The Death Shot: A Story Retold

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 façade 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 échelon, 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?