They are not long left to conjectures. A light before their eyes throws light upon the enigma that has been baffling their brains. There is a break in the timber, where the moonbeams fall free to the earth.

Gliding on, silently, with undiminished caution, they arrive on the edge of an opening, and there make stop, but inside the underwood that skirts it.

Clancy and Woodley stand side by side, crouchingly; and in this attitude interrogate the ground before them.

They see the great tree, with its white shroud above, and deep obscurity beneath—the moonlit ring around it. But at first nothing more, save the fire-flies scintillating in its shadow.

After a time, their eyes becoming accustomed to the cross light, they see something besides; a group of figures close in to the tree's trunk, apparently composed of horses and men. They can make out but one of each, but they take it there are two, with two women as well. While scanning the group, they observe a light larger and redder than that emitted by the winged insects. Steadier too; for it moves not from its place. They might not know it to be the coal upon a tobacco pipe, but for the smell of the burning "weed" wafted their way.

Sniffing it, Sime says:

"That's the lot, sure; tho' thar appears but the half o't. I kin only make out one hoss, an' one man, wi' suthin' astreetch long the groun— one o' the squaws in coorse. The skunk on his feet air smokin'. Strange they hain't lit a fire! True 'tain't needed 'ceptin' for the cookin' o' thar supper. Maybe they've hed it, an' only kim hyar to get a spell o' sleep. But ef thet's thar idee why shed yon 'un be stannin' up. Wal; I guess, he's doin' sentry bizness, the which air allers needcessary out hyar. How shell we act, Charley? Rush right up an' tackle 'em? That's your way, I take it."

"It is—why not?"

"Because thar's a better—leastwise a surer to prevent spillin' thar blood. Ye say, you don't want that?"

"On no account. If I thought there was a likelihood of it, I'd go straight back to our camp, and leave them alone. They may be harmless creatures, on some innocent errand. If it prove so, we musn't molest them."

"Wal; I'm willin', for thet," rejoins Woodley, adding a reservation, "Ef they resist, how are we to help it? We must eyther kill, or be kilt."

There is reason in this, and Clancy perceives it. While he is cogitating what course to take, Woodley, resuming speech, points it out.

"'Thar's no use for us to harm a hair on thar beads, supposin' them to be innercent. For all thet, we shed make sure, an' take preecaushin in case o' them cuttin' up ugly. It air allers the best way wi redskins."

"How do you propose, Sime?"

"To surround 'em. Injuns, whether it be bucks or squaws, air slickery as eels. It's good sixty yurds to whar they're squatted yonner. Ef we push strait torst 'em, they'll see us crossin' that bit o' moonshine, an' be inter the timmer like greased lightnin' through the branches o' a gooseberry bush. Tho' out o' thar seddles now, an' some o' 'em streetched 'long the airth, apparently sleepin', they'd be up an' off in the shakin' o' a goat's tail. Tharefor, say I, let's surround 'em."

"If you think that the better way," rejoins Clancy, "let us. But it will take time, and call for the greatest caution. To get around the glade, without their seeing us, we must keep well within the timber. Through that underwood it won't be easy. On second thoughts, Sime, I'm inclined to chance it the other way. They can't possibly escape us. If they do take to their horses, they couldn't gallop off beyond reach of our rifles. We can easily shoot their animals down. Besides, remember there's two to get mounted on each. We may as well run right up, and determine the thing at once. I see no difficulty."

"Wheesht!" exclaims Woodley, just as Clancy ceases speaking.

"What is it? Do you hear anything, Sime?"

"Don't you, Charley?"

Clancy sets himself to listen, but at first hears nothing, save the usual sounds of the forest, of which it is now full. A spring night, a sultry one, the tree-crickets are in shrillest cry, the owls and goatsuckers joining in the chorus.

But in the midst of its continuous strain there is surely a sound, not animal, but human? Surely the voice of a man?

After a time, Clancy can distinguish it.

One is talking, in tone not loud, but with an accent which appears to be that of boasting or triumph. And the voice is not like an Indian's, while exclamations, at intervals uttered, are certainly such as could only proceed from the lips of a white man.

All this is strange, and causes astonishment to the travellers—to Clancy something more. But before he has time to reflect upon, or form conjectures about it, he hears that which compels him to cast aside every restraint of prudence; and springing forward, he signals the others to follow him.

They do, without a word; and in less than twenty seconds' time, they have entered the shadowed circle, and surrounded the group at which they have been so long gazing.

Only three figures after all! A man, a horse, with what may be woman, but looks less like one living than dead!

The man, Indian to all appearance, thus taken by surprise, plucks the pipe from between his teeth. It is struck out of his hand, the sparks flying from it, as Woodley on one side and Heywood the other, clutching, drag him toward the light.

When the moon shines on it, they behold a face which both have seen before.

Under its coating of charcoal and chalk they might not recognise it, but for the man making himself known by speech, which secures his identification. For he, too, sees a familiar face, that of Simeon Woodley; and under the impression he is himself recognised, mechanically pronounces the backwoodsman's name.

"Bill Bosley!" shouts the astonished Sime, "Good Lord! Painted Injun! What's this for? Some devil's doings ye're arter as ye allers war. Explain it, Bill! Tell the truth 'ithout preevaricashun. Ef ye lie, I'll split your thrapple like I wud a water-millyun."

"Sime Woodley! Ned Heywood! Joe Harkness!" gaspingly ejaculates the man, as in turn the three faces appear before him. "God Almighty! what's it mean?"

"We'll answer that when we've heern your story. Quick, tell it."

"I can't; your chokin' me. For God's sake, Heywood, take your hand off my throat. O Sime! sure you don't intend killin' me?—ye won't, ye won't."

"That depends—"

"But I aint to blame. Afore heaven, I swear I aint. You know that, Harkness? You heard me protest against their ugly doin's more than once. In this business, now, I'm only actin' under the captin's order. He sent me 'long with the lootenant to take care of—"

"The lieutenant!" interrupts Clancy. "What name?"

"Phil Quantrell, we call him; though I guess he's got another—"

"Where is he?" inquires Clancy, tortured with a terrible suspicion.

"He went t'other side the tree, takin' the young lady along."

At that moment comes a cry from behind the oak—a woman's voice calling "Help! help!"

Clancy stays not to hear more, but rushes off with the air of a man struck with sudden phrenzy!

On turning the trunk, he sees other forms, a horse with man mounted, a woman before him he endeavours to restrain, who, struggling, thirsts for succour.

It is nigh, though near being too late. But for a fortunate circumstance, it would be. The horse, headed towards the forest, is urged in that direction. But, frayed by the conflict on his back, he refuses to advance; instead, jibbing and rearing, he returns under the tree.

Clancy, with rifle raised, is about to shoot the animal down. But at thought of danger to her calling "help!" he lowers his piece; and rushing in, lays hold of the bridle-rein. This instantly let go, to receive in his arms the woman, released from the ruffian's grasp, who would otherwise fall heavily to the earth.

The horse, disembarrassed, now obeying the rein, shoots out from under the oak, and headed across the moonlit belt makes straight for the timber beyond.

In the struggle Clancy has let go his gun, and now vainly gropes for it in the darkness. But two others are behind, with barrels that bear upon the retreating horseman. In an instant all would be over with him, but for Clancy himself; who, rushing between, strikes up the muzzles, crying:—

"Don't shoot, Sime! Hold your fire, Heywood! His life belongs to me!"

Strange forbearance; to the backwoodsmen, incomprehensible! But they obey; and again Richard Darke escapes chastisement for two great crimes he intended, but by good fortune failed to accomplish.



CHAPTER SIXTY THREE.

AN OATH TO BE KEPT.

No pen could portray the feelings of Helen Armstrong, on recognising her rescuer. Charles Clancy alive! Is she dreaming? Or is it indeed he whose arms are around, folding her in firm but tender embrace? Under the moonbeams, that seem to have suddenly become brighter, she beholds the manly form and noble features of him she believed dead, his cheeks showing the hue of health, his eyes late glaring in angry excitement, now glowing with the softer light of love. Yes: it is indeed her lover long mourned, living, breathing, beautiful as ever!

She asks not if he be still true, that doubt has been long since dissipated. It needs not his presence there, nor what he has just done, to reassure her.

For a time she asks no questions; neither he. Both are too absorbed with sweet thoughts to care for words. Speech could not heighten their happiness, in the midst of caresses and kisses.

On his side there is no backwardness now; on hers no coyness, no mock modesty. They come together not as at their last interview, timid sweethearts, but lovers emboldened by betrothal. For she knows, that he proposed to her; as he, that her acceptance was sent, and miscarried. It has reached him nevertheless; he has it upon his person now—both the letter and portrait. About the last are his first words. Drawing it out, and holding it up to the light, he asks playfully:

"Helen; was it meant fo' me?"

"No," she evasively answers, "it was meant for me."

"Oh! the likeness, yes; but the inscript—these pleasant words written underneath?"

"Put it back into; our pocket, Charles. And now tell me all. Am I dreaming? Or is it indeed reality?"

No wonder she should so exclaim. Never was transformation quicker, or more complete. But a few seconds before she was, as it were, in the clutches of the devil; now an angel is by her side, a seraph with soft wings to shelter, and strong arms to protect her. She feels as one, who, long lingering at the door of death, has health suddenly and miraculously restored, with the prospect of a prolonged and happy life.

Clancy replies, by again flinging his arms around, and rapturously kissing her: perhaps thinking it the best answer he can give. If that be not reality, what is?

Jessie has now joined them, and after exchanged congratulations, there succeed mutual inquiries and explanations. Clancy has commenced giving a brief account of what has occurred to himself, when he is interrupted by a rough, but kindly voice; that of Sime, saying:—

"Ye kin tell them all that at some other time, Charley; thar aint a minnit to be throwed away now." Then drawing Clancy aside, speaking so as not to be heard by the others. "Thar's danger in dallyin' hyar. I've jest been puttin' thet jail bird, Bosley, through a bit o' catechism; an' from what he's told me the sooner we git out o' hyar the better. Who d'ye spose is at the bottom o' all this? I needn't ask ye; ye're boun to guess. I kin see the ugly brute's name bulgin' out yur cheeks."

"Borlasse!"

"In course it's he. Bosley's confessed all. Ked'nt well help it, wi' my bowie threetenin' to make a red stream run out o' him. The gang— thar's twenty o' 'em all counted—goed up to the Mission to plunder it— a sort o' burglarious expedishun; Borlasse hevin' a understandin' wi' a treetur that's inside—a sort o' sarvint to the Creole, Dupray, who only late engaged him. Wal; it seems they grupped the gurls, as they war makin' for the house—chanced on 'em outside in the garden. Bosley an' the other hev toated 'em this far, an' war wait in for the rest to come on wi' the stolen goods. They may be hyar at any minnit; an', wi' Jim Borlasse at thar head, I needn't tell ye what that means. Four o' us agin twenty—for we can't count on Harkness—it's ugly odds. We'd hev no show, howsomever. It 'ud end in their again grabbin' these pretty critters, an' 's like 's not end our own lives."

Clancy needs no further speech to convince him of the danger. After what has occurred, an encounter with the robbers would, indeed, be disastrous. Richard Darke, leagued with Jim Borlasse, a noted pirate of the prairies; their diabolical plans disclosed, and only defeated by the merest accident of circumstances.

"You're right, Sime. We mustn't be caught by the scoundrels. As you say, that would be the end of everything. How are we to avoid them?"

"By streakin' out o' hyar quick as possible."

"Do you propose our taking to the timber, and lying hid till they go past?"

"No. Our better plan 'll be to go on to the Mission, an' get thar soon's we kin."

"But we may meet them in the teeth?"

"We must, ef we take the main road up tother side—pretty sure to meet 'em. We shan't be sech fools. I've thought o' all that, an' a way to get clear of the scrape."

"What way?"

"That road we kim in by, ye see, leads on'ard up the bank this side. I reckin' it goes to the upper crossin', the which air several miles above the buildin's. We kin take it, an' foller it without any fear o' encounterin' them beauties. I've sent Jupe and Harkness to bring up the hosses. Ned's tother side the tree in charge o' Bosley."

"You've arranged it right. Nothing could be better. Take the trail up this side. I can trust you for seeing them safe into their father's arms—if he still live."

Woodley wonders at this speech. He is about to ask explanation, when Clancy adds, pointing to the elder sister—

"I want a word with her before parting. While you are getting ready the horses—"

"Before partin'!" interrupts Sime with increased surprise, "Surely you mean goin' along wi' us?"

"No, I don't."

"But why, Charley?"

"Well, I've something to detain me here."

"What somethin'?"

"You ought to know without my telling you."

"Dog-goned ef I do."

"Richard Darke, then."

"But he's goed off; ye don't intend follerin' him?"

"I do—to the death. If ever I had a fixed determination in my life, 'tis that."

"Wal, but you won't go all by yerself! Ye'll want some o' us wi' ye?"

"No."

"Not me, nor Ned?"

"Neither. You'll both be needed to take care of them."

Clancy nods towards the sisters, adding:—

"You'll have your hands full enough with Bosley and Harkness. Both will need looking after—and carefully. Jupe I'll take with me."

Woodley remonstrates, pointing out the danger of the course his comrade intends pursuing. He only yields as Clancy rejoins, in a tone of determination, almost command:—

"You must do as I tell you, Sime; go on to the Mission, and take them with you. As for me, I've a strong reason for remaining behind by myself; a silly sentiment some might call it, though I don't think you would."

"What is't? Let's hear it, an' I'll gie ye my opeenyun strait an' square."

"Simply, that in this whole matter from first to last, I've een making mistakes. So many, it's just possible my courage may be called in question; or; if not that, my ability. Now, do you understand me?"

"Darned ef I do."

"Well; a man must do something to prove himself worthy of the name; at least one deed during his lifetime. There's one I've got to do—must do it, before I can think of anything else."

"That is?"

"Kill Richard Darke, As you know, I've sworn it, and nothing shall come between me and my oath. No, Sime, not even she who stands yonder; though I can't tell how it pains me to separate from her, now."

"Good Lord! that will be a painful partin'! Poor gurl! I reckin her heart's been nigh broke arready. She hasn't the peach colour she used to hev. It's clean faded out o' her cheeks, an' what your goin' to do now aint the way to bring it back agin."

"I cannot help it, Sime. I hear my mother calling me. Go, now! I wish it; I insist upon it!"

Saying this, he turns towards Helen Armstrong to speak a word, which he knows will be sad as was ever breathed into the ear of woman.



CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR.

A WILD FAREWELL.

On Clancy and the hunter becoming engaged in their serious deliberation, the sisters also exchange thoughts that are troubled. The first bright flash of joy at their release from captivity, with Helen's added gratification, is once more clouded over, as they think of what may have befallen their father. Now, knowing who the miscreants are, their hearts are heavy with apprehension. Jessie may, perhaps, feel it the more, having most cause—for her dread is of a double nature. There is her affianced, as well as her father!

But for Helen there is also another agony in store, soon to be suffered. Little thinks she, as Clancy coming up takes her hand, that the light of gladness, which so suddenly shone into her heart, is to be with like suddenness extinguished; and that he who gave is about to take it away. Gently leading her apart, and leaving Jessie to be comforted by Sime, he says—

"Dearest! we've arranged everything for your being taken back to the Mission. The brave backwoodsmen, Woodley and Heywood, will be your escort. Under their protection you'll have nothing to fear. Either would lay down his life for you or your sister. Nor need you be uneasy about your father. From what this fellow, Bosley, says, the ruffians only meant robbery, and if they have not been resisted it will end in that only. Have courage, and be cheered; you'll find your father as you left him."

"And you?" she asks in surprise. "Do you not go with us?"

He hesitates to make answer, fearing the effect. But it must be made; and he at length rejoins, appealingly:

"Helen! I hope you won't be aggrieved, or blame me for hat I am going to do."

"What?"

"Leave you."

"Leave me!" she exclaims, her eyes interrogating his in wild bewilderment.

"Only for a time, love; a very short while."

"But why any time? Charles; you are surely jesting with me?"

"No, indeed. I am in earnest. Never more in my life, and never more wishing I were not. Alas! it is inevitable!"

"Inevitable! I do not understand. What do you mean?"

With her eyes fixed oh his, in earnest gaze, she anxiously awaits his answer.

"Helen Armstrong!" he says, speaking in a tone of solemnity that sounds strange, almost harsh despite its gentleness; "you are to me the dearest thing on earth. I need not tell you that, for surely you know it. Without you I should not value life, nor care to live one hour longer. To say I love you, with all my heart and soul, were but to repeat the assurance I've already given you. Ah! now more than ever, if that were possible; now that I know how true you've been, and what you've suffered for my sake. But there's another—one far away from here, who claims a share of my affections—"

She makes a movement interrupting him, her eyes kindling up with an indescribable light, her bosom rising and falling as though stirred by some terrible emotion.

Perceiving her agitation, though without suspecting its cause, he continues:

"If this night more than ever I love you, this night greater than ever is my affection for her. The sight of that man, with the thought I've again permitted him to escape, is fresh cause of reproach—a new cry from the ground, commanding me to avenge my murdered mother."

Helen Armstrong, relieved, again breathes freely. Strange, but natural; in consonance with human passions. For it was jealousy that for the moment held sway in her thoughts. Ashamed of the suspicion, now known to be unworthy, she makes an effort to conceal it, saying in calm tone—

"We have heard of your mother's death."

"Of her murder," says Clancy, sternly, and through set teeth. "Yes; my poor mother was murdered by the man who has just gone off. He won't go far, before I overtake him. I've sworn over her grave, she shall be avenged; his blood will atone for her's. I've tracked him here, shall track him on; never stop, till I stand over him, as he once stood over me, thinking—. But I won't tell you more. Enough, for you to know why I'm now leaving you. I must—I must!"

Half distracted, she rejoins:—

"You love your mother's memory more than you love me!"

Without thought the reproach escapes—wrung from her in her agony. Soon as made, she regrets, and would recall it. For she sees the painful effect it has produced.

He anticipates her, saying:—

"You wrong me, Helen, in word, as in thought. Such could not be. The two are different. You should know that. As I tell you, I've sworn to avenge my mother's death—sworn it over her grave. Is that not an oath to be kept? I ask—I appeal to you!"

Her hand, that has still been keeping hold of his, closes upon it with firmer grasp, while her eyes become fixed upon him in look more relying than ever.

The selfishness of her own passion shrinks before the sacredness of that inspiring him, and quick passes away. With her love is now mingled admiration. Yielding to it, she exclaims:

"Go—go! Get the retribution you seek. Perhaps 'tis right. God shielding you, you'll succeed, and come back to me, true as you've been to your mother. If not, I shall soon be dead."

"If not, you may know I am. Only death can hinder my return. And now, for a while, farewell!"

Farewell! And so soon. Oh! it is afflicting! So far she has borne herself with the firmness derived from a strong, self-sustaining nature. But hearing this word—wildest of all—she can hold out no longer. Her strength gives way, and flinging herself on his breast, she pours forth a torrent of tears.

"Come, Helen!" he says, kissing them from her cheeks, "be brave, and don't fear for me. I know my man, and the work cut out for me. By sheer carelessness I've twice let him have his triumph over me. But he won't the third time. When we next meet 'twill be the last hour of his life. Something whispers this—perhaps the spirit of my mother? Keep up your courage, sweet! Go back with Sime, who'll see you safe into your father's arms. When there, you can offer up a prayer for my safety, and if you like, one for the salvation of Dick Darke's soul. For sure as I stand here, ere another sun has set it will go to its God."

With these solemn words the scene ends, only one other exchanged between them—the wild "Farewell!"

This in haste, for at the moment Woodley comes forward, exclaiming:—

"Be quick, Charley! We must git away from hyar instanter. A minuit more in this gleed, an' some o' us may niver leave it alive."

Jupiter and Harkness have brought up the horses, and are holding them in readiness. Soon they are mounted, Heywood taking Jessie on his croup, Helen having a horse to herself—that late belonging to Bosley—while the latter is compelled to share the saddle with Harkness.

Heywood leads off; the suspected men ordered to keep close after; while Woodley reserves the rear-guard to himself and his rifle. Before parting, he spurs alongside Clancy, and holds out his hand, saying:—

"Gi'e me a squeeze o' yur claws, Charley. May the Almighty stan' your frien' and keep you out o' Ole Nick's clutches. Don't hev' any dubiousness 'bout us. Tho' we shed kum across Satan hisself wi' all his hellniferous host, Sime Woodley 'll take care o' them sweet gurls, or go to grass trying." With this characteristic wind-up, he puts the spur to his horse, and closes upon the rest already parted from the spot.

Alone remain under the live-oak, Clancy and the mulatto, with horse, hound, and mule.

Varied the emotions in Clancy's mind, as he stands looking after; but all dark as clouds coursing across a winter's sky. For they are all doubts and fears; that most felt finding expression in the desponding soliloquy.

"I may never see her again!"

As the departing cavalcade is about to enter among the trees, and the floating drapery of her dress is soon to pass out of sight, he half repents his determination, and is almost inclined to forego it.

But the white skirt disappears, and the dark thought returning, becomes fixed as before. Then, facing towards Jupiter, he directs:—

"Mount your mule, Jupe. We've only one more journey to make; I hope a short one. At its end we'll meet your old master, and you'll see him get what he deserves—his death shot!"



CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE.

FOR THE RENDEZVOUS.

Stillness is again restored around the crossing of the San Saba, so far as it has been disturbed by the sound of human voices. Nature has resumed her reign, and only the wild creatures of her kingdom can be heard calling, in tones that tell not of strife.

But for a short while does this tranquillity continue. Soon once more upon the river's bank resound rough voices, and rude boisterous laughter, as a band of mounted men coming from the Mission side, spur their horses down into its channel, and head to go straight across. While under the shadow of the fringing timber, no one could tell who these merry riders are; and, even after they have advanced into the open moonlight, it would be difficult to identify them. Seeing their plumed heads with their parti-coloured complexions, a stranger would set them down as Indians; while a Texan might particularise their tribe, calling them Comanches. But one who is no stranger to them—the reader—knows they are not Indians of any kind, but savages who would show skins of a tripe colour, were the pigment sponged off. For it is the band of Borlasse.

They have brought their booty thus far, en route for their rendezvous.

Gleeful they are, one and all. Before them on their saddle-bows, or behind on the croups, are the boxes of silver coin; enough, as they know, to give them a grand spree in the town of San Antonio, whither they intend proceeding in due time.

But first for their lair, where the spoil is to be partitioned, and a change made in their toilet; there to cast off the costume of the savage, and resume the garb of civilisation.

Riding in twos across the river, on reaching its bank they make halt. There is barely room for all on the bit of open ground by the embouchure of the ford road; and they get clumped into a dense crowd—in its midst their chief, Borlasse, conspicuous from his great bulk of body.

"Boys!" he says, soon as all have gained the summit of the slope, and gathered around him, "it ain't no use for all o' us going to where I told Quantrell an' Bosley to wait. The approach to the oak air a bit awkward; therefore, me an' Luke Chisholm 'll slip up thar, whiles the rest o' ye stay hyar till we come back. You needn't get out of your saddles. We won't be many minutes, for we mustn't. They'll be a stirrin' at the Mission, though not like to come after us so quick, seeing the traces we've left behind. That'll be a caution to them, I take it. And from what our friend here says," Borlasse nods to the half-blood, Fernand, who is seen seated on horseback beside him, "the settlers can't muster over forty fightin' men. Calculatin' there's a whole tribe o' us Comanches, they'll be too scared to start out all of a suddint. Besides, they'll not find that back trail by the bluff so easy. I don't think they can before mornin'. Still 'twont do to hang about hyar long. Once we get across the upper plain we're safe. They'll never set eyes on these Indyins after. Come, Luke! let you an' me go on to the oak, and pick up the stragglers. An' boys! see ye behave yourselves till we come back. Don't start nail, or raise lid, from any o' them boxes. If there's a dollar missin', I'll know it; an' by the Eternal—well, I guess, you understan' Jim Borlasse's way wi' treeturs."

Leaving this to be surmised, the robber chief spurs out from their midst, with the man he has selected to accompany him; the rest, as enjoined, remaining.

Soon he turns into the up-river trace, which none of those who have already travelled it, knew as well as he. Despite his greater size, neither its thorns, nor narrowness, hinders him from riding rapidly along it. He is familiar with its every turn and obstruction, as is also Chisholm. Both have been to the big oak before, time after time; have bivouacked, slept under it, and beside booty. Approaching it now for a different purpose, they are doomed to disappointment. There is no sign of creature beneath its shade—horse, man, or woman!

Where is Quantrell? Where Bosley? What has become of them, and their captives?

They are not under the oak, or anywhere around it. They are nowhere!

The surprise of the robber chief instantly changes to anger. For a suspicion flashes across his mind, that his late appointed lieutenant has played false to him.

He knows that Richard Darke has only been one of his band by the exigency of sinister circumstances; knows, also, of the other, and stronger lien that has kept Clancy's assassin attached to their confederacy—his love for Helen Armstrong. Now that he has her—the sister too—why may he not have taken both off, intending henceforth to cut all connection with the prairie pirates? Bosley would be no bar. The subordinate might remain faithful, and to the death; still Quantrell could kill him.

It is all possible, probable; and Borlasse, now better acquainted with the character of Richard Darke, can believe it so. Convinced of his lieutenant's treachery, he rages around the tree like a tiger deprived of its prey.

Little cares he what has become of Darke himself, or Helen Armstrong. It is Jessie he misses; madly loving her in his course carnal fashion. He had hoped to have her in his arms, to carry her on to the rendezvous, to make her his wife in the same way as Darke threatened to do with her sister.

Fortunately for both, the sky has become clouded, and the moon is invisible; otherwise he might see that the ground has been trodden by a half-dozen horses, and discover the direction these have taken. Though Simeon Woodley, with his party, is now a good distance off, it would still be possible to overtake them, the robbers being well mounted and better knowing the way. Woe to Helen and Jessie Armstrong were the moon shining, as when they parted from that spot!

Neither Borlasse nor his confederate have a thought that any one has been under the oak, save Quantrell, Bosley, and the captives. How could they? And now they think not that these have been there; for, calling their names aloud, they get no response. Little do the two freebooters dream of the series of exciting incidents that in quick succession, and so recently, have occurred in that now silent spot. They have no suspicion of aught, save that Bosley has betrayed his trust, Phil Quantrell instigating him, and that both have forsaken the band, taking the captives along.

At thought of their treachery Borlasse's fury goes beyond bounds, and he stamps and storms.

To restrain him, Chisholm says, suggestingly, "Like as not, Cap', they're gone on to head-quarters. I guess, when we get there we'll find the whole four."

"You think so?"

"I'm good as sure of it. What else could they do, or would they? Quantrell darn't go back to the States, with that thing you spoke of hangin' over him. Nor is he like to show himself in any o' the settlements of Texas. And what could the two do by themselves out on the wild prairie?"

"True; I reckon you're about right, Luke. In any case we musn't waste more time here. It's getting well on to morning and by the earliest glint of day the settlers 'll take trail after us. We must on to the upper plain."

At this he heads his horse back into the narrow trail; and, hurrying along it, rejoins his followers by the ford.

Soon as reaching them, he gives the command for immediate march; promptly obeyed, since every robber in the ruck has pleasant anticipation of what is before, with ugly recollection of what is, and fears of what may be, behind him.



CHAPTER SIXTY SIX.

A SCOUTING PARTY.

Throughout all this time, the scene of wild terror, and frenzied excitement, continues to rage around the Mission. Its walls, while echoing voices of lamentation, reverberate also the shouts of revenge.

It is some time ere the colonists can realise the full extent of the catastrophe, or be sure it is at an end. The gentlemen, who dined with Colonel Armstrong, rushing back to their own homes in fearful anticipation, there find everything, as they left it; except that their families and fellow settlers are asleep. For all this, the fear does not leave their hearts. If their houses are not aflame, as they expected to see them—if their wives and children are not butchered in cold blood—they know not how soon this may be. The Indians—for Indians they still believe them—would not have attacked so strong a settlement, unless in force sufficient to destroy it. The ruin, incomplete, may still be impending. True, the interlude of inaction is difficult to understand; only intelligible, on the supposition that the savages are awaiting an accession to their strength, before they assault the rancheria. They may at the moment be surrounding it?

Under this apprehension, the settlers are hastily, and by loud shouts, summoned from their beds. Responding to the rude arousal, they are soon out of them, and abroad; the women and children frantically screaming; the men more calm; some of them accustomed to such surprises, issuing forth armed, and ready for action.

Soon all are similarly prepared, each with gun, pistol, and knife borne upon his person.

After hearing the tale of horror brought from the Mission-building, they hold hasty council as to what they should do.

Fear for their own firesides restrains them from starting off; and some time elapse before they feel assured that the rancheria will not be attacked, and need defending.

Meanwhile, they despatch messengers to the Mission; who, approaching it cautiously, find no change there.

Colonel Armstrong is still roaming distractedly around, searching for his daughters, Dupre by his side, Hawkins and Tucker assisting in the search.

The girls not found, and the frantic father settling down to the conviction that they are gone—lost to him forever!

Oh! the cruel torture of the truth thus forced upon him! His children carried off captive, that were enough. But to such captivity! To be the associates of savages, their slaves, their worse than slaves—ah! a destiny compared with which death were desirable.

So reasons the paternal heart in this supreme moment of its affliction.

Alike, distressed is he, bereaved of his all but bride. The young Creole is well-nigh beside himself. Never has he known such bitter thoughts; the bitterest of all—a remembrance of something said to him by his betrothed that very day. A word slight but significant, relating to the half-blood, Fernand; a hint of some familiarity in the man's behaviour towards her, not absolute boldness, but presumption: for Jessie did not tell all. Still enough to be now vividly recalled to Dupre's memory, with all that exaggeration the circumstances are calculated to suggest to his fancy and fears. Yes; his trusted servant has betrayed him, and never did master more repent a trust, or suffer greater pain by its betrayal.

The serpent he warmed has turned and stung him, with sting so venomous as to leave little of life.

Within and around the Mission-building are other wailing voices, besides those of its owners. Many of the domestics have like cause for lamentation, some even more. Among the massacred, still stretched in their gore, one stoops over a sister; another sees his child; a wife weeps by the side of her husband, her hot tears mingling with his yet warm blood; while brother bends down to gaze into the eyes of brother, which, glassy and sightless, cannot reciprocate the sorrowing glance!

It is not the time to give way to wild grief. The occasion calls for action, quick, immediate. Colonel Armstrong commands it; Dupre urges it. Soon as their first throes of surprise and terror have subsided, despair is replaced by anger, and their thoughts turn upon retaliation.

All is clear now. Those living at the rancheria have not been molested. The savages have carried off Dupre's silver. Despoiled of his far more precious treasure, what recks he of that? Only as telling that the object of the attacking party was robbery more than murder; though they have done both. Still it is certain, that, having achieved their end, they are gone off with no intention to renew the carnage of which all can see such sanguinary traces. Thus reasoning, the next thought is pursuit.

As yet the other settlers are at the rancheria, clinging to their own hearths, in fear of a fresh attack, only a few having come up to the Mission, to be shocked at what they see there.

But enough for Dupre's purpose; which receives the sanction of Colonel Armstrong, as also that of the hunters, Hawkins and Tucker.

It is decided not to wait till all can be ready; but for a select party to start off at once, in the capacity of scouts; these to take up the trail of the savages, and send back their report to those coming after.

To this Colonel Armstrong not only gives consent, but deems it the most prudent course, and likeliest to secure success. Despite his anxious impatience, the strategy of the old soldier tells him, that careless haste may defeat its chances.

In fine, a scouting party is dispatched, Hawkins at its head as guide, the Creole commanding.

Armstrong himself remains behind, to organise the main body of settlers getting ready for pursuit.



CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN.

A STRAYING TRAVELLER.

A man on horseback making his way through a wood. Not on road, or trodden path, or trace of any kind. For it is a tract of virgin forest, in which settler's axe has never sounded, rarely traversed by ridden horse; still more rarely by pedestrian.

He, now passing through it, rides as fast as the thick standing trunks, and tangle of undergrowth will allow. The darkness also obstructs him; for it is night. Withal he advances rapidly, though cautiously; at intervals glancing back, at longer ones, delaying to listen, with chin upon his shoulder.

His behaviour shows fear; so, too, his face. Here and there the moonbeams shining through breaks in the foliage, reveal upon his features bewilderment, as well as terror. By their light he is guiding his course, though he does not seem sure of it. The only thing appearing certain is, that he fears something behind, and is fleeing from it.

Once he pauses, longer than usual; and, holding his horse in check, sits listening attentively. While thus halted, he hears a noise, which he knows to be the ripple of a river. It seems oddly to affect him, calling forth an exclamation, which shows he is dissatisfied with the sound.

"Am I never to get away from it? I've been over an hour straying about here, and there's the thing still—not a quarter of a mile off, and timber thick as ever. I thought that last shoot would have taken me out of it. I must have turned somewhere. No help for it, but try again."

Making a half-face round, he heads his horse in a direction opposite to that from which comes the sound of the water. He has done so repeatedly, as oft straying back towards the stream. It is evident he has no wish to go any nearer; but a strong desire to get away from it.

This time he is successful. The new direction followed a half-mile further shows him clear sky ahead, and in a few minutes more he is at the forest's outmost edge. Before him stretches an expanse of plain altogether treeless, but clothed with tall grass, whose culms stirred by the night breeze, and silvered by the moonbeams, sway to and fro, like the soft tremulous wavelets of a tropic sea; myriads of fire-flies prinkling among the spikes, and emitting a gleam, as phosphorescent medusae, make the resemblance complete.

The retreating horseman has no such comparison in his thoughts, nor any time to contemplate Nature. The troubled expression in his eyes, tells he is in no mood for it. His glance is not given to the grass, nor the brilliant "lightning bugs," but to a dark belt discernible beyond, apparently a tract of timber, similar to that he has just traversed. More carefully scrutinised, it is seen to be rocks, not trees; in short a continuous line of cliff, forming the boundary of the bottom-land.

He viewing it, well knows what it is, and intends proceeding on to it. He only stays to take bearings for a particular place, at which he evidently aims. His muttered words specify the point.

"The gulch must be to the right. I've gone up-river all the while. Confound the crooked luck! It may throw me behind them going back; and how am I to find my way over the big plain! If I get strayed there—Ha! I see the pass now; yon sharp shoulder of rock—its there."

Once more setting his horse in motion, he makes for the point thus identified. Not now in zig-zags, or slowly—as when working his way through the timber—but in a straight tail-on-end gallop, fast as the animal can go.

And now under the bright moonbeams it may be time to take a closer survey of the hastening horseman. In garb he is Indian, from the mocassins on his feet to the fillet of stained feathers surmounting his head. But the colour of his skin contradicts the idea of his being an aboriginal. His face shows white, but with some smut upon it, like that of a chimney-sweep negligently cleansed. And his features are Caucasian, not ill-favoured, except in their sinister expression; for they are the features of Richard Darke.

Knowing it is he, it will be equally understood that the San Saba is the stream whose sough is so dissonant in his ears, as also, why he is so anxious to put a wide space between himself and its waters. On its bank he has heard a name, and caught sight of him bearing it—the man of all others he has most fear. The backwoodsman who tracked him in the forests of Mississippi, now trailing him upon the prairies of Texas, Simeon Woodley ever pursuing him! If in terror he has been retreating through the trees, not less does he glide over the open ground. Though going in a gallop, every now and then, as before, he keeps slewing round in the saddle and gazing back with apprehensiveness, in fear he may see forms issuing from the timber's edge, and coming on after.

None appear, however; and, at length, arriving by the bluffs base, he draws up under its shadow, darker now, for clouds are beginning to dapple the sky, making the moon's light intermittent. Again, he appears uncertain about the direction he should take; and seated in his saddle, looks inquiringly along the facade of the cliff, scrutinising its outline.

Not long before his scrutiny is rewarded. A dark disc of triangular shape, the apex inverted, proclaims a break in the escarpment. It is the embouchure of a ravine, in short the pass he has been searching for, the same already known to the reader. Straight towards it he rides, with the confidence of one who has climbed it before. In like manner he enters between its grim jaws, and spurs his horse up the slope under the shadow of rocks overhanging right and left. He is some twenty minutes in reaching its summit, on the edge of the upland plain. There he emerges into moonlight; for Luna has again looked out.

Seated in his saddle he takes a survey of the bottom-land below. Afar off, he can distinguish the dark belt of timber, fringing the river on both sides, with here and there a reach of water between, glistening in the moon's soft light like molten silver. His eyes rest not on this, but stray over the open meadow, land in quest of something there.

There is nothing to fix his glance, and he now feels safe, for the first time since starting on that prolonged retreat.

Drawing a free breath he says, soliloquising:—

"No good my going farther now. Besides I don't know the trail, not a foot farther. No help for it but stay here till Borlasse and the boys come up. They can't be much longer, unless they've had a fight to detain them; which I don't think at all likely, after what the half-blood told us. In any case some of them will be this way. Great God! To think of Sime Woodley being here! And after me, sure, for the killing of Clancy! Heywood, too, and Harkness along with them! How is that, I wonder? Can they have met my old jailer on the way, and brought him back to help in tracing me? What the devil does it all mean? It looks as if the very Fates were conspiring for my destruction.

"And who the fellow that laid hold of my horse? So like Clancy! I could swear 'twas he, if I wasn't sure of having settled him. If ever gun-bullet gave a man his quietus, mine did him. The breath was out of his body before I left him.

"Sime Woodley's after me, sure! Damn the ugly brute of a backwoodsman! He seems to have been created for the special purpose of pursuing me?

"And she in my power, to let her so slackly go again! I may never have another such chance. She'll get safe back to the settlements, there to make mock of me! What a simpleton I've been to let her go alive! I should have driven my knife into her. Why didn't I do it? Ach!"

As he utters the harsh exclamation there is blackness on his brow, and chagrin in his glance; a look, such as Satan may have cast back at Paradise on being expelled from it.

With assumed resignation, he continues:—

"No good my grieving over it now. Regrets won't get her back. There may be another opportunity yet. If I live there shall be, though it cost me all my life to bring it about."

Another pause spent reflecting what he ought to do next. He has still some fear of being followed by Sime Woodley. Endeavouring to dismiss it, he mutters:—

"'Tisn't at all likely they'd find the way up here. They appeared to be afoot. I saw no horses. They might have them for all that. But they can't tell which way I took through the timber, and anyhow couldn't track me till after daylight. Before then Borlasse will certainly be along. Just possible he may come across Woodley and his lot. They'll be sure to make for the Mission, and take the road up t'other side. A good chance of our fellows encountering them, unless that begging fool, Bosley, has let all out. Maybe they killed him on the spot? I didn't hear the end of it, and hope they have."

With this barbarous reflection he discontinues his soliloquy, bethinking himself, how he may best pass the time till his comrades come on. At first he designs alighting, and lying down: for he has been many hours in the saddle, and feels fatigued. But just as he is about to dismount, it occurs to him the place is not a proper one. Around the summit of the pass, the plain is without a stick of timber, not even a bush to give shade or concealment, and of this last he now begins to recognise the need. For, all at once, he recalls a conversation with Borlasse, in which mention was made of Sime Woodley; the robber telling of his having been in Texas before, and out upon the San Saba—the very place where now seen! Therefore, the backwoodsman will be acquainted with the locality, and may strike for the trail he has himself taken. He remembers Sime's reputation as a tracker; he no longer feels safe. In the confusion of his senses, his fancy exaggerates his fears, and he almost dreads to look back across the bottom-land.

Thus apprehensive, he turns his eyes towards the plain, in search of a better place for his temporary bivouac, or at all events a safer one. He sees it. To the right, and some two or three hundred yards off is a motte of timber, standing solitary on the otherwise treeless expanse. It is the grove of black-jacks, where Hawkins and Tucker halted that same afternoon.

"The very place!" says Richard Darke to himself, after scrutinising it. "There I'll be safe every way; can see without being seen. It commands a view of the pass, and, if the moon keep clear, I'll be able to tell who comes up, whether friends or foes."

Saying this, he makes for the motte.

Reaching it, he dismounts, and, drawing the rein over his horse's head, leads the animal in among the trees.

At a short distance from the grove's edge is a glade. In this he makes stop, and secures the horse, by looping the bridle around a branch.

He has a tin canteen hanging over the horn of his saddle, which he lifts off. It is a large one,—capable of holding a half-gallon. It is three parts full, not of water, but of whisky. The fourth part he has drunk during the day, and earlier hours of the night, to give him courage for the part he had to play. He now drinks to drown his chagrin at having played it so badly. Cursing his crooked luck, as he calls it, he takes a swig of the whisky, and then steps back to the place where he entered among the black-jacks. There taking stand, he awaits the coming of his confederates.

He keeps his eyes upon the summit of the pass. They cannot come up without his seeing them, much less go on over the plain.

They must arrive soon, else he will not be able to see them. For he has brought the canteen along, and, raising it repeatedly to his lips, his sight is becoming obscured, the equilibrium of his body endangered.

As the vessel grows lighter, so does his head; while his limbs refuse to support the weight of his body, which oscillates from side to side.

At length, with an indistinct perception of inability to sustain himself erect, and a belief he would feel better in a recumbent attitude, he gropes his way back to the glade, where, staggering about for a while, he at length settles down, dead drunk. In ten seconds he is asleep, in slumber so profound, that a cannon shot—even the voice of Simeon Woodley—would scarce awake him.



CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT.

"BRASFORT."

"Brasfort has caught scent!"

The speech comes from one of two men making their way through a wood, the same across which Richard Darke has just retreated. But they are not retreating as he; on the contrary pursuing, himself the object of their pursuit. For they two men are Charles Clancy, and Jupiter.

They are mounted, Clancy on his horse—a splendid animal—the mulatto astride the mule.

The hound is with them, not now trotting idly after, but in front, with nose to the earth. They are on Darke's trail. The animal has just struck, and is following it, though not fast. For a strap around its neck, with a cord attached, and held in Clancy's hand, keeps it in check, while another buckled about its jaws hinders it from giving tongue. Both precautions show Clancy's determination to take pains with the game he is pursuing, and not again give it a chance to get away. Twice has his mother's murderer escaped him. It will not be so a third time.

They are trailing in darkness, else he would not need assistance from the dog. For it is only a short while since his separation from the party that went on to the Mission. Soon as getting into their saddles, Clancy and his faithful follower struck into the timber, at the point where Darke was seen to enter, and they are now fairly on his tracks. In the obscurity they cannot see them; but the behaviour of the hound tells they are there.

"Yes; Brasfort's on it now," says Clancy, calling the animal by a name long ago bestowed upon it.

"He's on it strong, Jupe. I can tell by the way he tugs upon the string."

"All right, Masser Charle. Give him plenty head. Let him well out. Guess we can keep up with him. An' the sooner we overtake the nigger whipper, the better it be for us, an' the worser for him. Pity you let him go. If you'd 'lowed Mass Woodley to shoot down his hoss—"

"Never mind about that. You'll see himself shot down ere long, or—"

"Or what, masser?"

"Me!"

"Lor forbid! If I ever see that, there's another goes down long side you; either the slave-catcher or the slave."

"Thanks, my brave fellow! I know you mean it. But now to our work; and let us be silent. He may not have gone far, and's still skulking in this tract of timber. If so, he stands a chance to hear us. Speak only in a whisper."

Thus instructed, Jupe makes a gesture to signify compliance; Clancy turning his attention to the hound.

By this, Brasfort is all eagerness, as can be told by the quick vibration of his tail, and spasmodic action of the body. A sound also proceeds from his lips, an attempt at baying; which, but for the confining muzzle would make the forest echoes ring around. Stopped by this his note can be heard only a short distance off, not far enough for them to have any fear. If they but get so near the man they are in chase of, they will surely overtake him.

In confidence the trackers keep on; but obstructed by the close standing trunks, with thick underwood between, they make but slow progress. They are more than an hour in getting across the timbered tract; a distance that should not have taken quarter the time.

At length, arriving on its edge, they make stop; Clancy drawing back the dog. Looking across the plain he sees that, which tells him the instinct of the animal will be no longer needed—at least for a time.

The moon, shining upon the meadow grass, shows a list differently shaded; where the tall culms have been bent down and crushed by the hoof of some heavy quadruped, that has made its way amidst them. And recently too, as Clancy, skilled in tracking, can tell; knowing, also, it is the track of Dick Darke's horse.

"You see it?" he says, pointing to the lighter shaded line. "That's the assassin's trail. He's gone out here, and straight across the bottom. He's made for the bluff yonder. From this he's been putting his animal to speed; gone in a gallop, as the stretch between the tracks show. He may go that way, or any other, 'twill make no difference in the end. He fancies himself clever, but for all his cleverness he'll not escape me now."

"I hope not, Masser Charle; an' don't think he will; don't see how he can."

"He can't."

For some time Clancy is silent, apparently absorbed in serious reflection. At length, he says to his follower:—

"Jupe, my boy, in your time you have suffered much yourself, and should know something of what it is to feel vengeful. But not a vengeance like mine. That you can't understand, and perhaps may think me cruel."

"You, Masser Charle!"

"I don't remember ever having done a harsh thing in my life, or hurt to anyone not deserving it."

"I am sure you never did, masser."

"My dealing with this man may seem an exception. For sure as I live, I'll kill him, or he shall kill me."

"There'd be no cruelty in that. He deserve die, if ever man did."

"He shall. I've sworn it—you know when and where. My poor mother sent to an untimely grave! Her spirit seems now speaking to me—urging me to keep my oath. Let us on!"

They spur out into the moonlight, and off over the open plain, the hound no longer in the lead. His nose is not needed now. The slot of Darke's galloping horse is so conspicuous they can clearly see it, though going fast as did he.

Half an hour at this rapid pace, and they are again under shadow. It is that of the bluff, so dark they can no longer make out the hoof-marks of the retreating horseman.

For a time they are stayed, while once more leashing the hound, and setting it upon the scent.

Brasfort lifts it with renewed spirit; and, keeping in advance, conducts them to an opening in the wall of rock. It is the entrance to a gorge going upward. They can perceive a trodden path, upon which are the hoof-prints of many horses, apparently an hundred of them.

Clancy dismounts to examine them. He takes note, that they are of horses unshod; though there are some with the iron on. Most of them are fresh, among others of older date. Those recently made have the convexity of the hoof turned towards the river. Whoever rode these horses came down the gorge, and kept on for the crossing. He has no doubt, but that they are the same, whose tracks were observed in the slough, and at the ford—now known to have been made by the freebooters. As these have come down the glen, in all likelihood they will go up it in return.

The thought should deter him from proceeding farther in that direction.

But it does not. He is urged on by his oath—by a determination to keep it at all cost. He fancies Darke cannot be far ahead, and trusts to overtaking, and settling the affair, before his confederates come up.

Reflecting thus, he enters the ravine, and commences ascending its slope, Jupiter and Brasfort following.

On reaching the upland plain, they have a different light around, from that below on the bottom-land. The moon is clouded over, but her silvery sheen is replaced by a gloaming of grey. There are streaks of bluish colour, rose tinted, along the horizon's edge. It is the dawn, for day is just breaking.

At first Clancy is gratified by a sight, so oft gladdening hearts. Daylight will assist him in his search.

Soon, he thinks otherwise. Sweeping his eyes over the upland plain, he sees it is sterile and treeless. A thin skirting of timber runs along the bluff edge; but elsewhere all is open, except a solitary grove at no great distance off.

The rendezvous of the robbers would not be there, but more likely on the other side of the arid expanse. Noting a trail which leads outwards, he suspects the pursued man to have taken it. But to follow in full daylight may not only defeat all chance of overtaking him, but expose them to the danger of capture by the freebooters coming in behind.

Clancy casts his eye across the plain, then back towards the bottom-land. He begins to repent his imprudence in having ventured up the pass. But now to descend might be more dangerous than to stay. There is danger either way, and in every direction. So thinking, he says:

"I fear, Jupe, we've been going too fast, and it may be too far. If we encounter these desperadoes, I needn't tell you we'll be in trouble. What ought we to do, think you?"

"Well Masser Charle, I don't jest know. I'se a stranger on these Texas prairies. If 'twar in a Massissip swamp, I might be better able to advise. Hyar I'se all in a quandairy."

"If we go back we may meet them in the teeth. Besides, I shan't—can't now. I must keep on, till I've set eyes on Dick Darke."

"Well, Masser Charle, s'pose we lie hid durin' the day, an' track him after night? The ole dog sure take up the scent for good twenty-four hours to come. There's a bunch of trees out yonner, that'll give us a hidin' place; an' if the thieves go past this way, we sure see 'em. They no see us there."

"But if they go past, it will be all over. I could have little hope of finding him alone. Along with them he would—"

Clancy speaks as if in soliloquy.

Abruptly changing tone, he continues:—

"No, Jupe; we must go on, now. I'll take the risk, if you're not afraid to follow me."

"Masser Charle, I ain't afraid. I'se told you I follow you anywhere—to death if you need me die. I'se tell you that over again."

"And again thanks, my faithful friend! We won't talk of death, till we've come up with Dick Darke. Then you shall see it one way or other. He, or I, hasn't many hours to live. Come, Brasfort! you're wanted once more."

Saying this, he lets the hound ahead, still keeping hold of the cord.

Before long, Brasfort shows signs that he has again caught scent. His ears crisp up, while his whole body quivers along the spinal column from neck to tail. There is a streak of the bloodhound in the animal; and never did dog of this kind make after a man, who more deserved hunting by a hound.



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 echelon, 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!

They are not Quantrell and Bosley!

"Who can they be?" he asks of Chisholm, who has closed up behind him.

"Hanged if I know, cap. Judgin' by their toggery, they must be whites; though 'gainst that dark sky one can't make sure about the colour of their hides. A big dog with them. A couple of trappers I take it; or, more likely, Mexican mustangers."

"Not at all likely, Luke. There's none o' them 'bout here—at least I've not heard of any since we came this side the Colorado. Cannot be that. I wonder who—"

"No use wonderin', cap. We can soon settle the point by questioning them. As there's but the two, they'll have to tell who they are, or take the consequences."

By this, the other robbers have come up out of the ravine. Halted in a row, abreast, they also scan the two figures in front, interrogating one another as to who and what they are. All are alike surprised at men there, mounted or afoot; more especially white men, as by their garb they must be. But they have no apprehension at the encounter, seeing there are so few.

The chief, acting on Chisholm's suggestion, moves confidently forward, the others, in like confidence, following.

In less than sixty seconds they are up to the spot occupied by Clancy and Jupiter.

Borlasse can scarce believe his eyes; and rubs them to make sure they are not deceiving him. If not they, something else has been—a newspaper report, and a tale told by one confessing himself a murderer, boastfully proclaiming it. And now, before him is the murdered man, on horseback, firmly seated in the saddle, apparently in perfect health!

The desperado is speechless with astonishment—only muttering to himself:—"What the devil's this?"

Were the question addressed to his, comrades, they could not answer it; though none of them share his astonishment, or can tell what is causing it. All they know is that two men are in their midst, one white, the other a mulatto, but who either is they have not the slightest idea. They see that the white man is a handsome young fellow—evidently a gentleman—bestriding a steed which some of them already regard with covetous glances; while he on the mule has the bearing of a body-servant.

None of them has ever met or seen Clancy before, nor yet the fugitive slave. Their leader alone knows the first, too much of him, though nothing of the last. But no matter about the man of yellow skin. He with the white one is his chief concern.

Recovering from his first surprise, he turns his thoughts towards solving the enigma. He is not long before reaching its solution. He remembers that the newspaper report said: "the body of the murdered man has not been found." Ergo, Charles Clancy hasn't been killed after all; for there he is, alive, and life-like as any man among them; mounted upon a steed which Jim Borlasse remembers well—as well as he does his master. To forget the animal would be a lapse of memory altogether unnatural. There are weals on the robber's back,—a souvenir of chastisement received for stealing that horse,—scars cicatrised, but never to be effaced.

Deeper still than the brand on his body has sunk the record into his soul. He was more than disappointed—enraged—on hearing that Richard Darke had robbed him of a premeditated vengeance. For he knew Clancy was again returning to Texas, and intended taking it on his return. Now, discovering he has not been forestalled, seeing his prosecutor there, unexpectedly in his power, the glance he gives to him is less like that of man than demon.

His followers take note that there is a strangeness in his manner, but refrain from questioning him about it. He seems in one of his moods, when they know it is not safe to intrude upon, or trifle with him. In his belt he carries a "Colt," which more than once has silenced a too free-speaking subordinate.

Having surrounded the two strangers, in obedience to his gesture, they await further instructions how to deal with them.

His first impulse is to make himself known to Clancy; then indulge in an ebullition of triumph over his prisoner. Put a thought restraining him, he resolves to preserve his incognito a little longer. Under his Indian travestie he fancies Clancy cannot, and has not, recognised him. Nor is it likely he would have done so, but for the foreknowledge obtained through Bosley. Even now only by his greater bulk is the robber chief distinguishable among his subordinates, all their faces being alike fantastically disfigured.

Drawing back behind his followers, he whispers some words to Chisholm, instructing him what is to be done, as also to take direction of it.

"Give up yer guns!" commands the latter, addressing himself to the strangers.

"Why should we?" asks Clancy.

"We want no cross-questionin', Mister. 'Tain't the place for sech, nor the time, as you'll soon larn. Give up yer guns! Right quick, or you'll have them taken from ye, in a way you won't like."

Clancy still hesitates, glancing hastily around the ring of mounted men. He is mad at having permitted himself to be taken prisoner, for he knows he is this. He regrets not having galloped off while there was yet time. It is too late now. There is not a break in the enfilading circle through which he might make a dash. Even if there were, what chance ultimately to escape? None whatever. A score of guns and pistols are around him, ready to be discharged should he attempt to stir from the spot. Some of them are levelled, their barrels bearing upon him. It would be instant death, and madness in him to seek it so. He but says:—

"What have we done, that you should disarm us? You appear to be Indians, yet talk the white man's tongue. In any case, and whoever you are, we have no quarrel with you. Why should you wish to make us prisoners?"

"We don't do anything of the sort. That would be wastin' wishes. You're our pris'ners already."

It is Chisholm who thus facetiously speaks, adding in sterner tone:—

"Let go yer guns, or, by God! we'll shoot you out of your saddles. Boys! in upon 'em, and take their weepuns away!"

At the command several of the robbers spring their horses forward, and, closing upon Clancy, seize him from all sides; others serving Jupiter the same. Both see that resistance were worse than folly—sheer insanity—and that there is no alternative but submit.

Their arms are wrested from them, though they are allowed to retain possession of their animals. That is, they are left in their saddles— compelled to stay in them by ropes rove around their ankles, attaching them to the stirrup-leathers.

Whatever punishment awaits them, that is not the place where they are to suffer it. For, soon as getting their prisoners secured, the band is again formed into files, its leader ordering it to continue the march, so unexpectedly, and to him satisfactorily, interrupted.



CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE.

A PATHLESS PLAIN.

The plain across which the freebooters are now journeying, on return to what they call their "rendyvoo," is one of a kind common in South-western Texas. An arid steppe, or table-land, by the Mexicans termed mesa; for the most part treeless, or only with such arborescence as characterises the American desert. "Mezquite," a name bestowed on several trees of the acacia kind, "black-jack," a dwarfed species of oak, with Prosopis, Fouquiera, and other spinous shrubs, are here and there found in thickets called "chapparals," interspersed with the more succulent vegetation of cactus and agave, as also the yucca, or dragon-tree of the Western Hemisphere.

In this particular section of it almost every tree and plant carries thorns. Even certain grasses are armed with prickly spurs, and sting the hand that touches them; while the reptiles crawling among them are of the most venomous species; scorpions and centipedes, with snakes having ossified tails, and a frog furnished with horns! The last, however, though vulgarly believed to be a batrachian, is in reality a lizard—the Agama cornuta.

This plain, extending over thirty miles from east to west, and twice the distance in a longitudinal direction, has on one side the valley of the San Saba, on the other certain creeks tributary to the Colorado. On one of these the prairie pirates have a home, or haunt, to which they retire only on particular occasions, and for special purposes. Under circumstances of this kind they are now en route for it.

Its locality has been selected with an eye to safety, which it serves to perfection. A marauding party pursued from the lower settlements of the Colorado, by turning up the valley of the San Saba, and then taking across the intermediate plain, would be sure to throw the pursuers off their tracks, since on the table-land none are left throughout long stretches where even the iron heel of a horse makes no dent in the dry turf, nor leaves the slightest imprint. At one place in particular, just after striking this plain from the San Saba side, there is a broad belt, altogether without vegetation or soil upon its surface, the ground being covered with what the trappers call "cut-rock," presenting the appearance of a freshly macadamised road. Extending for more than a mile in width, and ten times as much lengthways, it is a tract no traveller would care to enter on who has any solicitude about the hooves of his horse. But just for this reason is it in every respect suitable to the prairie pirates. They may cross it empty-handed, and recross laden with spoil, without the pursuers being able to discover whence they came, or whither they have gone.

Several times has this happened; settlers having come up the Colorado in pursuit of a marauding party—supposed to be Comanche Indians—tracked them into the San Saba bottom-land, and on over the bluff—there to lose their trail, and retire disheartened from the pursuit.

Across this stony stretch proceed the freebooters, leaving no more trace behind, than one would walking on a shingled sea-beach.

On its opposite edge they make stop to take bearings. For although they have more than once passed that way before, it is a route which always requires to be traversed with caution. To get strayed on the inhospitable steppe would be attended with danger, and might result in death.

In clear weather, to those acquainted with the trail, there is little chance of losing it. For midway between the water courses runs a ridge, bisecting the steppe in a longitudinal direction; and on the crest of this is a tree, which can be seen from afar off on either side. The ridge is of no great elevation, and would scarce be observable but for the general level from which it rises, a mere comb upon the plain, such as is known northward by the term coteau de prairie—a title bestowed by trappers of French descent.

The tree stands solitary, beside a tiny spring, which bubbles out between its roots. This, trickling off, soon sinks into the desert sand, disappearing within a few yards of the spot where it has burst forth.

In such situation both tree and fountain are strange; though the one will account for the other, the former being due to the latter. But still another agency is needed to explain the existence of the tree. For it is a "cottonwood"—a species not found elsewhere upon the same plain; its seed no doubt transported thither by some straying bird. Dropped by the side of the spring in soil congenial, it has sprouted up, nourished, and become a tall tree. Conspicuous for long leagues around, it serves the prairie pirates as a finger-post to direct them across the steppe; for by chance it stands right on their route. It is visible from the edge of the pebble-strewn tract, but only when there is a cloudless sky and shining sun. Now, the one is clouded, the other unseen, and the tree cannot be distinguished.

For some minutes the robbers remain halted, but without dismounting. Seated in the saddle, they strain their eyes along the horizon to the west.

The Fates favour them; as in this world is too often the case with wicked men, notwithstanding many saws to the contrary. The sun shoots from behind a cloud, scattering his golden gleams broad and bright over the surface of the plain. Only for an instant, but enough to show the cottonwood standing solitary on the crest of the ridge.

"Thank the Lord for that glimp o' light!" exclaims Borlasse, catching sight of the tree, "Now, boys; we see our beacon, an' let's straight to it. When we've got thar I'll show ye a bit of sport as 'll make ye laugh till there wont be a whole rib left in your bodies, nor a button on your coats—if ye had coats on."

With this absurd premonition he presses on—his scattered troop reforming, and following.



CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO.

THE PRAIRIE STOCKS.

Silent is Clancy, sullen as a tiger just captured and encaged. As the moments pass, and he listens to the lawless speech of his captors, more than ever is he vexed with himself for having so tamely submitted to be taken.

Though as yet no special inhumanity has been shown him, he knows there will ere long. Coarse jests bandied between the robbers, whispered innuendoes, forewarn him of some fearful punishment about to be put upon him. Only its nature remains unknown.

He does not think they intend killing him outright. He has overheard one of his guards muttering to the other, that such is not the chiefs intention, adding some words which make the assurance little consolatory. "Worse than death" is the fragment of a sentence borne ominously to his ears.

Worse than death! Is it to be torture?

During all this time Borlasse has not declared himself, or given token of having recognised his prisoner. But Clancy can tell he has done so. He saw it in the Satanic glance of his eye as they first came face to face. Since, the robber has studiously kept away from him, riding at the head of the line, the prisoners having place in its centre.

On arrival at the underwood, all dismount; but only to slake their thirst, as that of their horses. The spring is unapproachable by the animals; and leathern buckets are called into requisition. With these, and other marching apparatus, the freebooters are provided. While one by one the horses are being watered, Borlasse draws off to some distance, beckoning Chisholm to follow him; and for a time the two seem engaged in earnest dialogue, as if in discussion. The chief promised his followers a spectacle,—a "bit of sport," as he facetiously termed it. Clancy has been forecasting torture, but in his worst fear of it could not conceive any so terrible as that in store for him. It is in truth a cruelty inconceivable, worthy a savage, or Satan himself. Made known to Chisholm, though hardened this outlaw's heart, he at first shrinks from assisting in its execution—even venturing to remonstrate.

But Borlasse is inexorable. He has no feelings of compassion for the man who was once the cause of his being made to wince under the whip. His vengeance is implacable; and will only be satisfied by seeing Clancy suffer all that flesh can. By devilish ingenuity he has contrived a scheme to this intent, and will carry it out regardless of consequences.

So says he, in answer to the somewhat mild remonstrance of his subordinate.

"Well, cap," rejoins the latter, yielding, "if you're determined to have it that way, why, have it. But let it be a leetle privater than you've spoke o'. By makin' it a public spectacle, an' lettin' all our fellars into your feelins, some o' 'em mightn't be so much amused. An some might get to blabbin' about it afterwards, in such a way as to breed trouble. The originality an' curiousness o' the thing would be sure to 'tract attention, an' the report o't would run through all Texas, like a prairie on fire. 'Twould never sleep as long's there's a soger left in the land; and sure as shootin' we'd have the Rangers and Regulators hot after us. Tharfore, if you insist on the bit o' interment, take my advice, and let the ceremony be confined to a few friends as can be trusted wi' a secret."

For some seconds Borlasse is silent, pondering upon what Chisholm has said. Then responds:—

"Guess you're about right, Luke. I'll do as you suggest. Best way will be to send the boys on ahead. There's three can stay with us we can trust—Watts, Stocker, and Driscoll. They'll be enough to do the grave-digging. The rest can go on to the rendezvous. Comrades!" he adds, moving back towards his men, who have just finished watering their horses, "I spoke o' some sport I intended givin' you here. On second thinkin' it'll be better defarred till we get to head-quarters. So into your saddles and ride on thar—takin' the yeller fellow along wi' ye. The other I'll look after myself. You, Luke Chisholm, stay; with Watts, Stocker, and Driscoll. I've got a reason for remaining here a little longer. We'll soon be after, like enough overtake ye 'fore you can reach the creek. If not, keep on to camp without us. An', boys; once more I warn ye about openin' them boxes. I know what's in them to a dollar. Fernand! you'll see to that."

The half-blood, of taciturn habit, nods assent, Borlasse adding:—

"Now, you damned rascals! jump into your saddles and be off. Take the nigger along. Leave the white gentleman in better company, as befits him."

With a yell of laughter at the coarse sally, the freebooters spring upon their horses. Then, separating Clancy from Jupe, they ride off, taking the latter. On the ground are left only the chief, Chisholm, and the trio chosen to assist at some ceremony, mysteriously spoken of as an "interment."

After all it is not to be there. On reflection, Borlasse deems the place not befitting. The grave he is about to dig must not be disturbed, nor the body he intends burying disinterred.

Though white traveller never passes that solitary tree, red ones sometimes seek relaxation under its shade. Just possible a party of Comanches may come along; and though savages, their hearts might still be humane enough to frustrate the nefarious scheme of a white man more savage than they. To guard against such contingency Borlasse has bethought him of some change in his programme, which he makes known to Chisholm, saying:—

"I won't bury him here, Luke. Some strayin' redskin might come along, and help him to resurrection. By God! he shan't have that, till he hears Gabriel's trumpet. To make sure we must plant him in a safer place."

"Can we find safer, cap?"

"Certainly we can."

"But whar?"

"Anywhare out o' sight of here. We shall take him to some distance off, so's they can't see him from the spring. Up yonder'll do."

He points to a part of the plain northward, adding:—

"It's all alike which way, so long's we go far enough."

"All right!" rejoins Chisholm, who has surrendered his scruples about the cruelty of what they intend doing, and only thinks of its being done without danger.

"Boys!" shouts Borlasse to the men in charge of Clancy, "bring on your prisoner! We're going to make a leetle deflection from the course—a bit o' a pleasure trip—only a short un."

So saying, he starts off in a northerly direction, nearly at right angles to that they have been hitherto travelling.

After proceeding about a mile, the brigand chief, still riding with Chisholm in the advance, comes to a halt, calling back to the others to do the same—also directing them to dismount their prisoner.

Clancy is unceremoniously jerked out of his saddle; and, after having his arms pinioned, and limbs lashed together, laid prostrate along the earth. This leaves them free for the infernal task, they are now instructed to perform. One only, Watts, stays with the prisoner; the other two, at the chiefs command, coming on to where he and Chisholm have halted. Then all four cluster around a spot he points out, giving directions what they are to do.

With the point of his spear Borlasse traces a circle upon the turf, some twenty inches in diameter; then tells them to dig inside it.

Stocker and Driscoll draw their tomahawks, and commence hacking at the ground; which, though hard, yields to the harder steel of hatchets manufactured for the cutting of skulls. As they make mould, it is removed by Chisholm with the broad blade of his Comanche spear.

As all prairie men are accustomed to making caches, they are expert at this; and soon sink a shaft that would do credit to the "crowing" of a South African Bosjesman. It is a cylinder full five feet in depth, with a diameter of less than two. Up to this time its purpose has not been declared to either Stocker, or Driscoll, though both have their conjectures. They guess it to be the grave of him who is lying along the earth—his living tomb!

At length, deeming it deep enough, Borlasse commands them to leave off work, adding, as he points to the prisoner: "Now, plant your saplin'! If it don't grow there it ought to."

The cold-blooded jest extorts a smile from the others, as they proceed to execute the diabolical order.

And they do it without show of hesitation—rather with alacrity. Not one of the five has a spark of compassion in his breast—not one whose soul is unstained with blood.

Clancy is dragged forward, and plunged feet foremost into the cavity. Standing upright, his chin is only an inch or two above the surface of the ground. A portion of the loose earth is pushed in, and packed around him, the ruffians trampling it firm. What remains they kick and scatter aside; the monster, with horrible mockery, telling them to make a "neat job of it."

During all this time Brasfort has been making wild demonstrations, struggling to free himself, as if to rescue his master. For he is also bound, tied to the stirrup of one of the robber's horses. But the behaviour of the faithful animal, instead of stirring them to compassion, only adds to their fiendish mirth.

The interment complete, Borlasse makes a sign to the rest to retire; then, placing himself in front, with arms akimbo, stands looking Clancy straight in the face. No pen could paint that glance. It can only be likened to that of Lucifer.

For a while he speaks not, but in silence exults over his victim. Then, bending down and tossing back his plumed bonnet, he asks, "D'ye know me, Charley Clancy?"

Receiving no reply, he continues, "I'll lay a hundred dollars to one, ye will, after I've told ye a bit o' a story, the which relates to a circumstance as happened jest twelve months ago. The scene o' that affair was in the public square o' Nacodosh, whar a man was tied to a post an—"

"Whipped at it, as he deserved."

"Ha!" exclaims Borlasse, surprised, partly at being recognised, but as much by the daring avowal. "You do remember that little matter? And me too?"

"Perfectly; so you may spare yourself the narration. You are Jim Borlasse, the biggest brute and most thorough scoundrel in Texas."

"Curse you!" cries the ruffian enraged, poising his spear till its point almost touches Clancy's head, "I feel like driving this through your skull."

"Do so!" is the defiant and desperate rejoinder. It is what Clancy desires. He has no hope of life now. He wishes death to come at once, and relieve him from the long agony he will otherwise have to endure.

Quick catching this to be his reason, Borlasse restrains himself, and tosses up the spear, saying:—

"No, Mister; ye don't die that eesy way—not if I know it. You and yours kept me two days tied like a martyr to the stake, to say nothin' of what came after. So to make up for't I'll give you a spell o' confinement that'll last a leetle longer. You shall stay as ye are, till the buzzarts peck out your eyes, an' the wolves peel the skin from your skull—ay, till the worms go crawlin' through your flesh. How'll ye like that, Charley Clancy?"

"There's no wolf or vulture on the prairies of Texas ugly as yourself. Dastardly dog!"

"Ah! you'd like to get me angry? But you can't. I'm cool as a cowkumber—aint I? Your dander's up, I can see. Keep it down. No good your gettin' excited. I s'pose you'd like me to spit in your face. Well, here goes to obleege ye."

At this he stoops down, and does as said. After perpetrating the outrage, he adds:—

"Why don't ye take out your handkercher an' wipe it off. It's a pity to see such a handsome fellow wi' his face in that fashion. Ha! ha! ha!"

His four confederates, standing apart, spectators of the scene, echo his fiendish laughter.

"Well, well, my proud gentleman;" he resumes, "to let a man spit in your face without resentin' it! I never expected to see you sunk so low. Humiliated up to the neck—to the chin! Ha! ha! ha!"

Again rings out the brutal cachinnation, chorused by his four followers.

In like manner the monster continues to taunt his helpless victim; so long, one might fancy his spite would be spent, his vengeance sated.

But no—not yet. There is still another arrow in his quiver—a last shaft to be shot—which he knows will carry a sting keener than any yet sent.

When his men have remounted, and are ready to ride off, he returns to Clancy, and, stooping, hisses into his ear:—

"Like enough you'll be a goodish while alone here, an' tharfore left to your reflections. Afore partin' company, let me say somethin' that may comfort you. Dick Darke's got your girl; 'bout this time has her in his arms!"



CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE.

HELPLESS AND HOPELESS.

"O God!"

Charles Clancy thus calls upon his Maker. Hitherto sustained by indignation, now that the tormentor has left him, the horror of his situation, striking into his soul in all its dread reality, wrings from him the prayerful apostrophe.

A groan follows, as his glance goes searching over the plain. For there is nothing to gladden it. His view commands the half of a circle—a great circle such as surrounds you upon the sea; though not as seen from the deck of a ship, but by one lying along the thwarts of a boat, or afloat upon a raft.

The robbers have ridden out of sight, and he knows they will not return. They have left him to die a lingering death, almost as if entombed alive. Perhaps better he were enclosed in a coffin; for then his sufferings would sooner end.

He has not the slightest hope of being succoured. There is no likelihood of human creature coming that way. It is a sterile waste, without game to tempt the hunter, and though a trail runs across it, Borlasse, with fiendish forethought, has placed him so far from this, that no one travelling along it could possibly see him. He can just descry the lone cottonwood afar off, outlined against the horizon like a ship at sea. It is the only tree in sight; elsewhere not even a bush to break the drear monotony of the desert.

He thinks of Simeon Woodley, Ned Heywood, and those who may pursue the plunderers of the settlement. But with hopes too faint to be worth entertaining. For he has been witness to the precautions taken by the robbers to blind their trail, and knows that the most skilled tracker cannot discover it. Chance alone could guide the pursuit in that direction, if pursuit there is to be. But even this is doubtful. For Colonel Armstrong having recovered his daughters, and only some silver stolen, the settlers may be loath to take after the thieves, or postpone following them to some future time. Clancy has no knowledge of the sanguinary drama that has been enacted at the Mission, else he would not reason thus. Ignorant of it, he can only be sure, that Sime Woodley and Ned Heywood will come in quest of, but without much likelihood of their finding them. No doubt they will search for days, weeks, months, if need be; and in time, but too late, discover—what? His head—

"Ha!"

His painful reflections are interrupted by that which but intensifies their painfulness: a shadow he sees flitting across the plain.

His eyes do not follow it, but, directed upward, go in search of the thing which is causing it. "A vulture!"

The foul bird is soaring aloft, its black body and broad expanded wings outlined against the azure sky. For this is again clear, the clouds and threatening storm having drifted off without bursting. And now, while with woe in his look he watches the swooping bird, well knowing the sinister significance of its flight, he sees another, and another, and yet another, till the firmament seems filled with them.