During the time that Darke is engaged in covering up Clancy's body, and
afterwards occupied in the attempt to kill his dog, the coon-hunter,
squatted in the sycamore fork, sticks to his seat like "death to a dead
nigger." And all the time trembling. Not without reason. For the
silence succeeding the short exclamatory speech has not re-assured him.
He believes it to be but a lull, denoting some pause in the action, and
that one, or both, of the actors is still upon the ground. If only one,
it will be his master, whose monologue was last heard. During the
stillness, somewhat prolonged, he continues to shape conjectures and put
questions to himself, as to what can have been the _fracas_, and its
cause. Undoubtedly a "shooting scrape" between Dick Darke and Charles
Clancy. But how has it terminated, or is the end yet come? Has one of
the combatants been killed, or gone away? Or have both forsaken the
spot where they have been trying to spill each other's blood?
While thus interrogating himself, a new sound disturbs the tranquillity
of the forest--the same, which the assassin at first fancied was the
voice of one wailing for his victim. The coon-hunter has no such
delusion. Soon as hearing, he recognises the tongue of a stag-hound,
knowing it to be Clancy's. He is only astray about its peculiar tone,
now quite changed. The animal is neither barking nor baying; nor yet
does it yelp as if suffering chastisement. The soft tremulous whine,
that comes pealing in prolonged reverberation through the trunks of the
cypresses, proclaims distress of a different kind--as of a dog asleep
and dreaming!
And now, once more a man's voice, his master's. It too changed in tone.
No longer in angry exclaim, or quiet conversation, but as if earnestly
entreating; the speech evidently not addressed to Clancy, but the hound.
Strange all this; and so thinks the coon-hunter. He has but little time
to dwell on it, before another sound waking the echoes of the forest,
interrupts the current of his reflections. Another shot! This time, as
twice before, the broad round boom of a smooth-bore, so different from
the short sharp "spang" of a rifle.
Thoroughly versed in the distinction--indeed an adept--Blue Bill knows
from whose gun the shot has been discharged. It is the double-barrel
belonging to Richard Darke. All the more reason for him to hug close to
his concealment.
And not the less to be careful about the behaviour of his own dog, which
he is holding in hard embrace. For hearing the bound, the cur is
disposed to give response; would do so but for the muscular fingers of
its master closed chokingly around its throat, at intervals detached to
give it a cautionary cuff.
After the shot the stag-hound continues its lugubrious cries; but again
with altered intonation, and less distinctly heard; as though the animal
had gone farther off, and were still making away.
But now a new noise strikes upon the coon-hunter's ears; one at first
slight, but rapidly growing louder. It is the tread of footsteps,
accompanied by a swishing among the palmettoes, that form an underwood
along the edge of the swamp. Some one is passing through them,
advancing towards the tree where he is concealed.
More than ever does he tremble on his perch; tighter than ever clutching
the throat of his canine companion. For he is sure, that the man whose
footsteps speak approach, is his master, or rather his master's son.
The sounds seem to indicate great haste--a retreat rapid, headlong,
confused. On which the peccant slave bases a hope of escaping
observation, and too probable chastisement. Correct in his conjecture,
as in the prognostication, in a few seconds after he sees Richard Darke
coming between the trees; running as for very life--the more like it
that he goes crouchingly; at intervals stopping to look back and listen,
with chin almost touching his shoulder!
When opposite the sycamore--indeed under it--he makes pause longer than
usual. The perspiration stands in beads upon his forehead, pours down
his cheeks, over his eyebrows, almost blinding him. He whips a kerchief
out of his coat pocket, and wipes it off. While so occupied, he does
not perceive that he has let something drop--something white that came
out along with the kerchief. Replacing the piece of cambric he hurries
on again, leaving it behind; on, on, till the dull thud of his footfall,
and the crisp rustling of the stiff fan-like leaves, become both blended
with the ordinary noises of the forest.
Then, but not before, does Blue Bill think of forsaking the fork.
Descending from his irksome seat, he approaches the white thing left
lying on the ground--a letter enveloped in the ordinary way. He takes
it up, and sees it has been already opened. He thinks not of drawing
out the sheet folded inside. It would be no use; since the coon-hunter
cannot read. Still, an instinct tells him, the little bit of
treasure-trove may some time, and in some way, prove useful. So
forecasting, he slips it into his pocket.
This done he stands reflecting. No noise to disturb him now. Darke's
footsteps have died away in the distance, leaving swamp and cypress
forest restored to their habitual stillness. The only sound, Blue Bill
hears, is the beating of his own heart, yet loud enough.
No longer thinks he of the coon he has succeeded in treeing. The
animal, late devoted to certain death, will owe its escape to an
accident, and may now repose securely within its cave. Its pursuer has
other thoughts--emotions, strong enough to drive coon-hunting clean out
of his head. Among these are apprehensions about his own safety.
Though unseen by Richard Darke--his presence there unsuspected--he knows
that an unlucky chance has placed him in a position of danger. That a
sinister deed has been done he is sure.
Under the circumstances, how is he to act? Proceed to the place whence
the shots came, and ascertain what has actually occurred?
At first he thinks of doing this; but surrenders the intention.
Affrighted by what is already known to him, he dares not know more. His
young master may be a murderer? The way in which he was retreating
almost said as much. Is he, Blue Bill, to make himself acquainted with
the crime, and bear witness against him who has committed it? As a
slave, he knows his testimony will count for little in a court of
justice. And as the slave of Ephraim Darke, as little would his life be
worth after giving it.
The last reflection decides him; and, still carrying the coon-dog under
his arm, he parts from the spot, in timid skulking gait, never stopping,
not feeling safe, till he finds himself inside the limits of the "negro
quarter."