The Death Shot: A Story Retold

“Painful to think I have taken a man’s life – even his! I wish it could have been otherwise. It could not – I was compelled to it. And surely God will forgive me, for ridding the world of such a wretch?”

Then raising himself to an erect attitude, with eyes upturned to heaven – as when in the cemetery over his mother’s grave, he made that solemn vow – remembering it, he now adds in like solemnal tone —

“I’ve kept my oath. Mother; thou art avenged!”

Chapter Eighty Four.

The Scout’s Report

While these tragic incidents are occurring on Coyote Creek and the plain between, others almost as exciting but of less sanguinary character, take place in the valley of the San Saba.

As the morning sun lights up the ancient Mission-house, its walls still reverberate wailing cries, mingled with notes of preparation for the pursuit. Then follows a forenoon of painful suspense, no word yet from the scouters sent out.

Colonel Armstrong, and the principal men of the settlement, have ascended to the azotea to obtain a better view; and there remain gazing down the valley in feverish impatience. Just as the sun reaches meridian their wistful glances are rewarded; but by a sight which little relieves their anxiety; on the contrary, increasing it.

A horseman emerging from the timber, which skirts the river’s bank, comes on towards the Mission-building. He is alone, and riding at top speed – both circumstances having sinister significance. Has the scouting party been cut off, and he only escaped to tell the tale? Is it Dupré, Hawkins, or who? He is yet too far off to be identified.

As he draws nearer, Colonel Armstrong through a telescope makes him out to be Cris Tucker.

Why should the young hunter be coming back alone?

After a mutual interchange of questions and conjectures, they leave off talking, and silently stand, breathlessly, awaiting his arrival.

Soon as he is within hailing distance, several unable to restrain themselves, call out, inquiring the news.

“Not bad, gentlemen! Rayther good than otherways,” shouts back Oris.

His response lifts a load from their hearts, and in calmer mood they await further information. In a short time the scout presents himself before Colonel Armstrong, around whom the others cluster, all alike eager to hear the report. For they are still under anxiety about the character of the despoilers, having as yet no reason to think them other than Indians. Nor does Tucker’s account contradict this idea; though one thing he has to tell begets a suspicion to the contrary.

Rapidly and briefly as possible the young hunter gives details of what has happened to Dupré’s party, up to the time of his separating from it; first making their minds easy by assuring them it was then safe.

They were delayed a long time in getting upon the trail of the robbers, from these having taken a bye-path leading along the base of the bluff. At length having found the route of their retreat, they followed it over the lower ford, and there saw sign to convince them that the Indians – still supposing them such – had gone on across the bottom, and in all probability up the bluff beyond – thus identifying them with the band which the hunters had seen and tracked down. Indeed no one doubted this, nor could. But, while the scouters were examining the return tracks, they came upon others less intelligible – in short, perplexing. There were the hoof-marks of four horses and a mule – all shod; first seen upon a side trace leading from the main ford road. Striking into and following it for a few hundred yards, they came upon a place where men had encamped and stayed for some time – perhaps slept. The grass bent down showed where their bodies had been astretch. And these men must have been white. Fragments of biscuit, with other débris of eatables, not known to Indians, were evidence of this.

Returning from the abandoned bivouac, with the intention to ride straight back to the Mission, the scouters came upon another side trace leading out on the opposite side of the ford road, and up the river. On this they again saw the tracks of the shod horses and mule; among them the foot-prints of a large dog.

Taking this second trace it conducted them to a glade, with a grand tree, a live-oak, standing in its centre. The sign told of the party having stopped there also. While occupied in examining their traces, and much mystified by them, they picked up an article, which, instead of making matters clearer, tended to mystify them more – a wig! Of all things in the world this in such a place!

Still, not so strange either, seeing it was the counterfeit of an Indian chevelure– the hair long and black, taken from the tail of a horse.

For all, it had never belonged to, or covered, a red man’s skull – since it was that worn by Bosley, and torn from his head when Woodley and Heywood were stripping him for examination.

The scouters, of course, could not know of this; and, while inspecting the queer waif, wondering what it could mean, two others were taken up: one a sprig of cypress, the other an orange blossom; both showing as if but lately plucked, and alike out of place there.

Dupré, with some slight botanic knowledge, knew that no orange-tree grew near, nor yet any cypress. But he remembered having observed both in the Mission-garden, into which the girls had been last seen going. Without being able to guess why they should have brought sprig or flower along, he was sure they had themselves been under the live-oak. Where were they now?

In answer, Hawkins had cried: “Gone this way! Here’s the tracks of the shod horses leading up-stream, this side. Let’s follow them!”

So they had done, after despatching Tucker with the report.

It is so far satisfactory, better than any one expected; and inspires Colonel Armstrong with a feeling akin to hope. Something seems to whisper him his lost children will be recovered.

Long ere the sun has set over the valley of the San Saba his heart is filled, and thrilled, with joy indescribable. For his daughters are by his side, their arms around his neck, tenderly, lovingly entwining it, as on that day when told they must forsake their stately Mississippian home for a hovel in Texas. All have reached the Mission; for the scouting party having overtaken that of Woodley, came in along with it.

No, not all, two are still missing – Clancy and Jupiter. About the latter Woodley has made no one the wiser; though he tells Clancy’s strange experience, which, while astounding his auditory, fills them with keen apprehension for the young man’s fate.

Keenest is that in the breast of Helen Armstrong. Herself saved, she is now all the more solicitous about the safety of her lover. Her looks bespeak more than anxiety – anguish.

But there is that being done to hinder her from despairing. The pursuers are rapidly getting ready to start out, and with zeal unabated. For, although circumstances have changed by the recovery of the captives, there is sufficient motive for pursuit – the lost treasure to be re-taken – the outlaws chastised – Clancy’s life to be saved, or his death avenged.

Woodley’s words have fired them afresh, and they are impatient to set forth.

Their impatience reaches its climax, when Colonel Armstrong, with head uncovered, his white hair blown up by the evening breeze, addresses them, saying: —

“Fellow citizens! We have to thank the Almighty that our dear ones have escaped a great danger. But while grateful to God, let us remember there is a man also deserving gratitude. A brave young man, we all believed dead – murdered. He is still alive, let us hope so. Simeon Woodley has told us of the danger he is now in – death if he fall into the hands of these desperate outlaws. Friends, and fellow citizens! I need not appeal to you on behalf of this noble youth. I know you are all of one mind with myself, that come what will, cost what it may, Charles Clancy must be saved.”

The enthusiastic shout, sent up in response to the old soldier’s speech, tells that the pursuit will be at least energetic and earnest.

Helen Armstrong, standing retired, looks more hopeful now. And with her hope is mingled pride, at the popularity of him to whom she has given heart, and promised hand. Something more to make her happy; she now knows that, in the bestowing of both, she will have the approval of her father.

Chapter Eighty Five.

A change of programme

On the far frontier of Texas, still unsettled by civilised man, no chanticleer gives note of the dawn. Instead, the meleagris salutes the sunrise with a cry equally high-toned, and quite as home-like. For the gobbling of the wild turkey-cock is scarcely distinguishable from that of his domesticated brother of the farm-yard.

A gang of these great birds has roosted in the pecan grove, close to where the prairie pirates are encamped. At daylight’s approach, they fly up to the tops of the trees; the males, as is their wont in the spring months of the year, mutually sounding their sonorous challenge.

It awakes the robbers from the slumber succeeding their drunken debauch; their chief first of any.

Coming forth from his tent, he calls upon the others to get up – ordering several horses to be saddled. He designs despatching a party to the upper plain, in search of Quantrell and Bosley, not yet come to camp.

He wants another word with the mulatto; and steps towards the tent, where he supposes the man to be.

At its entrance he sees blood – inside a dead body!

His cry, less of sorrow than anger, brings his followers around. One after another peering into the tent, they see what is there. There is no question about how the thing occurred. It is clear to all. Their prisoner has killed his guard; as they say, assassinated him. Has the assassin escaped?

They scatter in search of him, by twos and threes, rushing from tent to tent. Some proceed to the corral, there to see that the bars are down, and the horses out.

These are discovered in a strip of meadow near by, one only missing. It is that the chief had seized from their white prisoner, and appropriated. The yellow one has replevined it!

The ghastly spectacle in the tent gives them no horror. They are too hardened for that. But it makes them feel, notwithstanding; first anger, soon succeeded by apprehension. The dullest brute in the band has some perception of danger as its consequence. Hitherto their security has depended on keeping up their incognito by disguises, and the secrecy of their camping place. Here is a prisoner escaped, who knows all; can tell about their travesties; guide a pursuing party to the spot! They must remain no longer there.

Borlasse recognising the necessity for a change of programme, summons his following around him.

“Boys!” he says, “I needn’t point out to ye that this ugly business puts us in a bit o’ a fix. We’ve got to clear out o’ hyar right quick. I reckon our best way ’ll be to make tracks for San Antone, an’ thar scatter. Even then, we won’t be too safe, if yellow skin turns up to tell his story about us. Lucky a nigger’s testymony don’t count for much in a Texan court; an’ thar’s still a chance to make it count for nothin’ by our knocking him on the head.”

All look surprised, their glances interrogating “How?”