"T'ike my advice, and come with us fellows to Texas. Before you're long
there, the Mexikin girls will make you stop moping about Miss Armstrong.
After the first _fandango_ you've been at, you won't care a straw for
her. Believe me, you'll soon forget her."
"Never!" exclaims Darke, in the fervour of his passion--thwarted though
it has been--forgetting the danger he is in.
"If that's your detarmination," returns Borlasse, "an' you've made up
your mind to keep that sweetheart in sight, you won't be likely to live
long. As sure as you're sittin' thar, afore breakfast time to-morrow
mornin' the town of Naketosh 'll be too hot to hold ye."
Darke starts from his chair, as if _it_ had become too hot.
"Keep cool, Quantrell!" counsels the Texan. "No need for ye to be
scared at what I'm sayin'. Thar's no great danger jest yet. There
might be, if you were in that chair, or this room, eight hours later. I
won't be myself, not one. For I may as well tell ye, that Jim Borlasse,
same's yourself, has reasons for shiftin' quarters from the Choctaw
Chief. And so, too, some o' the fellows we've been drinkin' with.
We'll all be out o' this a good hour afore sun-up. Take a friend's
advice, and make tracks along wi' us. Will you?"
Darke still hesitates to give an affirmative answer. His love for Helen
Armstrong--wild, wanton passion though it be--is the controlling
influence of his life. It has influenced him to follow her thus far,
almost as much as the hope of escaping punishment for his crime. And
though knowing, that the officers of justice are after him, he clings to
the spot where she is staying, with that fascination which keeps the fox
by the kennel holding the hounds. The thought of leaving her behind--
perhaps never to see her again--is more repugnant than the spectre of a
scaffold!
The Texan guesses the reason of his irresolution. More than this, he
knows he has the means to put an end to it. A word will be sufficient;
or, at most, a single speech. He puts it thus--
"If you're detarmined to stick by the apron-strings o' Miss Armstrong,
you'll not do that by staying here in Naketosh. Your best place, to be
_near her_, will be along _with me_."
"How so, Mr Borlasse?" questions Darke, his eyes opening to a new
light. "Why do you say that?"
"You ought to know, without my tellin' you--a man of your 'cuteness,
Quantrell! You say you can never forget the older of that pair o'
girls. I believe you; and will be candid, too, in sayin', no more is
Jim Borlasse like to forget the younger. I thought nothin' could 'a
fetched that soft feelin' over me. 'Twant likely, after what I've gone
through in my time. But she's done it--them blue eyes of hers; hanged
if they hain't! Then, do you suppose that I'm going to run away from,
and lose sight o' her and them? _No_; not till I've had her within
these arms, and tears out o' them same peepers droppin' on my cheeks.
That is, if she take it in the weepin' way."
"I don't understand," stammers Darke.
"You will in time," rejoins the ruffian; "that is, if you become one o'
us, and go where we're a-goin'. Enough now for you to be told that,
_there you will find your sweetheart_!"
Without waiting to watch the effect of his last words, the tempter
continues--
"Now, Phil Quantrell, or Dick Darke, as in confidence I may call ye, are
you willin' to be one o' us?"
"I am."
"Good! That's settled. An' your comrade, Harkness; I take it, he'll
go, too, when told o' the danger of staying behind; not that he appears
o' much account, anyway. Still, among us _mustangers_, the more the
merrier; and, sometimes we need numbers to help in the surroundin' o'
the horses. He'll go along, won't he?"
"Anywhere, with me."
"Well, then, you'd better step into his bedroom, and roust him up. Both
of ye must be ready at once. Slip out to the stable, an' see to the
saddles of your horses. You needn't trouble about settlin' the tavern
bill. That's all scored to me; we kin fix the proportions of it
afterward. Now, Quantrell, look sharp; in twenty minutes, time, I
expect to find you an' Harkness in the saddle, where you'll see ten o'
us others the same."
Saying this, the Texan strides out into the corridor, Darke preceding
him. In the dimly-lighted passage they part company, Borlasse opening
door after door of several bedrooms, ranged on both sides of it; into
each, speaking a word, which, though only in whisper, seems to awake a
sleeper as if a cannon were discharged close to his ears. Then succeeds
a general shuffling, as of men hastily putting on coats and boots, with
an occasional grunt of discontent at slumber disturbed; but neither
talking nor angry protest. Soon, one after another, is seen issuing
forth from his sleeping apartment, skulking along the corridor, out
through the entrance door at back, and on towards the stable.
Presently, they fetch their horses forth, saddled and bridled. Then,
leaping upon their backs, ride silently off under the shadow of the
trees; Borlasse at their head, Quantrell by his side, Harkness among
those behind.
Almost instantly they are in the thick forest which comes close up to
the suburbs of Natchitoches; the Choctaw Chief standing among trees
never planted by the hand of man.
The wholesale departure appearing surreptitious, is not unobserved.
Both the tavern Boniface and his bar-keeper witness it, standing in the
door as their guests go off; the landlord chuckling at the large pile of
glittering coins left behind; Johnny scratching his carroty poll, and
saying,--
"Be japers! they intind clearin' that fellow Quantrell out. He won't
long be throubled wid that shinin' stuff as seems burnin' the bottom out
av his pocket. I wudn't be surrprized if they putt both him an' 'tother
fool past tillin' tales afore ayther sees sun. Will, boss, it's no
bizness av ours."
With this self-consolatory remark, to which the "boss" assents, Johnny
proceeds to shut and lock the tavern door. Soon after the windows of
the Choctaw Chief show lightless, its interior silent, the moonbeams
shining upon its shingled roof peacefully and innocently, as though it
had never sheltered robber, and drunken talk or ribald blasphemy been
heard under it.
So, till morning's dawn; till daylight; till the sun is o'ertopping the
trees. Then is it surrounded by angry men; its wooden walls re-echoing
their demand for admittance.
They are the local authorities of the district; the sheriff of
Natchitoches with his _posse_ of constables, and a crowd of people
accompanying. Among them are Colonel Armstrong and the Creole, Dupre;
these instigating the movement; indeed, directing it.
Ah knew, from yesterday's newspaper, of the murder committed near
Natchez, as also of the murderer having broken jail. Only this morning
have they learnt that the escaped criminal has been seen in the streets
of their town. From an early hour they have been scouring these in
search of him; and, at length, reached the Choctaw Chief--the place
where he should be found, if found at all.
On its doors being opened, they discover traces of him. No man named
Darke has been there, but one calling himself Quantrell, with another,
who went by the name of Walsh.
As, in this case, neither the landlord nor bar-keeper have any interest
in screening that particular pair of their late guests, they make no
attempt to do so; but, on the contrary, tell all they know about them;
adding, how both went away with a number of other gentlemen, who paid
their tavern bills, and took departure at an early hour of the morning.
The description of the other "gentlemen" is not so particularly given,
because not so specially called for. In that of Quantrell and Walsh,
Colonel Armstrong, without difficulty, identifies Richard Darke and the
jailer, Joe Harkness.
He, sheriff, constables, crowd, stand with countenances expressing
defeat--disappointment. They have reached the Choctaw Chief a little
too late. They know nothing of Borlasse, or how he has baffled them.
They but believe, that, for the second time, the assassin of Charles
Clancy has eluded the grasp of justice.