A rattlesnake sounding its harsh "skirr" under the chair on which the
stranger is sitting could not cause him to start up more abruptly than
he does, when Borlasse says:--
"_Your name is not Philip Quantrell: 'tis Richard Darke_!"
He first half rises to his feet, then sits down again; all the while
trembling in such fashion, that the wine goes over the edge of his
glass, sprinkling the sanded floor.
Fortunately for him, all the others have retired to their beds, it being
now a very late hour of the night--near midnight. The drinking "saloon"
of the Choctaw Chief is quite emptied of its guests. Even Johnny, the
bar-keeper, has gone kitchen-wards to look after his supper.
Only Borlasse witnesses the effect of his own speech; which, though but
whispered, has proved so impressive.
The speaker, on his side, shows no surprise. Throughout all the evening
he has been taking the measure of his man, and has arrived at a clear
comprehension of the case. He now knows he is in the company of Charles
Clancy's assassin. The disguise which Darke has adopted--the mere
shaving off moustaches and donning a dress of home-wove "cottonade"--the
common wear of the Louisiana Creole--with slouch hat to correspond, is
too flimsy to deceive Captain Jim Borlasse, himself accustomed to
metamorphoses more ingenious, it is nothing new for him to meet a
murderer fleeing from the scene of his crime--stealthily, disguisedly
making way towards that boundary line, between the United States and
Texas--the limit of executive justice.
"Come, Quantrell!" he says, raising his arm in a gesture of reassurance,
"don't waste the wine in that ridikelous fashion. You and me are alone,
and I reckin we understand one another. If not, we soon will--the
sooner by your puttin' on no nonsensical airs, but confessin' the clar
and candid truth. First, then, answer me this questyun: Air you, or air
you not, Richard Darke? If ye air, don't be afeerd to say so. No
humbuggery! Thar's no need for't. An' it won't do for Jim Borlasse."
The stranger, trembling, hesitates to make reply.
Only for a moment. He sees it will be of no use denying his identity.
The man who has questioned him--of giant size and formidable aspect--
notwithstanding the copious draughts he has swallowed, appears cool as a
tombstone, and stern as an Inquisitor. The bloodshot eyes look upon him
with a leer that seems to say: "Tell me a lie, and I'm your enemy."
At the same time those eyes speak of friendship; such as may exist
between two scoundrels equally steeped in crime.
The murderer of Charles Clancy--now for many days and nights wandering
the earth, a fugitive from foiled justice, taking untrodden paths,
hiding in holes and corners, at length seeking shelter under the roof of
the Choctaw Chief, because of its repute, sees he has reached a haven of
safety.
The volunteered confessions of Borlasse--the tale of his hostility to
Clancy, and its cause--inspire him with confidence about any revelations
he may make in return. Beyond all doubt his new acquaintance stands in
mud, deep as himself. Without further hesitation, he says--"I _am_
Richard Darke."
"All right!" is the rejoinder. "And now, Mr Darke, let me tell you, I
like your manly way of answerin' the question I've put ye. Same time, I
may as well remark, 'twould 'a been all one if ye'd sayed _no_! This
child hain't been hidin' half o' his life, 'count o' some little
mistakes made at the beginnin' of it, not to know when a man's got into
a sim'lar fix. First day you showed your face inside the Choctaw Chief
I seed thar war something amiss; tho', in course, I couldn't gie the
thing a name, much less know 'thar that ugly word which begins with a M.
This evenin', I acknowledge, I war a bit put out--seein' you round thar
by the planter's, spyin' after one of them Armstrong girls; which of
them I needn't say."