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“I mean, uncle, that that fellow’s been misleading us. I won’t say it for certain; but it looks ugly. We’ve come more than five miles – six, I should say – and where’s the tree? I’ve examined the horizon, with a pair of as good eyes as most have got, I reckon; and there isn’t such a thing in sight.”
“But why should the stranger have deceived us?”
“Ah – why? That’s just it. There may be more reasons than one.”
“Give us one, then!” challenged a silvery voice from the carriole. “We’re all ears to hear it!”
“You’re all ears to take in everything that’s told you by a stranger,” sneeringly replied Calhoun. “I suppose if I gave my reason, you’d be so charitable as to call it a false alarm!”
“That depends on its character, Master Cassius. I think you might venture to try us. We scarcely expect a false alarm from a soldier, as well as traveller, of your experience.”
Calhoun felt the taunt; and would probably have withheld the communication he had intended to make, but for Poindexter himself.
“Come, Cassius, explain yourself!” demanded the planter, in a tone of respectful authority. “You have said enough to excite something more than curiosity. For what reason should the young fellow be leading us astray?”
“Well, uncle,” answered the ex-officer, retreating a little from his original accusation, “I haven’t said for certain that he is; only that it looks like it.”
“In what way?”
“Well, one don’t know what may happen. Travelling parties as strong, and stronger than we, have been attacked on these plains, and plundered of every thing – murdered.”
“Mercy!” exclaimed Louise, in a tone of terror, more affected than real.
“By Indians,” replied Poindexter.
“Ah – Indians, indeed! Sometimes it may be; and sometimes, too, they may be whites who play at that game – not all Mexican whites, neither. It only needs a bit of brown paint; a horsehair wig, with half a dozen feathers stuck into it; that, and plenty of hullabalooing[51 - hullabalooing – making a lot of noise about smth; expressing excitement]. If we were to be robbed by a party of white Indians, it wouldn’t be the first time the thing’s been done. We as good as half deserve it – for our greenness, in trusting too much to a stranger.”
“Good heavens, nephew! this is a serious accusation. Do you mean to say that the despatch-rider – if he be one – is leading us into – into an ambuscade[52 - ambuscade = ambush – an unexpected attack from a hidden place]?”
“No, uncle; I don’t say that. I only say that such things have been done; and it’s possible he may.”
“But not probable,” emphatically interposed the voice from the carriole, in a tone tauntingly quizzical.
“No!” exclaimed the stripling Henry, who, although riding a few paces ahead, had overheard the conversation. “Your suspicions are unjust, cousin Cassius. I pronounce them a calumny. What’s more, I can prove them so. Look there!”
The youth had reined up his horse, and was pointing to an object placed conspicuously by the side of the path; which, before speaking, he had closely scrutinised. It was a tall plant of the columnar cactus, whose green succulent stem had escaped scathing by the fire.
It was not to the plant itself that Henry Poindexter directed the attention of his companions; but to a small white disc, of the form of a parallelogram, impaled upon one of its spines. No one accustomed to the usages of civilised life could mistake the “card.” It was one.
“Hear what’s written upon it!” continued the young man, riding nearer, and reading aloud the directions pencilled upon the bit of pasteboard.
“The cypress in sight!”
“Where?” inquired Poindexter.
“There’s a hand,” rejoined Henry, “with a finger pointing – no doubt in the direction of the tree.”
All eyes were instantly turned towards the quarter of the compass, indicated by the cipher on the card.
Had the sun been shining, the cypress might have been seen at the first glance. As it was, the sky – late of cerulean hue – was now of a leaden grey; and no straining of the eyes could detect anything along the horizon resembling the top of a tree.
“There’s nothing of the kind,” asserted Calhoun, with restored confidence, at the same time returning to his unworthy accusation. “It’s only a dodge – another link in the chain of tricks the scamp is playing us.”
“You mistake, cousin Cassius,” replied that same voice that had so often contradicted him. “Look through this lorgnette[53 - lorgnette = binoculars, field-glasses (French)]! If you haven’t lost the sight of those superior eyes of yours, you’ll see something very like a tree – a tall tree – and a cypress, too, if ever there was one in the swamps of Louisiana.”
Calhoun disdained to take the opera glass from the hands of his cousin. He knew it would convict him: for he could not suppose she was telling an untruth.
Poindexter availed himself of its aid; and, adjusting the focus to his failing sight, was enabled to distinguish the red-leafed cypress, topping up over the edge of the prairie.
“It’s true,” he said: “the tree is there. The young fellow is honest: you’ve been wronging him, Cash. I didn’t think it likely he should have taken such a queer plan to make fools of us. He there! Mr Sansom! Direct your teamsters to drive on!”
Calhoun, not caring to continue the conversation, nor yet remain longer in company, spitefully spurred his horse, and trotted off over the prairie.
“Let me look at that card, Henry?” said Louise, speaking to her brother in a restrained voice. “I’m curious to see the cipher that has been of such service to us. Bring it away, brother: it can be of no further use where it is – now that we have sighted the tree.”
Henry, without the slightest suspicion of his sister’s motive for making the request, yielded obedience to it.
Releasing the piece of pasteboard from its impalement, he “chucked” it into her lap.
“Maurice Gerald!” muttered the young Creole, after deciphering the name upon the card. “Maurice Gerald!” she repeated, in apostrophic thought, as she deposited the piece of pasteboard in her bosom. “Whoever you are – whence you have come – whither you are going – what you may be – Henceforth there is a fate between us! I feel it – I know it – sure as there’s a sky above! Oh! how that sky lowers! Am I to take it as a type of this still untraced destiny?”
Chapter 4
The Black Norther
For some seconds, after surrendering herself to the Sybilline thoughts thus expressed, the young lady sate in silence – her white hands clasped across her temples, as if her whole soul was absorbed in an attempt, either to explain the past, or penetrate the future.
Her reverie – whatever might be its cause – was not of long duration. She was awakened from it, on hearing exclamations without – mingled with words that declared some object of apprehension.
She recognised her brother’s voice, speaking in tones that betokened alarm.
“Look, father! don’t you see them?”
“Where, Henry – where?”
“Yonder – behind the waggons. You see them now?”
“I do – though I can’t say what they are. They look like – like – ” Poindexter was puzzled for a simile – “I really don’t know what.”
“Waterspouts?” suggested the ex-captain, who, at sight of the strange objects, had condescended to rejoin the party around the carriole. “Surely it can’t be that? It’s too far from the sea. I never heard of their occurring on the prairies.”
“They are in motion, whatever they be,” said Henry. “See! they keep closing, and then going apart. But for that, one might mistake them for huge obelisks of black marble!”
“Giants, or ghouls[54 - ghouls – in Arabic folklore, demonic spirits who inhabit cemeteries and deserted places]!” jokingly suggested Calhoun; “ogres[55 - ogres – in fairy-tales, giants eating human beings] from some other world, who’ve taken a fancy to have a promenade on this abominable prairie!”
The ex-officer was only humorous with an effort. As well as the others, he was under the influence of an uneasy feeling.
And no wonder. Against the northern horizon had suddenly become upreared a number of ink-coloured columns – half a score of them – unlike anything ever seen before. They were not of regular columnar form, nor fixed in any way; but constantly changing size, shape, and place – now steadfast for a time – now gliding over the charred surface like giants upon skates – anon, bending and balancing towards one another in the most fantastic figurings!
It required no great effort of imagination, to fancy the Titans[56 - Titans – in Greek mythology, the children of Uranius (Heaven) and Gaea (Earth)] of old, resuscitated on the prairies of Texas, leading a measure after some wild carousal in the company of Bacchus[57 - Bacchus – in Greek mythology and religion, the god of vegetation, better known as the god of wine and ecstasy; in Roman mythology this god is known as Dionysus]!
In the proximity of phenomena never observed before – unearthly in their aspect – unknown to every individual of the party – it was but natural these should be inspired with alarm.
And such was the fact. A sense of danger pervaded every bosom. All were impressed with a belief: that they were in the presence of some peril of the prairies.
A general halt had been made on first observing the strange objects: the negroes on foot, as well as the teamsters, giving utterance to shouts of terror. The animals – mules as well as horses, had come instinctively to a stand – the latter neighing and trembling – the former filling the air with their shrill screams.
These were not the only sounds. From the sable towers could be heard a hoarse swishing noise, that resembled the sough of a waterfall – at intervals breaking into reverberations like the roll of musketry[58 - musketry – from musket – a firearm of the 16
–18
centuries; in the 19
century it was replaced by a rifle], or the detonations of distant thunder!
These noises were gradually growing louder and more distinct. The danger, whatever it might be, was drawing nearer!
Consternation became depicted on the countenances of the travellers, Calhoun’s forming no exception. The ex-officer no longer pretended levity. The eyes of all were turned towards the lowering sky, and the band of black columns that appeared coming on to crush them!
At this crisis a shout, reaching their ears from the opposite side, was a source of relief – despite the unmistakable accent of alarm in which it was uttered.
Turning, they beheld a horseman in full gallop – riding direct towards them.
The horse was black as coal: the rider of like hue, even to the skin of his face. For all that he was recognised: as the stranger, upon the trail of whose lazo they had been travelling.
The perceptions of woman are quicker than those of man: the young lady within the carriole was the first to identify him. “Onward!” he cried, as soon as within speaking distance. “On – on! as fast as you can drive!”
“What is it?” demanded the planter, in bewildered alarm. “Is there a danger?”
“There is. I did not anticipate it, as I passed you. It was only after reaching the river, I saw the sure signs of it.”
“Of what, sir?”
“The norther.”
“You mean the storm of that name?”
“I do.”
“I never heard of its being dangerous,” interposed Calhoun, “except to vessels at sea. It’s precious cold, I know; but – ”
“You’ll find it worse than cold, sir,” interrupted the young horseman, “if you’re not quick in getting out of its way. Mr Poindexter,” he continued, turning to the planter, and speaking with impatient emphasis, “I tell you, that you and your party are in peril. A norther is not always to be dreaded; but this one – look yonder! You see those black pillars?”
“We’ve been wondering – didn’t know what to make of them.”
“They’re nothing – only the precursors of the storm. Look beyond! Don’t you see a coal-black cloud spreading over the sky? That’s what you have to dread. I don’t wish to cause you unnecessary alarm: but I tell you, there’s death in yonder shadow! It’s in motion, and coming this way. You have no chance to escape it, except by speed. If you do not make haste, it will be too late. In ten minutes’ time you may be enveloped, and then – quick, sir, I entreat you! Order your drivers to hurry forward as fast as they can! The sky – heaven itself – commands you!”
The planter did not think of refusing compliance, with an appeal urged in such energetic terms. The order was given for the teams to be set in motion, and driven at top speed.
Terror, that inspired the animals equally with their drivers, rendered superfluous the use of the whip.
The travelling carriage, with the mounted men, moved in front, as before. The stranger alone threw himself in the rear – as if to act as a guard against the threatening danger.
At intervals he was observed to rein up his horse, and look back: each time by his glances betraying increased apprehension.
Perceiving it, the planter approached, and accosted him with the inquiry:
“Is there still a danger?”
“I am sorry to answer you in the affirmative,” said he: “I had hopes that the wind might be the other way.”
“Wind, sir? There is none – that I can perceive.”
“Not here. Yonder it is blowing a hurricane, and this way too – direct. By heavens! it is nearing us rapidly! I doubt if we shall be able to clear the burnt track.”
“What is to be done?” exclaimed the planter, terrified by the announcement.
“Are your mules doing their best?”
“They are: they could not be driven faster.”
“I fear we shall be too late, then!”
As the speaker gave utterance to this gloomy conjecture, he reined round once more; and sate regarding the cloud columns – as if calculating the rate at which they were advancing.
The lines, contracting around his lips, told of something more than dissatisfaction.
“Yes: too late!” he exclaimed, suddenly terminating his scrutiny. “They are moving faster than we – far faster. There is no hope of our escaping them!”
“Good God, sir! is the danger so great? Can we do nothing to avoid it?”
The stranger did not make immediate reply. For some seconds he remained silent, as if reflecting – his glance no longer turned towards the sky, but wandering among the waggons.
“Is there no chance of escape?” urged the planter, with the impatience of a man in presence of a great peril.
“There is!” joyfully responded the horseman, as if some hopeful thought had at length suggested itself. “There is a chance. I did not think of it before. We cannot shun the storm – the danger we may. Quick, Mr Poindexter! Order your men to muffle the mules – the horses too – otherwise the animals will be blinded, and go mad. Blankets – cloaks – anything will do. When that’s done, let all seek shelter within the waggons. Let the tilts be closed at the ends. I shall myself look to the travelling carriage.”
Having delivered this chapter of instructions – which Poindexter, assisted by the overseer, hastened to direct the execution of – the young horseman galloped towards the front.
“Madame!” said he, reining up alongside the carriole, and speaking with as much suavity as the circumstances would admit of, “you must close the curtains all round. Your coachman will have to get inside; and you, gentlemen!” he continued, addressing himself to Henry and Calhoun – “and you, sir;” to Poindexter, who had just come up. “There will be room for all. Inside, I beseech you! Lose no time. In a few seconds the storm will be upon us!”
“And you, sir?” inquired the planter, with a show of interest in the man who was making such exertions to secure them against some yet unascertained danger. “What of yourself?”
“Don’t waste a moment upon me. I know what’s coming. It isn’t the first time I have encountered it. In – in, I entreat you! You haven’t a second to spare. Listen to that shriek! Quick, or the dust-cloud will be around us!”
The planter and his son sprang together to the ground; and retreated into the travelling carriage.
Calhoun, refusing to dismount, remained stiffly seated in his saddle. Why should he skulk from a visionary danger, that did not deter a man in Mexican garb?
