The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover

Story 1-Chapter IX.

A Compulsory Compact

Heavy with apprehension, rather than remorse for their crime, the six hunters ride on towards the clearing.

They avoid the travelled track, lest they may meet some one upon it, and approach through the thick timber.

Guiding their horses, so as to make the least noise, and keeping the hounds in check, they advance slowly and with caution.

Some of the less courageous are reluctant to proceed, fearing the spectacle that is before them.

Even the loud-talking Slaughter would gladly give up the newly-conceived design, but for the manifest danger of leaving it undone.

Near the edge of the opening, still screened from their view by the interposing trunks and cane-culms, they again halt, and hold council – this time speaking in whispers.

“We should not all go forward,” suggests the son of the tavern-keeper. “Better only one or two at first, to see how the land lies.”

“That would be better,” chimes in Spence.

“Who’ll go, then?”

Buck and Brandon are pointed out by the eyes of the others resting upon them. These two have been leaders throughout the whole affair. Without showing poltroon, they cannot hang back now.

They volunteer for the duty, but not without show of reluctance. It is anything but agreeable.

“Let’s leave our horses. We’ll be better without them. If there’s any one on the ground, we can steal back without being seen.”

It is the young planter’s proposition, and Buck consents to it.

They slip out of their saddles, pass the bridles to two of those who stay behind, and then, like a couple of cougars stealing upon the unsuspicious fawn, silently make their way through the underwood.

The clearing is soon under their eyes, with all it contains.

There is the carcase of the bear, black with buzzards, and the skin still hanging from the tree.

But the object of horror they expected to see hanging upon another tree is not there. That sight is spared them.

There is no body on the branch, no corpse underneath it. Living or dead, the Indian is gone.

His absence is far from re-assuring them; the more so as, on scanning the branch, they perceive, still suspended from it, a piece of the rope they had so adroitly set to ensnare him.

Even across the glade they can see that it has been severed with the clean cut of a knife, instead of, as they could have wished, given way under its weight.

Who could have cut the rope? Himself? Impossible! Where was the hand to have done it? He had none to spare for such a purpose. Happy for them to have thought that he had.

They skulk around the glade to get nearer, still going by stealth, and in silence. The buzzards perceive them, and though dull birds, reluctant to leave their foul feast, they fly up with a fright. Something in the air of the two stalkers seemed to startle them, as if they too knew them to have been guilty of a crime.

“Yes, the rope’s been cut, that’s sartin,” says Buck, us they stand under it. “A clean wheep o’ a knife blade. Who the divvel cud a done it?”

“I can’t think,” answers the young planter, reflecting. “As like as not old Jerry Rook, or it might have been a stray traveller.”

“Whoever it was, I hope the cuss came in time; if not – ”

“If not, we’re in for it. Bless’d if I wouldn’t liked it better to’ve found him hanging; there might have been some chance of hiding him out of the way. But now, if he’s been dropped upon dead, we’re done for. Whoever found him will know all about it. Lena Rook knew we were here, and her sweet lips can’t be shut, I suppose. If’t had been only Rook himself, the old scoundrel, there might have been a chance. Money would go a long ways with him; and I’m prepared – so would we all be – to buy his silence.”

“Lucky you riddy for that, Mister Alfred Brandon. That’s jest what Rook, ‘the old scoundrel,’ wants, and jess the very thing he means to insist upon hevin’. Now name your price.”

If a dead body had dropped down from the branch above them it could not have startled the two culprits more than did the living form of Jerry Rook, as it came gliding out of the thick cane close by the stem of the tree.

“You, Jerry Rook!” exclaim both together, and in a tone that came trembling through their teeth. “You here?”

“I’m hyar, gentlemen; an’ jess in time, seeing as ye wanted me. Now, name yur price; or, shall I fix it for ye? ’Tain’t no use ’fectin’ innercence o’ what I mean; ye both know cleer enuf, an’ so do this chile, all ’beout it. Ye’ve hanged young Pierre Robideau, as lived with me at my shanty.”

“We did not.”

“Ye did; hanged him by the neck till he war dead, as the judges say. I kim hyar by chance, an’ cut him down; but not till ’twar too late.”

“Is that true, Rook? Are you speaking the truth? Did you find him dead?”

“Dead as a buck arter gittin’ a bullet from Jerry Rook’s rifle. If ye don’t b’lieve it, maybe you’d step down to my shanty, and see him streeched out.”

“No, no. But we didn’t do it; we didn’t intend it, by Heaven!”

“No swarin’, young fellars. I don’t care what your intentions war; ye’ve done the deed. I seed how it war, and all abeout it; ye hung him up for sport – pretty sport that war – an’ ye rud off, forgitting all abeout him. Yur sport hev been his death.”

“My God! we are sorry to hear it. We had no thought of such a thing. A bear came along, and set the hounds up.”

“Oh, a bar, war it? I thort so. An’ ye tuk arter the bar, and let the poor young fellar swing?”

“It is true; we can’t deny it. We had no intention of what has happened; we thought only of the bear.”

“Wal, now, ye’ll have to think o’ something else. What d’ye intend doin’?”

“It’s a terrible ugly affair. We’re very sorry.”

“No doubt ye air, an’ ye’d be a precious sight sorrier of the young fellar had any kinfolk to look arter it, and call ye to account. As it be, there ain’t nobody but me – and he warn’t no kin o’ mine – only a stayin’ wi’ me, that may make it easier for you.”

“But, what have you done with – the – the body?”

Brandon asks the question hesitatingly, and thinking of Rook’s daughter.

“The body? Wal, I’ve carried it to the shanty, an’ put it out o’ sight. I didn’t want the hul country to be on fire till I’d fust seed ye. As yet, thar ain’t nobody the wiser.”

“And – ”

“An’ what?”

“Your daughter.”