The Fatal Cord Part 8

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' d.i.c.k 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 ONE, CHAPTER TEN.

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 d.i.c.k 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, d.i.c.k," 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, d.i.c.k, 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 pa.r.s.ecute. 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, G.o.d! 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, d.i.c.k, 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 k.u.m back hyar ef ye like. When yur pockets are well filled wi' them thar s.h.i.+nin' 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, d.i.c.k, 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, d.i.c.k. 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 outs.h.i.+ned 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 k.u.m back from Kaliforny. I tell, ye, d.i.c.k, 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. k.u.m back, an' maybe then I mout do someat ter 'sist ye to the satisfacs.h.i.+n 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 pa.s.sed 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, d.i.c.k, you'll do a durned foolish thing. Cut for Kaliforny, an' get gold--gold fust, an' let the revenge k.u.m 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, d.i.c.k, 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 pa.s.sing 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, d.i.c.k. Thar ain't much saramony 'beout my shanty. All hours air the same to me."

Tarleton b.u.t.tons 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 ONE, CHAPTER ELEVEN.