"TO THE JAIL!"
With impatience Judge Lynch and his jurors await the hunter's return.
Before his leaving them, they had well-nigh made up their minds to the
verdict. All know it will be "Guilty," given unanimously. Woodley's
temporary absence will not affect it. Neither the longer time allowed
them for deliberation. If this cause change, it will not be to modify,
but make more fixed their determination. Still others keep coming up.
Like wildfire the news has spread that the mother of the murdered man is
herself stricken down. This, acting as a fresh stimulus to sympathy,
brings back such of the searchers as had gone home; many starting from
beds to which they had betaken themselves after the day's fatigue.
It is past midnight, and the crowd collected around the cottage is
greater than ever. As one after another arrives upon the ground they
step across the threshold, enter the chamber of death, and look upon the
corpse, whose pale face seems to make mute appeal to them for justice.
After gazing on it for an instant, their anger with difficulty subdued
in the solemn presence of death, each comes out muttering a resolve
there shall be both justice and vengeance, many loudly vociferating it
with the added emphasis of an oath.
It does not need what Simeon Woodley has in store to incite them to
action. Already are they sufficiently inflamed. The furor of the mob,
with its mutually maddening effect, gradually growing upon them,
permeating their spirits, has reached the culminating point.
Still do they preserve sufficient calmness to wait a little longer, and
hear what the hunter may have to say. They take it, he has been called
from them on some matter connected with the subject under consideration.
At such a time who would dare interrupt their deliberations for any
trivial purpose? Although none of them has recognised Blue Bill's
voice, they know it to have been that of a negro. This, however, is no
reason why he should not have made some communication likely to throw
new light on the affair. So, on Woodley's return, once more gathering
around him, they demand to hear what it is.
He tells all that has been imparted to him; but without making known the
name of his informant, or in any way compromising the brave fellow with
a black skin, who has risked life itself by making disclosure of the
truth.
To him the old hunter refers in a slight but significant manner.
Comprehending, no one presses for more minute explanation.
"He as says all that," Woodley continues, after stating the
circumstances communicated by the coon-hunter, "has guv me the letter
dropped by Dick Darke; which, as I've tolt, ye, he picked up. Here air
the thing itself. Preehaps it may let some new light into the matter;
though I guess you'll all agree wi' me, it's clar enough a'ready."
They all do agree. A dozen voices have declared, are still declaring
that. One now cries out--
"What need to talk any more? Charley Clancy's been killed--he's been
murdered. An' Dick Darke's the man that did it!"
It is not from any lack of convincing evidence, but rather a feeling of
curiosity, that prompts them to call for the reading of the letter,
which the hunter now holds conspicuously in his hand. Its contents may
have no bearing upon the case. Still it can be no harm to know what
they are.
"You read it, Henry Spence! You're a scholart, an' I ain't," says
Woodley, handing the letter over to a young fellow of learned look--the
schoolmaster of the settlement.
Spence, stepping close up to the porch--into which some one has carried
a candle--and holding the letter before the light, first reads the
superscription, which, as he informs them, is in a lady's handwriting.
"_To Charley Clancy_" it is.
"Charles Clancy!"
Half a score voices pronounce the name, all in a similar tone--that of
surprise. One interrogates,--
"Was that letter dropped by Dick Darke?"
"It was," responds Woodley, to whom the question is addressed.
"Have patience, boys!" puts in the planter, who represents Justice
Lynch; "don't interrupt till we hear what's in it."
They take the hint, and remain silent.
But when the envelope is laid open, and a photograph drawn out, showing
the portrait of a young lady, recognised by all as a likeness of Helen
Armstrong, there is a fresh outburst of exclamations which betoken
increased surprise; this stronger still, after Spence reads out the
inscript upon the picture:
"Helen Armstrong--for him she loves."
The letter is addressed to Charles Clancy; to him the photograph must
have been sent. A love-affair between Miss Armstrong and the man who
has been murdered! A new revelation to all--startling, as pertinent to
the case.--
"Go on, Spence! Give us the contents of the letter!" demands an
impatient voice.
"Yes, give them!" adds another. "I reckon we're on the right track
now."
The epistle is taken out of the envelope. The schoolmaster, unfolding
it, reads aloud:--
"Dear Charles,--
"When we last met under the magnolia, you asked me a question. I told
you I would answer it in writing. I now keep my promise, and you will
find the answer underneath my own very imperfect image, which I herewith
send in closed. Papa has finally fixed the day of our departure from
the old home. On Tuesday next we are to set out in search of a new one.
Will it ever be as dear as that we are leaving behind? The answer will
depend upon--need I say whom? After reading what I have written upon
the _carte_, surely you can guess. There, I have confessed all--all
woman can, could, or should. In six little words I have made over to
you my heart. Accept them as its surrender!
"And now, Charles, to speak of things prosaic, as in this hard world we
are too oft constrained to do. On Tuesday morning--at a very early
hour, I believe--a boat will leave Natchez, bound up the Red River.
Upon it we travel, as far as Natchitoches. There to remain for some
time, while papa is completing preparations for our farther transport
into Texas, I am not certain what part of the `Lone Star' State he will
select for our future home. He speaks of a place upon some branch of
the Colorado River, said to be a beautiful country; which, you, having
been out there, will know all about. In any case, we are to remain for
a time, a month or more, in Nachitoches; and there, _Carlos mio_, I need
not tell you, there is a post-office for receiving letters, as also for
delivering them. Mind, I say for _delivering_ them! Before we leave
for the far frontier, where there may be neither post-office nor post, I
shall write you full particulars about our intended `location'--with
directions how to reach it. Need I be very minute? Or can I promise
myself, that your wonderful skill as a `tracker,' of which we've heard,
will enable you to discover it? They say Love is blind. I hope, yours
will not be so: else you may fail in finding the way to your sweetheart
in the wilderness.
"How I go on talking, or rather writing, things I intended to say to you
at our next meeting tinder the magnolia--our magnolia! Sad thought
this, tagged to a pleasant expectation: for it must be our last
interview under the dear old tree. Our last anywhere, until we come
together again in Texas--perhaps on some prairie where there are no
trees. Well; we shall then meet, I hope, never more to part; and in the
open daylight, with no need either of night, or tree-shadows to conceal
us. I'm sure father, humbled as he now is, will no longer object. Dear
Charles, I don't think he would have done so at any time, but for his
reverses. They made him think of--never mind what. I shall tell you
all under the magnolia.
"And now, master mine--this makes you so--be punctual! Monday night,
and ten o'clock--the old hour. Remember that the morning after? I
shall be gone--long before the wild-wood songsters are singing their
`_reveille_' to awake you. Jule will drop this into our tree
post-office this evening--Saturday. As you've told me you go there
every day, you'll be sure of getting it in time; and once more I may
listen to your flattery, as when you quoted the words of the old song,
making me promise to come, saying you would `show the night flowers
their queen.'
"Ah! Charles, how easy to keep that promise! How sweet the flattery
was, is, and ever will be, to yours,--
"Helen Armstrong."
"And that letter was found on Dick Darke?" questions a voice, as soon as
the reading has come to an end.
"It war dropped by him," answers Woodley; "and tharfor ye may say it war
found on him."
"You're sure of that, Simeon Woodley?"
"Wal, a man can't be sure o' a thing unless he sees it. I didn't see it
myself wi' my own eyes. For all that, I've had proof clar enough to
convince me; an' I'm reddy to stan' at the back o' it."
"Damn the letter!" exclaims one of the impatient ones, who has already
spoken in similar strain; "the picture, too! Don't mistake me, boys. I
ain't referrin' eyther to the young lady as wrote it, nor him she wrote
to. I only mean that neither letter nor picture are needed to prove
what we're all wantin' to know, an' do know. They arn't nor warn't
reequired. To my mind, from the fust go off, nothin' ked be clarer than
that Charley Clancy has been killed, cepting as to who killed him--
murdered him, if ye will; for that's what's been done. Is there a man
on the ground who can't call out the murderer?"
The interrogatory is answered by a unanimous negative, followed by the
name, "Dick Darke."
And along with the answer commences a movement throughout the crowd. A
scattering with threats heard--some muttered, some spoken aloud--while
men are observed looking to their guns, and striding towards their
horses; as they do so, saying sternly,--
"To the jail!"
In ten minutes after both men and horses are in motion moving along the
road between Clancy's cottage and the county town. They form a phalanx,
if not regular in line of march, terribly imposing in aspect.
Could Richard Darke, from inside the cell where he is confined, but see
that approaching cavalcade, hear the conversation of those who compose
it, and witness their angry gesticulations, he would shake in his shoes,
with trembling worse than any ague that ever followed fever.