry long. I feel growing fainter. When all’s over you can go. I shall never see her more; but some one may find, and take you there. She’ll care for, and reward you for this fidelity.”

The soliloquy is brought to a close, by the hound suddenly changing attitude. All at once it has ceased its fond demonstrations, and stands as if about to make an attack upon its master’s head! Very different the intent. Yielding to a simple canine instinct, from the strain of terrier in its blood, it commences scratching up the earth around his neck!

For Clancy a fresh surprise, as before mingled with pleasure. For the hound’s instinctive action shows him a chance of getting relieved, by means he had never himself thought of.

He continues talking to the animal, encouraging it by speeches it can comprehend. On it scrapes, tearing up the clods, and casting them in showers behind.

Despite the firmness with which the earth is packed, the hound soon makes a hollow around its master’s neck, exposing his shoulder – the right one – above the surface. A little more mould removed, and his arm will be free. With that his whole body can be extricated by himself.

Stirred by the pleasant anticipation, he continues speaking encouragement to the dog. But Brasfort needs it not, working away in silence and with determined earnestness, as if knowing that time was an element of success.

Clancy begins to congratulate himself on escape, is almost sure of it, when a sound breaks upon his ear, bringing back all his apprehensions. Again the hoof-stroke of a horse!

Richard Darke is returning!

“Too late, Brasfort!” says his master, apostrophising him in speech almost mechanical, “Too late your help. Soon you’ll see me die.”

Chapter Eighty.

A Resurrectionist

“Surely the end has come!”

So reflects Clancy, as with keen apprehension he listens to the tread of the approaching horseman. For to a certainty he approaches, the dull distant thud of hooves gradually growing more distinct. Nor has he any doubt of its being the same steed late reined up in front of him, the fresh score of whose calkers are there within a few feet of his face.

The direction whence comes the sound, is of itself significant; that in which Darke went off. It is he returning – can be no other.

Yes; surely his end has come – the last hour of his life. And so near being saved! Ten minutes more, and Brasfort would have disinterred him.

Turning his eyes downward, he can see the cavity enlarged, and getting larger. For the dog continues to drag out the earth, as if not hearing, or disregarding the hoof-stroke. Already its paws are within a few inches of his elbow.

Is it possible for him to wrench out his arm! With it free he might do something to defend himself. And the great stag-hound will help him.

With hope half resuscitated, he makes an effort to extricate the arm, heaving his shoulder upward. In vain. – It is held as in a vice, or the clasp of a giant. There is no alternative – he must submit to his fate. And such a fate! Once more he will see the sole enemy of his life, his mother’s murderer, standing triumphant over him; will hear his taunting speeches – almost a repetition of the scene under the cypress! And to think that in all his encounters with this man, he has been unsuccessful; too late – ever too late! The thought is of itself a torture.

Strange the slowness with which Darke draws nigh! Can he still be in dread of the unearthly? No, or he would not be there. It may be that sure of his victim, he but delays the last blow, scheming some new horror before he strike it?

The tramp of the horse tells him to be going at a walk; unsteady too, as if his rider were not certain about the way, but seeking it. Can this be so? Has he not yet seen the head and hound? The moon must be on his back, since it is behind Clancy’s own. It may be that Brasfort – a new figure in the oft changing tableau – stays his advance. Possibly the unexplained presence of the animal has given him a surprise, and hence he approaches with caution?

All at once, the hoof-stroke ceases to be heard, and stillness reigns around. No sound save that made by the claws of the dog, that continues its task with unabated assiduity – not yet having taken any notice of the footsteps it can scarce fail to hear.

Its master cannot help thinking this strange. Brasfort is not wont to be thus unwatchful. And of all men Richard Darke should be the last to approach him unawares. What may it mean?

While thus interrogating himself, Clancy again hears the “tramp-tramp,” the horse no longer in a walk, but with pace quickened to a trot. And still Brasfort keeps on scraping! Only when a shadow darkens over, does he desist; the horseman being now close behind Clancy’s head, with his image reflected in front. But instead of rushing at him with savage growl, as he certainly would were it Richard Darke Brasfort but raises his snout, and wags his tail, giving utterance to a note of friendly salutation!

Clancy’s astonishment is extreme, changing to joy, when the horseman after making the circuit of his head, comes to a halt before his face. In the broad bright moonlight he beholds, not his direst foe, but his faithful servitor. There upon his own horse, with his own gun in hand, sits one who causes him mechanically to exclaim —

“Jupiter!” adding, “Heaven has heard my prayer!”

“An’ myen,” says Jupiter, soon as somewhat recovered from his astonishment at what he sees; “Yes, Masser Charle; I’se been prayin’ for you ever since they part us, though never ’spected see you ’live ’gain. But Lor’ o’ mercy, masser! what dis mean? I’se see nothin’ but you head! Wharever is you body? What have dem rascally ruffins been an’ done to ye?”

“As you see – buried me alive.”

“Better that than bury you dead. You sure, masser,” he asks, slipping down from the saddle, and placing himself vis-à-vis with the face so strangely situated. “You sure you ain’t wounded, nor otherways hurt?”

“Not that I know of. I only feel a little bruised and faint-like; but I think I’ve received no serious injury. I’m now suffering from thirst, more than aught else.”

“That won’t be for long. Lucky I’se foun’ you ole canteen on the saddle, an’ filled it ’fore I left the creek. I’se got somethin’ besides ’ll take the faintness ’way from you; a drop o’ corn-juice, I had from that Spanish Indyin they call the half-blood. Not much blood in him now. Here ’tis, Masser Charle.”

While speaking, he has produced a gourd, in which something gurgles. Its smell, when the stopper is taken out, tells it to be whiskey.

Inserting the neck between his master’s lips, he pours some of the spirit down his throat; and then, turning to the horse near by, he lifts from off the saddle-horn a larger gourd – the canteen, containing water.

In a few seconds, not only is Clancy’s thirst satisfied, but he feels his strength restored, and all faintness passed away.

“Up to de chin I declar’!” says Jupiter, now more particularly taking note of his situation, “Sure enough, all but buried ’live. An’ Brasfort been a tryin’ to dig ye out! Geehorum! Aint that cunnin’ o’ the ole dog? He have prove himself a faithful critter.”

“Like yourself, Jupe. But say! How have you escaped from the robbers? Brought my horse and gun too! Tell me all!”

“Not so fass, Masser Charle. It’s something o’ a longish story, an’ a bit strangeish too. You’ll be better out o’ that fix afore hearin’ it. Though your ears aint stopped, yez not in a position to lissen patient or comfortable. First let me finish what Brasfort’s begun, and get out the balance o’ your body.”

Saying this, the mulatto sets himself to the task proposed.

Upon his knees with knife in hand, he loosens the earth around Clancy’s breast and shoulders, cutting it carefully, then clawing it out.

The hound helps him, dashing in whenever it sees a chance, with its paws scattering the clods to rear. The animal seems jealous of Jupiter’s interference, half angry at not having all the credit to itself.

Between them the work progresses, and the body of their common master will soon be disinterred. All the while, Clancy and the mulatto continue to talk, mutually communicating their experiences since parting. Those of the former, though fearful, are neither many nor varied, and require but few words. What Jupiter now sees gives him a clue to nearly all.

His own narrative covers a greater variety of events, and needs more time for telling than can now be conveniently spared. Instead of details, therefore, he but recounts the leading incidents in brief epitome – to be more particularly dwelt upon afterwards, as opportunity will allow. He relates, how, after leaving the lone cottonwood, he was taken on across the plain to a creek called Coyote, where the robbers have a camping place. This slightly touched upon, he tells of his own treatment; of his being carried into a tent at first, but little looked after, because thought secure, from their having him tightly tied. Through a slit in the skin cover he saw them kindle a fire and commence cooking. Soon after came the chief, riding Clancy’s horse, with Chisholm and the other three. Seeing the horse, he supposed it all over with his master.

Then the feast, al fresco, succeeded by the transformation scene – the red robbers becoming white ones – to all of which he was witness. After that the card-playing by the camp fire, during which the chief came to his tent, and did what he could to draw him. In this part of his narration, the mulatto with modest naïvété, hints of his own adroitness; how he threw his inquisitor off the scent, and became at length disembarrassed of him. He is even more reticent about an incident, soon after succeeding, but referred to it at an early part of his explanation.

On the blade of his knife, before beginning to dig, Clancy observing some blotches of crimson, asks what it is.

“Only a little blood, Masser Charle,” is the answer.

“Whose?”

“You’ll hear afore I get to the end. Nuf now to say it’s the blood of a bad man.”

Clancy does not press him further, knowing he will be told all in due time. Still, is he impatient, wondering whether it be the blood of Jim Borlasse, or Richard Darke; for he supposes it either one or the other. He hopes it may be the former, and fears its being the latter. Even yet, in his hour of uncertainty, late helpless, and still with only a half hope of being able to keep his oath, he would not for all the world Dick Darke’s blood should be shed by other hand than his own!