"You'll excuse me, stranger, for interruptin' you in the readin' o' your
newspaper. I like to see men in the way o' acquirin' knowledge. But
we're all of us here goin' to licker up. Won't you join?"
The invitation, brusquely, if not uncourteously, extended, comes from a
man of middle age, in height at least six feet three, without reckoning
the thick soles of his bull-skin boots--the tops of which rise several
inches above the knee. A personage, rawboned, and of rough exterior,
wearing a red blanket-coat; his trousers tucked into the aforesaid
boots; with a leather belt buckled around his waist, under the coat, but
over the haft of a bowie-knife, alongside which peeps out the butt of a
Colt's revolving pistol. In correspondence with his clothing and
equipment, he shows a cut-throat countenance, typical of the State
Penitentiary; cheeks bloated as from excessive indulgence in drink; eyes
watery and somewhat bloodshot; lips thick and sensual; with a nose set
obliquely, looking as if it had received hard treatment in some
pugilistic encounter. His hair is of a yellowish clay colour, lighter
in tint upon the eyebrows. There is none either on his lips or jaws,
nor yet upon his thick hog-like throat; which looks as if some day it
may need something stiffer than a beard to protect it from the hemp of
the hangman.
He, to whom the invitation has been extended, is of quite a different
appearance. In age a little over half that of the individual who has
addressed him; complexion dark and cadaverous; the cheeks hollow and
haggard, as from sleepless anxiety; the upper lip showing two elongated
bluish blotches--the stub of moustaches recently removed; the eyes coal
black, with sinister glances sent in suspicious furtiveness from under a
broad hat-brim pulled low down over the brow; the figure fairly shaped,
but with garments coarse and clumsily fitting, too ample both for body
and limbs, as if intended to conceal rather than show them to advantage.
A practised detective, after scanning this individual, taking note of
his habiliments, with the hat and his manner of wearing it, would
pronounce him a person dressed in disguise--this, for some good reason,
adopted. A suspicion of the kind appears to be in the mind of the rough
Hercules, who has invited him to "licker up;" though _he_ is no
detective.
"Thank you," rejoins the young fellow, lowering the newspaper to his
knee, and raising the rim of his hat, as little as possible; "I've just
had a drain. I hope you'll excuse me."
"Damned if we do! Not this time, stranger. The rule o' this tavern is,
that all in its bar takes a smile thegither--leastwise on first meeting.
So, say what's the name o' yer tipple."
"Oh! in that case I'm agreeable," assents the newspaper reader, laying
aside his reluctance, and along with it the paper--at the same time
rising to his feet. Then, stepping up to the bar, he adds, in a tone of
apparent frankness: "Phil Quantrell ain't the man to back out where
there's glasses going. But, gentlemen, as I'm the stranger in this
crowd, I hope you'll let me pay for the drinks."
The men thus addressed as "gentlemen" are seven or eight in number; not
one of whom, from outward seeming, could lay claim to the epithet. So
far as this goes, they are all of a sort with the brutal-looking bully
in the blanket-coat who commenced the conversation. Did Phil Quantrell
address them as "blackguards," he would be much nearer the mark.
Villainous scoundrels they appear, every one of them, though of
different degrees, judging by their countenances, and with like variety
in their costumes.
"No--no!" respond several, determined to show themselves gentlemen in
generosity. "No stranger can stand treat here. You must drink with us,
Mr Quantrell."
"This score's mine!" proclaims the first spokesman, in an authoritative
voice. "After that anybody as likes may stand treat. Come, Johnny!
trot out the stuff. Brandy smash for me."
The bar-keeper thus appealed to--as repulsive-looking as any of the
party upon whom he is called to wait--with that dexterity peculiar to
his craft, soon furnishes the counter with bottles and decanters
containing several sorts of liquors. After which he arranges a row of
tumblers alongside, corresponding to the number of those designing to
drink.
And soon they are all drinking; each the mixture most agreeable to his
palate.
It is a scene of every-day occurrence, every hour, almost every minute,
in a hotel bar-room of the Southern United States; the only peculiarity
in this case being, that the Natchitoches tavern in which it takes place
is very different from the ordinary village inn, or roadside hotel. It
stands upon the outskirts of the town, in a suburb known as the "Indian
quarter;" sometimes also called "Spanish town"--both name having
reference to the fact, that some queer little shanties around are
inhabited by pure-blooded Indians and half-breeds, with poor whites of
Spanish extraction--these last the degenerate descendants of heroic
soldiers who originally established the settlement.
The tavern itself, bearing an old weather-washed swing-sign, on which is
depicted an Indian in full war-paint, is known as the "Choctaw Chief,"
and is kept by a man supposed to be a Mexican, but who may be anything
else; having for his bar-keeper the afore-mentioned "Johnny," a
personage supposed to be an Irishman, though of like dubious nationality
as his employer.
The Choctaw Chief takes in travellers; giving them bed, board, and
lodging, without asking them any questions, beyond a demand of payment
before they have either eaten or slept under its roof. It usually has a
goodly number, and of a peculiar kind--strange both in aspect and
manners--no one knowing whence they come, or whither bent when taking
their departure.
As the house stands out of the ordinary path of town promenaders, in an
outskirt scarce ever visited by respectable people, no one cares to
inquire into the character of its guests, or aught else relating to it.
To those who chance to stray in its direction, it is known as a sort of
cheap hostelry, that gives shelter to all sorts of odd customers--
hunters, trappers, small Indian traders, returned from an expedition on
the prairies; along with these, such travellers as are without the means
to stop at the more pretentious inns of the village; or, having the
means, prefer, for reasons of their own, to put up at the Choctaw Chief.
Such is the reputation of the hostelry, before whose drinking bar stands
Phil Quantrell--so calling himself--with the men to whose boon
companionship he has been so unceremoniously introduced; as declared by
his introducer, according to the custom of the establishment.
The first drinks swallowed, Quantrell calls for another round; and then
a third is ordered, by some one else, who pays, or promises to pay for
it.
A fourth "smile" is insisted upon by another some one who announces
himself ready to stand treat; all the liquor, up to this time consumed,
being either cheap brandy or "rot-gut" whisky.
Quantrell, now pleasantly convivial, and acting under the generous
impulse the drink has produced, sings out "Champagne!" a wine which the
poorest tavern in the Southern States, even the Choctaw Chief, can
plentifully supply.
After this the choice vintage of France, or its gooseberry counterfeit,
flows feebly; Johnny with gleeful alacrity stripping off the leaden
capsules, twisting the wires, and letting pop the corks. For the
stranger guest has taken a wallet from his pocket, which all can
perceive to be "chock full" of gold "eagles," some reflecting upon, but
saying nothing about, the singular contrast between this plethoric
purse, and the coarse coat out of whose pocket it is pulled.
After all, not much in this. Within the wooden walls of the Choctaw
Chief there have been seen many contrasts quite as curious. Neither its
hybrid landlord, nor his bar-keeper, nor its guests are addicted to take
note--or, at all events make remarks upon--circumstances which elsewhere
would seem singular.
Still, is there one among the roystering crowd who does note this; as
also other acts done, and sayings spoken, by Phil Quantrell in his cups.
It is the Colossus who has introduced him to the jovial company, and
who still sticks to him as chaperon.
Some of this man's associates, who appear on familiar footing, called
him "Jim Borlasse;" others, less free, address him as "Mister Borlasse;"
while still others, at intervals, and as if by a slip of the tongue,
give him the title "Captain." Jim, Mister, or Captain Borlasse--
whichever designation he deserve--throughout the whole debauch, keeps
his bloodshot eyes bent upon their new acquaintance, noting his every
movement. His ears, too, are strained to catch every word Quantrell
utters, weighing its import.
For all he neither says nor does aught to tell of his being thus
attentive to the stranger--at first his guest, but now a spendthrift
host to himself and his party.
While the champagne is being freely quaffed, of course there is much
conversation, and on many subjects. But one is special; seeming more
than all others to engross the attention of the roysterers under the
roof of the Choctaw Chief.
It is a murder that has been committed in the State of Mississippi, near
the town of Natchez; an account of which has just appeared in the local
journal of Natchitoches. The paper is lying on the bar-room table; and
all of them, who can read, have already made themselves acquainted with
the particulars of the crime. Those, whose scholarship does not extend
so far, have learnt them at secondhand from their better-educated
associates.
The murdered man is called Clancy--Charles Clancy--while the murderer,
or he under suspicion of being so, is named Richard Darke, the son of
Ephraim Darke, a rich Mississippi planter.
The paper gives further details: that the body of the murdered man has
not been found, before the time of its going to press; though the
evidence collected leaves no doubt of a foul deed having been done;
adding, that Darke, the man accused of it, after being arrested and
lodged in the county jail, has managed to make his escape--this through
connivance with his jailer, who has also disappeared from the place.
Just in time, pursues the report, to save the culprit's neck from a
rope, made ready for him by the executioners of Justice Lynch, a party
of whom had burst open the doors of the prison, only to find it
untenanted. The paper likewise mentions the motive for the committal of
the crime--at least as conjectured; giving the name of a young lady,
Miss Helen Armstrong, and speaking of a letter, with her picture, found
upon the suspected assassin. It winds up by saying, that no doubt both
prisoner and jailer have G.T.T.--"Gone to Texas"--a phrase of frequent
use in the Southern States, applied to fugitives from justice. Then
follows the copy of a proclamation from the State authorities, offering
a reward of two thousand dollars for the apprehension of Richard Darke,
and five hundred for Joe Harkness--this being the name of the conniving
prison-keeper.
While the murder is being canvassed and discussed by the _bon-vivants_
in the bar-room of the Choctaw Chief--a subject that seems to have a
strange fascination for them--Borlasse, who has become elevated with the
alcohol, though usually a man of taciturn habit, breaks out with an
asseveration, which causes surprise to all, even his intimate
associates.
"Damn the luck!" he vociferates, bringing his fist down upon the counter
till the decanters dance at the concussion; "I'd 'a given a hundred
dollars to 'a been in the place o' that fellow Darke, whoever he is!"
"Why?" interrogate several of his confreres, in tones that express the
different degrees of their familiarity with him questioned, "Why, Jim?"
"Why, Mr Borlasse?"
"Why, Captain?"
"Why?" echoes the man of many titles, again striking the counter, and
causing decanters and glasses to jingle. "Why? Because that Clancy--
that same Clancy--is the skunk that, before a packed jury, half o' them
yellar-bellied Mexikins, in the town of Nacogdoches, swore I stealed a
horse from him. Not only swore it, but war believed; an' got me--me,
Jim Borlasse--tied for twenty-four hours to a post, and whipped into the
bargain. Yes, boys, whipped! An' by a damned Mexikin nigger, under the
orders o' one o' their constables, they call algazeels. I've got the
mark o' them lashes on me now, and can show them, if any o' ye hev a
doubt about it. I ain't 'shamed to show 'em to _you_ fellows; as ye've
all got something o' the same, I guess. But I'm burnin' mad to think
that Charley Clancy's escaped clear o' the vengeance I'd sworn again
him. I know'd he was comin' back to Texas, him and his. That's what
took him out thar, when I met him at Nacogdoches. I've been waitin' and
watchin' till he shed stray this way. Now, it appears, somebody has
spoilt my plans--somebody o' the name Richard Darke. An', while I envy
this Dick Darke, I say damn him for doin' it!"
"Damn Dick Darke! Damn him for doin' it!" they shout, till the walls
re-echo their ribald blasphemy.
The drinking debauch is continued till a late hour, Quantrell paying
shot for the whole party. Maudlin as most of them have become, they
still wonder that a man so shabbily dressed can command so much cash and
coin. Some of them are not a little perplexed by it.
Borlasse is less so than any of his fellow-tipplers. He has noted
certain circumstances that give him a clue to the explanation; one,
especially, which seems to make everything clear. As the stranger,
calling himself Phil Quantrell, stands holding his glass in hand, his
handkerchief employed to wipe the wine from his lips, and carelessly
returned to his pocket, slips out, and fails upon the floor. Borlasse
stooping, picks it up, but without restoring it to its owner.
Instead, he retires to one side; and, unobserved, makes himself
acquainted with a name embroidered on its corner.
When, at a later hour, the two sit together, drinking a last good-night
draught, Borlasse places his lips close to the stranger's ear,
whispering as if it were Satan himself who spoke, "_Your name is not
Philip Quantrell: 'tis Richard Darke_!"