Story 1--Chapter VIII.
The Oath of Secrecy.
While the black buzzards are quarrelling over the carcase, not far off there is another carcase stretched upon the sward, also of a bear.
But the grouping around it is different; six hunters on horseback and double the number of dogs.
They are the boy hunters late bivouacking in the glade, and the bear is the same that had strayed unwittingly into their camp.
The animal has just succumbed under the trenchant teeth of their dogs, and a bullet or two from their rifles. Nor have the hounds come off unscathed. Two or three of them, the young and rash, lie dead beside the quarry they assisted in dragging down.
The hunters have just ridden up and halted over the black, bleeding mass. The chase, short and hurried, is at an end, and now for the first time since leaving the glade do they seem to have stayed for reflection. That which strikes them is, or should be, fearful.
“My God!” cries young Randall, “the Indian! We’ve left him hanging.”
“We have, by the Lord!” seconds Spence, all six turning pale, and exchanging glances of consternation.
“If he have let go his hold—”
“If! He must have let go; and long before this. It’s full twenty minutes since we left the glade. It isn’t possible for him to have hung on so long—not possible.”
“And if he’s let go?”
“If he has done that, why, then, he’s dead.”
“But are you sure the noose would close upon his neck? You, Bill Buck, and Alf Brandon, it was you two that arranged it.”
“Bah!” rejoins Buck; “you seed that same as we. It’s bound to tighten when he drops. Of course we didn’t mean that; and who’d a thought o’ a bar runnin’ straight into us in that way? Darn it, if the nigger has dropped, he’s dead by this time, and there’s an end of it. There’s no help for it now.”
“What’s to be done, boys?” asks Grubbs. “There’ll be an ugly account to settle, I reckon.”
There is no answer to this question or remark.
In the faces of all there is an expression of strange significance. It is less repentance for the act than fear for the consequences. Some of the younger and less reckless of the party show some slight signs of sorrow, but among all fear is the predominant feeling.
“What’s to be done, boys?” again asks Grubbs.
“We must do something. It won’t do to leave things as they are.”
“Hadn’t we better ride back?” suggests Spence.
“Thar’s no use goin’ now,” answers the son of the horse-dealer. “That is, for the savin’ of him. If nobody else has been thar since we left, why then the nigger’s dead—dead as pale Caesar.”
“Do you think any one might have come along in time to save him?”
This question is asked with an eagerness in which all are sharers. They would be rejoiced to think it could be answered in the affirmative.
“There might,” replies Randall, catching at the slight straw of hope. “The trace runs through the glade, right past the spot. A good many people go that way. Some one might have come along in time. At all events, we should go back and see. It can’t make things any worse.”
“Yes; we had better go back,” assents the son of the planter; and then to strengthen the purpose, “we’d better go for another purpose.”
“What, Alf?” ask several.
“That’s easily answered. If the Indian’s hung himself, we can’t help it.”
“You’ll make it appear suicide? You forget that we tied his left arm. It would never look like it. He couldn’t have done that himself!”
“I don’t mean that,” continues Brandon.
“What, then?”
“If he’s hanged, he’s hanged and dead before this. We didn’t hang him, or didn’t intend it. That’s clear.”
“I don’t think the law can touch us,” suggests the son of the judge.
“But it may give us trouble, and that must be avoided.”
“How do you propose to do, Alf?”
“It’s an old story that dead men tell no tales, and buried ones less.”
“Thar’s a good grist o’ truth in that,” interpolates Buck.
“The suicide wouldn’t stand. Not likely to. The cord might be cut away from the wrist; but then there’s Rook’s daughter. She saw him stop with us, and to find him swinging by the neck only half-an-hour after would be but poor proof of his having committed self-murder. No, boys, he must be put clean out of sight.”
“That’s right; that’s the only safe way,” cried all the others.
“Come on, then. We musn’t lose a minute about it. The girl may come back to see what’s keeping him, or old Rook, himself, may be straying that way, or somebody else travelling along the trace. Come on.”
“Stay,” exclaimed Randall. “There’s something yet—something that should be done before any chance separates us.”
“What is it?”
“We’re all alike in this ugly business—in the same boat. It don’t matter who contrived it, or who fixed the rope. We all agreed to it. Is that not so?”
“Yes, all. I for one acknowledge it.”
“And I!”
“And I!”
All six give their assent, showing at least loyalty to one another.
“Well, then,” continues Randall, “we must be true to each other. We must swear it, and now, before going further. I propose we all take an oath.”
“We’ll do that. You, Randall, you repeat it over, and we’ll follow you.”
“Head your horses round, then, face to face.”
The horses are drawn into a circle, their heads together, with muzzles almost touching.
Randall proceeds, the rest repeating after him.
“We swear, each and every one of us, never to make known by act, word, or deed, the way in which the half-breed Indian, called Choc, came by his death, and we mutually promise never to divulge the circumstances connected with that affair, even if called upon in a court of law; and, finally, we swear to be true to each other in keeping this promise until death.”
“Now,” says Brandon, as soon as the six young scoundrels have shaken hands over their abominable compact, “let us on, and put the Indian out of sight. I know a pool close by, deep enough to drown him. If he do get discovered, that will look better than hanging.”
There is no reply to this astute proposal; and though it helps to allay their apprehensions, they advance in solemn silence towards the scene of their deserted bivouac.
There is not one of them who does not dread to go back in that glade, so lately gay with their rude roystering; not one who would not give the horse he is riding and the gun he carries in his hand, never to have entered it.
But the dark deed has been done, and another must needs be accomplished to conceal it.
Story 1--Chapter IX.
A Compulsory Compact.
Heavy with apprehension, rather than remorse for their crime, the six hunters ride on towards the clearing.
They avoid the travelled track, lest they may meet some one upon it, and approach through the thick timber.
Guiding their horses, so as to make the least noise, and keeping the hounds in check, they advance slowly and with caution.
Some of the less courageous are reluctant to proceed, fearing the spectacle that is before them.
Even the loud-talking Slaughter would gladly give up the newly-conceived design, but for the manifest danger of leaving it undone.
Near the edge of the opening, still screened from their view by the interposing trunks and cane-culms, they again halt, and hold council—this time speaking in whispers.
“We should not all go forward,” suggests the son of the tavern-keeper. “Better only one or two at first, to see how the land lies.”
“That would be better,” chimes in Spence.
“Who’ll go, then?”
Buck and Brandon are pointed out by the eyes of the others resting upon them. These two have been leaders throughout the whole affair. Without showing poltroon, they cannot hang back now.
They volunteer for the duty, but not without show of reluctance. It is anything but agreeable.
“Let’s leave our horses. We’ll be better without them. If there’s any one on the ground, we can steal back without being seen.”
It is the young planter’s proposition, and Buck consents to it.
They slip out of their saddles, pass the bridles to two of those who stay behind, and then, like a couple of cougars stealing upon the unsuspicious fawn, silently make their way through the underwood.
The clearing is soon under their eyes, with all it contains.
There is the carcase of the bear, black with buzzards, and the skin still hanging from the tree.
But the object of horror they expected to see hanging upon another tree is not there. That sight is spared them.
There is no body on the branch, no corpse underneath it. Living or dead, the Indian is gone.
His absence is far from re-assuring them; the more so as, on scanning the branch, they perceive, still suspended from it, a piece of the rope they had so adroitly set to ensnare him.
Even across the glade they can see that it has been severed with the clean cut of a knife, instead of, as they could have wished, given way under its weight.
Who could have cut the rope? Himself? Impossible! Where was the hand to have done it? He had none to spare for such a purpose. Happy for them to have thought that he had.
They skulk around the glade to get nearer, still going by stealth, and in silence. The buzzards perceive them, and though dull birds, reluctant to leave their foul feast, they fly up with a fright. Something in the air of the two stalkers seemed to startle them, as if they too knew them to have been guilty of a crime.
“Yes, the rope’s been cut, that’s sartin,” says Buck, us they stand under it. “A clean wheep o’ a knife blade. Who the divvel cud a done it?”
“I can’t think,” answers the young planter, reflecting. “As like as not old Jerry Rook, or it might have been a stray traveller.”
“Whoever it was, I hope the cuss came in time; if not—”
“If not, we’re in for it. Bless’d if I wouldn’t liked it better to’ve found him hanging; there might have been some chance of hiding him out of the way. But now, if he’s been dropped upon dead, we’re done for. Whoever found him will know all about it. Lena Rook knew we were here, and her sweet lips can’t be shut, I suppose. If’t had been only Rook himself, the old scoundrel, there might have been a chance. Money would go a long ways with him; and I’m prepared—so would we all be—to buy his silence.”
“Lucky you riddy for that, Mister Alfred Brandon. That’s jest what Rook, ‘the old scoundrel,’ wants, and jess the very thing he means to insist upon hevin’. Now name your price.”
If a dead body had dropped down from the branch above them it could not have startled the two culprits more than did the living form of Jerry Rook, as it came gliding out of the thick cane close by the stem of the tree.
“You, Jerry Rook!” exclaim both together, and in a tone that came trembling through their teeth. “You here?”
“I’m hyar, gentlemen; an’ jess in time, seeing as ye wanted me. Now, name yur price; or, shall I fix it for ye? ’Tain’t no use ’fectin’ innercence o’ what I mean; ye both know cleer enuf, an’ so do this chile, all ’beout it. Ye’ve hanged young Pierre Robideau, as lived with me at my shanty.”
“We did not.”
“Ye did; hanged him by the neck till he war dead, as the judges say. I kim hyar by chance, an’ cut him down; but not till ’twar too late.”
“Is that true, Rook? Are you speaking the truth? Did you find him dead?”
“Dead as a buck arter gittin’ a bullet from Jerry Rook’s rifle. If ye don’t b’lieve it, maybe you’d step down to my shanty, and see him streeched out.”
“No, no. But we didn’t do it; we didn’t intend it, by Heaven!”
“No swarin’, young fellars. I don’t care what your intentions war; ye’ve done the deed. I seed how it war, and all abeout it; ye hung him up for sport—pretty sport that war—an’ ye rud off, forgitting all abeout him. Yur sport hev been his death.”
“My God! we are sorry to hear it. We had no thought of such a thing. A bear came along, and set the hounds up.”
“Oh, a bar, war it? I thort so. An’ ye tuk arter the bar, and let the poor young fellar swing?”
“It is true; we can’t deny it. We had no intention of what has happened; we thought only of the bear.”
“Wal, now, ye’ll have to think o’ something else. What d’ye intend doin’?”
“It’s a terrible ugly affair. We’re very sorry.”
“No doubt ye air, an’ ye’d be a precious sight sorrier of the young fellar had any kinfolk to look arter it, and call ye to account. As it be, there ain’t nobody but me—and he warn’t no kin o’ mine—only a stayin’ wi’ me, that may make it easier for you.”
“But, what have you done with—the—the body?”
Brandon asks the question hesitatingly, and thinking of Rook’s daughter.
“The body? Wal, I’ve carried it to the shanty, an’ put it out o’ sight. I didn’t want the hul country to be on fire till I’d fust seed ye. As yet, thar ain’t nobody the wiser.”
“And—”
“An’ what?”
“Your daughter.”
“Oh! my darter don’t count. She air a ’bedient gurl, and ain’t gwine to blabbin’ while I put the stopper on her tongue. Don’t ye be skeeart ’beout thet.”
“Jerry Rook!” says Brandon, recovering confidence from the old hunter’s hints, “it’s no use being basket-faced over this business. We’ve got into a scrape, and and we know it. You know it, too. We had no intention to commit a crime; it was all a lark; but since it’s turned out ugly, we must make the best we can of it. You’re the only one who can make it disagreeable for us, and you won’t. I know you won’t. We’re willing to behave handsomely if you act otherwise. You can say this young fellow has gone away—down to Orleans, or anywhere else. I’ve heard you once say he was not to be with you much longer. That will explain to your neighbours why he is missing. To be plain, then, what is the price of such an explanation?”
“Durn me, Alf Brandon, ef you oughtn’t to be a lawyer, or something o’ thet sort. You hit it so adzactly. Wal; let’s see! I risk someat by keepin’ your secret—a good someat. I’ll stand a chance o’ bein’ tuk up for aidin’ an’ abettin’. Wal; let’s see! Thar war six o’ ye. My girl tolt me so, an’ I kin see it by the tracks o’ your critters. Whar’s the other four?”
“Not far off.”
“Wal; ye’d better bring ’em all up hyar. I s’pose they’re all’s deep in the mud as you in the mire. Besides, it air too important a peint to be settled by depity. I’d like all o’ yur lot to be on the groun’ an’ jedge for theerselves.”
“Agreed; they shall come. Bring them up, Bill.”
Bill does as directed, and the six young hunters are once more assembled in the glade; but with very different feelings from those stirring them when there before.
Bill has told them all, even to the proposal made by Rook; and they sit upon their horses downcast, ready to consent to his terms.
“Six o’ ye,” says the hunter, apparently calculating the price of the silence to be imposed on him; “all o’ ye sons o’ rich men, and all able to pay me a hundred dollars a-year for the term o’ my nateral life. Six hundred dollars. ’Tain’t much to talk abeout; jess keep my old carcase from starvin’. Huntin’s gone to the dogs ’bout hyar, an’ you fellars hev hed somethin’ to do in sendin’ it thar. So on that account o’ itself ye oughter be only too happy in purvidin’ for one whose business ye’ve speiled. It air only by way o’ a penshun. Hundred dollars apiece, and that reg’larly paid pre-annum. Ye all know what ’tis for. Do ye consent?”
“I do.”
“And I.”
“And I.”
And so signify the six.
“Wal, then, ye may go hum; ye’ll hear no more ’beout this bizness from me, ’ceptin’ any o’ ye shed be sech a dod-rotted fool as ter fall behind wi’ yur payments. Ef ye do, by the Eturnal—”
“You needn’t, Jerry Rook,” interposes Brandon, to avoid hearing the threat; “you may depend upon us. I shall myself be responsible for all.”
“Enuf sed. Abeout this bar skin hanging on the tree. I ’spose ye don’t want to take that wi’ ye? I may take’ it, may I, by way o’ earnest to the bargain?”
No one opposes the request. The old hunter is made welcome to the spoils of the chase, both those on the spot and in the forest further off.
They who obtained them are but too glad to surrender every souvenir that may remind them of that ill-spent day.
Slow, and with bitter thoughts, they ride off, each to return to his own home, leaving Jerry Rook alone to chuckle over the accursed compact.
And this does he to his satisfaction.
“Now!” cries he, sweeping the bear’s skin from the branch, and striding off along the trace; “now to make things squar wi’ Dick Tarleton. Ef I ken do thet, I’ll sot this day down in the kullinder as bein’ the luckiest o’ my life.”
The sound of human voices has ceased in the glade. There is heard only the “whish” of wings as the buzzards return to their interrupted repast.
Story 1--Chapter X.
Vows of Vengeance.
The sun is down, and there is deep darkness over the firmament; deeper under the shadows of the forest. But for the gleam of the lightning bugs, the forms of two men standing under the trees could scarce be distinguished.
By such fickle light it is impossible to read their features, but by their voices may they be recognised, engaged as they are in an earnest conversation.
They are Jerry Rook and Dick Tarleton.
The scene is on the bank of the sluggish stream or bayou, that runs past the dwelling of the hunter, and not twenty yards from the shanty itself. Out of this they have just stepped apparently for the purpose of carrying on their conversation beyond earshot of any one.
The faint light burning within the cabin, that part of it that serves as sitting-room and kitchen, is from the fire. But there is no one there; no living thing save the hound slumbering upon the hearth.
A still duller light from a dip candle shows through the slits of a shut door, communicating with an inner apartment. One gazing in might see the silhouette of a young girl seated by the side of a low bedstead, on which lies stretched the form of a youth apparently asleep. At all events, he stirs not, and the girl regards him in silence. There is just enough light to show that her looks are full of anxiety or sadness, but not sufficient to reveal which of the two, or whether both.
The two men outside have stopped by the stem of a large cottonwood, and are but continuing a dialogue commenced by the kitchen fire, that had been kindled but for the cooking of the evening meal, now eaten. It is still warm autumn weather, and the bears have not begun to hybernate.
“I tell ye, Dick,” says the old hunter, whose turn it is to speak, “for you to talk o’ revenge an’ that sort o’ thing air the darndest kind o’ nonsense. Take it afore the coort ideed! What good ’ud thet do ye? They’d be the coort, an’ the jedges; that is, thar fathers wud, an’ ye’d stan’ as much chance o’ gettin’ jestice out o’ ’em as ye wud o’ lightin’ yur pipe at one o’ them thar fire-bugs. They’ve got the money an’ the inflooence, an’ thar’s no law in these parts, ’ithout one or the t’other.”
“I know it—I know it,” says Tarleton, with bitter emphasis.
“I reckin ye’ve reezun to know it, Dick, now you haven’t the money to spare for sech purposes, an’, therefore, on thet score ’ud stan’ no chance. Besides thar’s the old charge agin ye, and ye dasent appear to parsecute. It’s the same men ye see, or the sons o’ the same—”
“Curse them! The very same. Buck, Brandon, Randall—every one of them. Oh, God! There is destiny in it! ’Twas their fathers who ruined me, blighted my whole life, and now the sons to have done this. Strange—fearfully strange!”
“Wal, it air kewrious, I admit, an’ do look as ef the devvil hed a hand in’t. But he’s playin’ agen ye, Dick, yet, an’ he’d beat ye sure, ef ye try to fout agin him. Take the device I’ve gin ye, an’ git out o’ his and thar way as fur’s ye kin. Kaliforny’s a good way off. Go thar as ye intended. Git rich if ye kin, an’ ye think ye hev a chance. Do that, and then kum back hyar ef ye like. When yur pockets are well filled wi’ them thar shinin’ pebbles, ye kin command the law as ye like, and hev as much o’ it as ye’ve a mind to.”
“I shall have it for my own wrongs, or for his.”
“Wal, I reck’n you hev reezun both ways. They used you durn’d ill. Thar’s no doubt o’ that. Still, Dick, ye must acknowledge that appearances war dreadfully agin’ ye.”
“Against me—perdition! From the way you say that, Jerry Rook, I might fancy that you too believed it. If I thought you did—”
“But I didn’t, an’ don’t, ne’er a bit o’ it, Dick. I know you war innercent o’ thet.
“Jerry Rook, I have sworn to you, and swear it again, that I am as innocent of that girl’s murder as if I had never seen her. I acknowledge that she used to meet me in the woods, and on the spot where she was found with a bullet through her heart, and my own pistol lying empty beside her. The pistol was stolen from my house by him who did the deed. It was one of the two men; which, I could never tell. It was either Buck or Brandon, the fathers of those fellows who have been figuring to-day. Like father, like son! Both were mad after the girl, and jealous of me. They knew I had outshined them, and that was no doubt their reason for destroying her. One or other did it, and if I’d known which, I’d have sent him after her long ago. I didn’t wish to kill the wrong man, and to say the truth, the girl was nothing to me. But after what’s happened to-day, I’ll have satisfaction on them and their sons too—ay, every one who has had a hand in this day’s work!”
“Wal, wal; but let it stan’ over till ye kum back from Kaliforny. I tell, ye, Dick, ye kin do nuthin’ now, ’ceptin’ to git yur neck into a runnin’ rope. The old lot are as bitter agin you now as they war that day when they had ye stannin’ under a branch, wi’ the noose half tightened round your thrapple; and ef ye hadn’t got out o’ thar clutches, why, then thar’d a been an end o’t. Ef you war to show here agin, it wud be jest the same thing, an’ no chance o’ yur escapin’ a second time. Therefar, go to Kaliforny. Gather as many o’ them donicks, an’ as much o’ the dust as ye kin lay yur claws on. Kum back, an’ maybe then I mout do someat ter ’sist ye to the satisfacshin ye speak o’.”
Tarleton stands silent, seeming to reflect. Strange that in all he has said, there is no tone of sorrow—only anger. The grief he should feel for his lost son—where is it?
Has it passed away so soon? Or is it only kept under by the keener agony of revenge?
With some impatience, his counsellor continues:—
“I’ve gin you good reezuns for goin’, an’ if you don’t take my device, Dick, you’ll do a durned foolish thing. Cut for Kaliforny, an’ get gold—gold fust, an’ let the revenge kum arter.”
“No,” answers Tarleton, with an emphasis telling of fixed determination. “The reverse, Jerry Rook, the reverse. For me, the revenge first, and then California! I’m determined to have satisfaction; and, if the law won’t give it—”
“It won’t, Dick, it won’t.”
“Then, this will.”
There is just light enough from the fire-flies to show Jerry Rook the white ivory handle of a large knife, of the sort quaintly called Arkansas tooth-pick, held up for a moment in Tarleton’s hand.
But there is not enough to show Tarleton the dark cloud of disappointment passing over the face of the old hunter, as he perceives by that exhibition that his counsel had been spoken to no purpose.
“And now,” said the guest, straightening himself up as if about to make his departure, “I’ve business that takes me to Helena. I expect to meet that fellow I’ve been telling you of who gave me the gold. He’s to come there by an up-river boat, and should be there now. As you know, I’ve to do my travelling between two days. You may expect me back before sunrise. I hope you won’t be disturbed by my early coming?”
“Come an’ go when you like, Dick. Thar ain’t much saramony ’beout my shanty. All hours air the same to me.”
Tarleton buttons up his coat, in the breast of which is concealed the before-mentioned tooth-pick, and, without saying another word, strikes off for the road leading towards the river and the town of Helena. It is but little better than a bridle trace; and he is soon lost to sight under the shadows of its overhanging trees.
Jerry Rook keeps his place, standing close to the trunk of the cottonwood. When his guest has gone beyond reach of hearing, an exclamation escapes through his half-shut teeth, expressive of bitter chagrin.
Story 1--Chapter XI.
Dick Tarleton.
In the conversation recorded Dick Tarleton has thrown some light on his own history. Not much more is needed to elucidate the statement made by him—that he must do his travelling between two days. He has admitted almost enough to serve the purposes of our tale which refers only to him, though a few more words, to fill up the sketch, may not be out of place.
Richard Tarleton was, in early life, one of those wild spirits by no means uncommon along the frontier line of civilisation. By birth and breeding a gentleman; idleness, combined with evil inclinations had led him into evil ways, and these, in their turn, had brought him to beggary. Too proud to beg, and too lazy to enter upon any industrious calling, he had sought to earn his living by cards and other courses equally disreputable.
Vicksburg and other towns along the Lower Mississippi furnished him with many victims, till, at length, he made a final settlement in the state of Arkansas, at that time only a territory, and, as such, the safest refuge for all characters of a similar kind. The town of Helena became his head-quarters.
In this grand emporium of scamps and speculators there was nothing in Dick Tarleton’s profession to make him conspicuous. Had he confined himself to card-playing, he might have passed muster among the most respectable citizens of the place or its proximity, many of whom, like himself, were professed “sportsmen.” But, Dick was not long in Helena until he began to be suspected of certain specialities of sport, among others, that of nigger-running. Long absences unaccounted for, strange company in which he was seen in strange places—both the company and the places already suspected—with, at times, a plentiful supply of money drawn from unknown sources, at length fixed upon Dick Tarleton a stigma of a still darker kind than that of card-playing or even sharping. It became the belief that he was a negro-stealer, a crime unpardonable in all parts of planter-land—Arkansas not excepted.
Along with this belief, every other stigma that might become connected with his name was deemed credible, and no one would have doubted Dick Tarleton’s capability of committing whatever atrocity might be charged to him.
Bad as he was, he was not so bad as represented and believed. A professed “sportsman,” of wild and reckless habits, he knew no limits to dissipation and common indulgence. Immoral to an extreme degree, it was never proved that he was guilty of those dark crimes with which he stood charged or suspected; and the suspicions, when probed to the bottom, were generally found to be baseless.
There were few, however, who took this trouble, for from the first Dick Tarleton was far from being a favourite among the fellows who surrounded him. He was of haughty habits, presuming on the superiority of birth and education, and—something still less easily tolerated—a handsome personal appearance. One of the finest looking men to be seen among the settlements, he was, it need hardly be said, popular among the fair sex—such of them as might be expected to turn their eyes upon a sportsman.
One of this class—a young girl of exceeding attraction, but, alas! with tarnished reputation—was at the time an inhabitant of Helena. Among her admirers, secret and open, were many young men of the place and of the adjacent plantations. She could count a long list of conquests, numbering names far above her own rank and station in life. Among those were Planter Brandon, the lawyer Randall, and, of lesser note, the horse-dealer, Buck. None of these, however, appeared to have been successful in obtaining her smiles, which, according to general belief, were showered on the dissolute but handsome Dick Tarleton.
However it might have gratified the gambler’s vanity, it did not add to his popularity. On the contrary, it increased the spite felt for him, and caused the dark suspicions to be oftener repeated.
Such were the circumstances preceding a terrible tragedy that one day startled Helena out of its ordinary tranquillity. The young girl in question was found in the woods, at no great distance from the town, in the condition already stated by Dick Tarleton, murdered, and Dick himself was charged with being the murderer.
He was at once arrested and arraigned, not before a regular court of justice, but one constituted under a tree, and under the presidency of Judge Lynch. It was done in all haste, both the arrest and the trial, and equally quick was the condemnation. The case was so clear. His pistol, the very weapon that had sent the fatal bullet, in the hurry and confusion of escape, was let fall upon the ground close by the side of the victim. His relation with the unfortunate girl—some speech he had been heard boastingly to utter—a suspected disagreement arising from it—all pointed to Dick Tarleton as the assassin; and by a unanimous verdict of his excited judges, prompted by extreme vindictiveness, he was sentenced to hanging upon a tree.
In five minutes more he would have been consigned to this improvised gallows, but for the negligence of his executioners. In their blind fury they had but slightly fastened his hands, while they had forgotten to strip him of his coat. In the pocket of this there chanced to be another pistol—the fellow of that found. Its owner remembered it, and, in the hour of his despair, determined upon an attempt to escape. Wresting his wrists free from their fastening, he drew the pistol, discharged it in the face of the man who stood most in his way, and then clearing a track, sprang off into the woods!
The sudden surprise, the dismay caused by the death of the man shot at—for he fell dead in his track—held the others for some time as if spell-bound. When the pursuit commenced Dick Tarleton was out of sight, and neither Judge Lynch nor his jury ever set eyes upon him again.
The woods were scoured all round, and the roads travelled for days by parties sent in search of him. But all returned without reporting Dick Tarleton, or any traces of him.
It was thought that some one must have assisted him in his escape, and suspicion was directed upon a hunter named Rook, who squatted near White River—the Jerry Rook of our tale. But no proof could be obtained of this, and the hunter was left unmolested, though with some additional stain on a character before not reputed very clean.
Such is a brief sketch of the life of Richard Tarleton—that portion of it spent on the north-eastern corner of Arkansas. No wonder, with such a record, he felt constrained to do his travelling by night.
Since that fearful episode, now a long time ago, he had not appeared at Helena or the settlements around—at least not to the eyes of those who would care to betray him. Gone to Texas was the general belief—Texas or some other lawless land, where such crimes are easily condoned. So spoke the “Puritans” of Arkansas, blind to their own especial blemish.
Even Jerry Rook knew not the whereabouts of his old acquaintance, until some six years before, when he had come to his cabin under the shadows of the night, bringing with him a boy whom he hinted at as being his son, the youth who had that day afforded such fatal sport for his atrocious tormentors.
The link between the two men could not have been strong, for the hunter, in taking charge of the boy had stipulated for his “keep,” and once or twice, during the long absence of his father, had shown a disposition to turn him out of doors. Still more so of late; and doubly more when Lena showed signs of interference in his favour. Ever, while regarding his daughter, he seemed to dread the presence of Pierre Robideau, as if the youth stood between him and some favourite scheme he had formed for her future.
There need be nothing to fear now—surely not; if Dick Tarleton would but discharge the debt.
Ah! to suppose this would be to make the grandest of mistakes. The brain of Jerry Rook was at that moment busy revolving more schemes than one. But there was one, grand as it was, dire and deadly.
Let our next chapter reveal it.
Story 1--Chapter XII.
A Traitor’s Epistle.
As already chronicled, Dick Tarleton has started along the forest path, leaving Jerry Rook under the cottonwood tree.
For some time he remains there, motionless as the trunk beside him.
The exclamation of chagrin that escaped him, as the other passed beyond earshot, is followed by words of a more definite shape and meaning. It was Dick Tarleton who drew from him the former. It is to him the latter are addressed, though without the intention of their being heard.
“Ye durned fool! ye’d speil my plan, wud ye? An’ I ’spose all the same if I war to tell ye o’t? But I ain’t gwine to do that, nor to hev it speiled neyther by sich a obs’nate eedyut as you. Six hundred dollars pre annul air too much o’ a good pull to be let go agin slack as that. An’ doggoned if I do let it go, cost what it may to keep holt o’t. Yes, cost what it may!”
The phrase repeated with increased emphasis, along with a sudden change in the attitude of the speaker, shows some sinister determination.
“Dick,” he continued, forsaking the apostrophic form, “air a fool in this bizness; a dod-rotted, pursumptuous saphead. He git satisfakshun out o’ that lot, eyther by the law or otherways! They’d swing him up as soon as seed; an’ he’d be seed afore he ked harm ’ere a one o’ them. Then tha don’t go ’beout ’ithout toatin’ thar knives and pistols ’long wi’ them, any more’n he. An’ they’ll be jest as riddy to use ’em. Ef’t kim to thet, what then? In coorse the hole thing ’ud leak out, an’ whar’d this chile be ’beout his six hundred dollars?” Durn Dick Tarleton! Jest for the sake o’ a silly revenge he’d be a speiln’ all, leavin’ me as I’ve been all my life, poor as he’s turkey gobbler.
“It must be preevented, it must!
“How air the thing to be done? Le’s see.
“Thar’s one way I knows o’, that appear to be eezy enuf.
“Dick has goed to the town, an’s boun’ to kum back agin from the town. That’s no reeson why he shed kum back hyar. Thar’s nobody to miss him! The gurl won’t know he ain’t gone for good. He’s boun’ to kum back afore mornin’, an’ afore thar’s sunlight showin’ among the trees. He’ll be sartin’ to kum along the trace, knowing thar’s not much danger o’ meetin’ anybody, or bein’ reco’nised in the dark. Why shedn’t I meet him?”
With this interrogatory, a fiendish expression, though unseen by human eye, passes over the face of the old hunter. A fiendish thought has sprung up in his heart.
“Why shedn’t I?” he pursues, reiterating the reflection. “What air Dick Tarleton to me? I haint no particklar spite agin him, thet is ef he’ll do what I’ve devised him to do. But ef he won’t, ef he won’t—
“An’ he won’t. He’s sed so, he’s swore it.
“What, then! Am I to lose six hundred dollars pre-annum, jess for the satisfakshun o’ his spite? Durned ef I do, cost what it may.
“The thing’d be as eezy es tumbling off o’ a log. A half-an-hour’s squatting among the bushes beside that ere gleed, the pull in’ o’ a trigger, an’ it air done. That mout be a leetle bit o’ haulin’ an’ hidin’, but I kin eezy do the fust, and the Crik ’ll do the last. I know a pool close by, thet’s just the very place for sech a kinceelmint.
“Who’d iver sispect? Thar’s nobody to know; neery soul but myself, an’ I reck’n that ere secret ’ud be safe enuf in this coon’s keepin’.”
For some time the old hunter stands silent, as if further reflecting on the dark scheme, and calculating the chances of success or discovery.
All at once an exclamation escapes him that betokens a change of mind. Not that he has repented of his hellish design, only that some other plan promises better for its execution.
“Jerry Rook, Jerry Rook!” he mutters in apostrophe to himself, “what the stewpid hae ye been thinking o’. Ye’ve never yit spilt hewmin blood, an’ mustn’t begin thet game now. It mout lie like a log upon yur soul, and besides, it’s jest possible that somebody mout get to hear o’t. The crack o’ a rifle air a sespishous soun’ at any time, but more espeeshully i’ the dead o’ night, if thar should chance to be the howl of a wounded man comin’ arter it. Sposin he, that air Dick, warn’t shot dead at fust go. Durned ef I’d like to foller it up; neery bit o’t. As things stan’ thar need be no sech chances, eyther o’ fearin’ or failin’. A word to Planter Brandon ’ll be as good as six shots out o’ the surest rifle. It’s only to let him know Dick Tarleton’s hyar, an’ a direckshun beouts whar he kin be foun’. He’ll soon summons the other to ’sist him in thet same bizness they left unfinished, now, God knows how miny yeer ago. They’ll make short work wi’ him. No danger ov thar givin’ him time to palaver beout thet or anythin’ else, I reckin; an’ no danger to me. A hint’ll be enuf, ’ithout my appearin’ among ’em. The very plan, by the Etarnal!”
“How’s best for the hint ter be konvayed to ’em? Ha! I kin rite. Fort’nit I got skoolin’ enuf for thet. I’ll write to Planter Brandon. The gurl kin take it over to the plantation. She needn’t be know’d eyther. She kin rop up in hur cloke, and gi’e it ter sum o’ the niggers, as’ll sure ter be ’beout the place outside. Thar’s no need for a answer. I know what Brandon’ll do arter gittin’ it.
“Thar’s no time to be squandered away. By this, Dick hes got ter the town. Thar’s no tellin’ how long he may stay thar, an’ they must intrap him on his way back. They kin be a waitin’ an’ riddy, in that bit o’ clearin’. The very place for the purpis, considerin’ it’s been tried arready.
“No, thar arn’t a minnit to be lost. I must inter the shanty, an’ scrape off the letter.”
Bent upon his devilish design, he hastens inside the house; as he enters, calling upon his daughter to come into the kitchen.
“Hyar gurl. Ye’ve got some paper ye rite yur lessons upon. Fetch me a sheet o’t, along wi’ a pen an’ ink. Be quick ’bout it.”
The young girl wonders what he can want with things so rarely used by him, but she is not accustomed to question him, and without saying a word, complies with the requisition.
The pen, inkstand, and paper, are placed on the rude slab table, and Jerry Rook sits down before it, taking the pen between his fingers.
After a few moments spent in silent cogitation, reflecting on the form of his epistle, it is produced.
Badly spelt, and rudely scrawled, but short and simple, it runs thus:—
“To Planter Brandin, Esquare.
“Sir,—I guess as how ye recollex a man, by name, Dick Tarleton; an’ maybe ye mout be desireous o’ seein’ him. Ef ye be, ye kin gratify yur desire. He air now, at this present moment, in the town o’ Helena, tho’ what part o’ it I don’t know. But I know whar he will be afore mornin’. That air upon the road leadin’ from the town t’ward the settlements on White River. He arn’t a gwine fur out, as he’s travellin’ afoot, and he’s sartin to keep the trace through the bit o’ clearin’ not fur from Caney Crik. Ef you or anybody else wants ter see him, that wud be as good a place as thar is on the road.
“Y’urs at command,
“A Strenger but a Fren’.”
Jerry Rook has no fear of his handwriting beings recognised. So long since he has seen it, he would scarce know it himself.
Folding up the sheet, and sealing it with some drops of resin, melted in the dull flame of the dip, he directs it as inside—“To Planter Brandin, Esquare.”
Then handing it to his daughter, and instructing the young girl how to deliver it incog, he despatches her upon her errand.
Lena, with her cloak folded closely around her fairy form, and hooded over her head, proceeds along the path leading to the Brandon plantation. Poor, simple child, herself innocent as the forest fawn, she knows not that she is carrying in her hand the death-warrant of one,—who, although but little known, should yet be dear to her—Dick Tarleton, the father of Pierre Robideau.
She succeeds in delivering the letter, though failing to preserve her incognito. The hooded head proved but a poor disguise. The domestic who takes the epistle out of her hand recognises, by the white out-stretched arm and slender symmetrical fingers, the daughter of “old Rook, de hunter dat live ’pon Caney Crik.” So reports he to his master, when questioned about the messenger who brought the anonymous epistle.
Known or unknown, the name is of slight significance; the withholding of it does not affect the action intended by the writer, nor frustrate the cruel scheme. As the morning sun strikes into the “bit o’ clearing” described in Jerry Rook’s letter, it throws light upon a terrible tableau—the body of a man suspended from the branch of a tree. It is upon the same branch where late hung the young hunter Robideau. It is the body of his father.
There is no one near—no sign of life, save the buzzards still lingering around the bones of the bear, and the quaint, grey wolf that has shared with them their repast. But there are footmarks of many men—long scores across the turf, that tell of violent struggling, and a patch of grass more smoothly trampled down beneath the gallows tree. There stood Judge Lynch, surrounded by his jury and staff of executioners, while above him swung the victim of their vengeance.
Once more had the travestie of a trial been enacted; once more condemnation pronounced; and that tragedy, long postponed, was now played to the closing scene, the dénouement of death!
Story 1--Chapter XIII.
Six Years After.
Six years have elapsed since the lynching of Dick Tarleton. Six years, by the statute of limitations, will wipe cut a pecuniary debt, and make dim many a reminiscence. But there are remembrances not so easily effaced; and one of these was the tragedy enacted in the clearing, near the Caney Creek.
And yet it was but little remembered. In a land, where every-day life chronicles some lawless deed, the mere murder of a man is but a slight circumstance, scarce extending to the proverbial “nine days’ wonder.”
Richard Tarleton was but a “sportsman,” a gambler, if not more; and, as to the mode of his execution, several others of the same fraternity were treated in like fashion not long after, having been hanged in the streets of Vicksburg, the most respectable citizens of the place acting as their executioners!
Amidst these, and other like reminiscences, the circumstance of Dick Tarleton’s death soon ceased to be talked about, or even thought of, except, perhaps, by certain individuals who had played a part in the illegal execution.
But some of these were dead, some gone away from the neighbourhood; while the influx of colonising strangers, creating a thicker population in the place, had caused those changes that tend to destroy the souvenirs of earlier times, and obliterate the memories of many a local legend.
There was one memory that remained fresh—one souvenir that never slept in the minds of certain individuals who still lived in Helena or its neighbourhood. It was of another tragic occurrence that had taken place in the clearing near Caney Creek, on the day before that on which the condemned gambler had been dispatched into eternity.
The knowledge of this second tragedy had been confided only to a few; and beyond this few it had not extended. The disappearance of young Robideau, sudden as it had been, excited scarce any curiosity—less on account of the other and better known event that for the time occupied the attention of all.
The boy, as if feeling the taint of his Indian blood, and conscious of a distinction that in some way humiliated him, had never mixed much with the youth of the surrounding settlement, and for this reason his absence scarce elicited remark.
Those who chanced to make the inquiry were told that Jerry Rook had sent him back to his mother’s people, who were half-breed Choctaw Indians, located beyond the western border of Arkansas territory, on lands lately assigned to them by a decree of the Congress.
The explanation was of course satisfactory; and to most people in Helena and its neighbourhood the boy Robideau was as if he had never been.
There were some, however, who had better reason to remember him, as also to disbelieve this suspicious tale of Jerry Rook, though careful never to contradict it. These were the six youths, now grown to be men, the heroes of that wild, wicked frolic already recorded.
In their minds the remembrance of that fatal frolic was as vivid as ever, having been periodically refreshed by an annual disbursement of a hundred dollars each.
With the exacting spirit of a Shylock, Jerry Rook had continued to hold them to their contract; and if at any time remonstrance was made, it was soon silenced, by his pointing to an oblong mound of earth, rudely resembling a grave, under that tree where he had held his last conversation with his friend, Dick Tarleton.
The inference was that the remains of Pierre Robideau were deposited beneath that sod, and could at any time be disinterred to give damning evidence of his death.
Remonstrance was rarely made. Most of the contributors to Jerry Rook’s income had become masters of their own substance. Still, the compulsory payment of a hundred dollars each was like the annual drawing of a tooth; all the more painful from the reflection of what it was for, and the knowledge as long as their creditor lived there was no chance of escaping it.
Painful as it was, however, they continued to pay it more punctually than they would have done had it been a debt recoverable by court, or an obligation of honour.
They were not all equally patient under the screw thus periodically put upon them. There were two more especially inclined to kick out of the terrible traces that chafed them. These were Bill Buck, the son of the horse-dealer, and Slaughter, who kept the “Helena Tavern,” his father being defunct.
Neither had greatly prospered in the world, and to both the sum of a hundred dollars a-year was a tax worth considering.
In their conversations with one another, they had discussed this question, and more than once had been heard to hint at some dark design by which the impost might be removed.
These hints were only made in presence of their partners in the secret compact, and never within earshot of Jerry Rook.
It is true they were discouraged by the others less harassed by the tax, and, therefore, Jess tempted to take any sinister step towards removing it. They had enough to torment them already.
Both Buck and Slaughter were capable of committing crimes even deeper than that already on their conscience. Six years had not changed them for the better. On the contrary, they had become worse, both being distinguished as among the most dissolute members of the community.
A similar account might be given of the other four; though these, figuring in positions of greater respectability, kept their characters a little better disguised.
Two of their fathers were also dead—Randall, the judge, and Spence, the Episcopalian clergyman, while their sons, less respected than they, were not likely to succeed to their places.
Brandon’s father still lived, though drink was fast carrying him to the grave, and his son was congratulating himself on the proximity of an event that would make him sole master of himself as also of a cotton plantation.
The store-keeper, Grubbs, had gone, no one knew whither—not even the sheriff, loth to let him depart—leaving his son to build up a new fortune extracted out of the pockets of the Mississippi boatmen. The horse-dealer still stuck to his old courses—coping, swopping, swearing—likely to outlive them all.
Among the many changes observable in the settlements around Helena there was none more remarkable than that which had taken place in the fortunes of Jerry Rook. It was a complete transformation, alike mysterious, for no one could tell how it came, or whence the power that had produced it. It appeared not only in the person of Jerry himself, but in everything that appertained to him—his house, his grounds, his dogs, and his daughter; in short, all his belongings.
An old hunter no longer, clad in dirty buckskin, and dwelling in a hovel, but a respectable-looking citizen of the semi-planter type, habited in decent broadcloth, wearing clean linen, living in a neat farm-house, surrounded by fenced fields, and kept by black domestics.
The old scarred dog was no longer to be seen; but, in his place, some three or four hounds, lounging lazily about, and looking as if they had plenty to eat and nothing to do.
But, in the personnel of the establishment, there was, perhaps, no transformation more striking than that which had taken place in Jerry Rook’s daughter. There was no change in her beauty; that was still the same, only more womanly—more developed. But the sun-tanned, barefoot girl, in loose homespun frock, with unkempt hair sweeping over her shoulders, was now, six years after, scarce recognisable in the young lady in white muslin dress, fine thread stockings, and tresses plaited, perfumed, and kept from straying by the teeth of a tortoiseshell comb.
And this was Lena Rook, lovely as ever, and more than ever the theme of man’s admiration.
Despite all this, despite her father’s prosperity, and the comfort, almost luxury, surrounding her, few failed to remark an expression of melancholy constantly pervading her countenance, though none could tell its cause.
Some dread souvenir must have become fixed in the mind of that young girl—some dark cloud had descended over her heart, perhaps, to shadow it for ever!