Nearly three weeks after Borlasse and his brigands crossed the Sabine, a
second party is seen travelling towards the same river through the
forests of Louisiana, with faces set for the same fording-place.
In number they are but a third of that composing the band of Borlasse;
as there are only four of them. Three are on horseback, the fourth
bestriding a mule.
The three horsemen are white; the mule-rider a mulatto.
The last is a little behind; the distance, as also a certain air of
deference--to say nothing of his coloured skin--proclaiming him a
servant, or slave.
Still further rearward, and seemingly careful to keep beyond reach of
the hybrid's heels, is a large dog--a deer-hound. The individuals of
this second cavalcade will be easily identified, as also the dog that
accompanies it. The three whites are Charles Clancy, Simeon Woodley,
and Ned Heywood; he with the tawny complexion Jupiter; while the hound
is Clancy's--the same he had with him when shot down by Richard Darke.
Strange they too should be travelling, as if under an apprehension of
being pursued! Yet seems it so, judging from the rapid pace at which
they ride, and there anxious glances occasionally cast behind. It is
so; though for very different reasons from those that affected the
freebooters.
None of the white men has reason to fear for himself--only for the
fugitive slave whom they are assisting to escape from slavery. Partly
on this account are they taking the route, described as rarely travelled
by honest men. But not altogether. Another reason has influenced their
selection of it while in Natchitoches they too have put up at the
Choctaw Chief; their plans requiring that privacy which an obscure
hostelry affords. To have been seen with Jupiter at the Planter's House
might have been for some Mississippian planter to remember, and
identify, him as the absconded slave of Ephraim Darke. A _contretemps_
less likely to occur at the Choctaw Chief, and there stayed they. It
would have been Woodley's choice anyhow; the hunter having frequently
before made this house his home; there meeting many others of his kind
and calling.
On this occasion his sojourn in it has been short; only long enough for
him and his travelling companions to procure a mount for their journey
into Texas. And while thus occupied they have learnt something, which
determined them as to the route they should take. Not the direct road
for Nacogdoches by which Colonel Armstrong and his emigrants have gone,
some ten days before; but a trail taken by another party that had been
staying at the Choctaw Chief, and left Natchitoches at an earlier
period--that they are now on.
Of this party Woodley has received information, sufficiently minute for
him to identify more than one of the personages composing it. Johnny
has given him the clue. For the Hibernian innkeeper, with his national
habit of wagging a free tongue, has besides a sort of liking for Sime,
as an antipathy towards Sime's old enemy, Jim Borlasse. The consequence
of which has been a tale told in confidence to the hunter, about the
twelve men late sojourning at the Choctaw Chief, that was kept back from
the Sheriff on the morning after their departure. The result being,
that in choice of a route to Texas, Woodley has chosen that by which
they are now travelling. For he knows--has told Clancy--that by it has
gone Jim Borlasse, and along with him Richard Darke.
The last is enough for Clancy. He is making towards Texas with two
distinct aims, the motives diametrically opposite. One is to comfort
the woman he loves, the other to kill the man he hates.
For both he is eagerly impatient; but he has vowed that the last shall
be first--sworn it upon the grave of his mother.
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Having reached the river, and crossed it, Clancy and his travelling
companions, just as Borlasse and his, seek relaxation under the shade of
the trees. Perhaps, not quite so easy in their minds. For the
murderer, on entering Texas, may feel less anxiety than he who has with
him a runaway slave!
Still in that solitary place--on a path rarely trodden--there is no
great danger; and knowing this, they dismount and make their bivouac
_sans souci_. The spot chosen is the same as was occupied by Borlasse
and his band. Near the bank of the river is a spreading tree,
underneath which a log affords sitting accommodation for at least a
score of men. Seated on this, smoking his pipe, after a refection of
corn-bread and bacon, Sime Woodley unburdens himself of some secrets he
obtained in the Choctaw Chief, which up to this time he has kept back
from the others.
"Boys!" he begins, addressing himself to Clancy and Heywood, the mulatto
still keeping respectfully apart. "We're now on a spot, whar less'n two
weeks agone, sot or stud, two o' the darndest scoundrels as iver made
futmark on Texan soil. _You_ know one o' 'em, Ned Heywood, but not the
tother. Charley Clancy hev akwaintance wi' both, an' a ugly
reccoleckshun o' them inter the bargain."
The hunter pauses in his speech, takes a whiff or two from his pipe,
then resumes:--
"They've been hyar sure. From what thet fox, Johnny, tolt me, they must
a tuk this trail. An' as they hed to make quick tracks arter leavin'
Naketosh, they'd be tired on gettin' this fur, an' good as sartin to lay
up a bit. Look! thar's the ashes o' thar fire, whar I 'spose they
cooked somethin'. Thar hain't been a critter crossed the river since
the big rain, else we'd a seed tracks along the way. For they started
jest the day afore the rain; and that ere fire hez been put out by it.
Ye kin tell by them chunks showin' only half consoomed. Yis, by the
Eturnal! Roun' the bleeze o' them sticks has sot seven, eight, nine, or
may be a dozen, o' the darndest cut-throats as ever crossed the Sabine;
an' that's sayin' a goodish deal. Two o' them I kin swar to bein' so;
an' the rest may be counted the same from their kumpny--that kumpny
bein' Jim Borlasse an' Dick Darke."
After thus delivering himself, the hunter remains apparently reflecting,
not on what he has said, but what they ought to do. Clancy has been all
the while silent, brooding with clouded brow--only now and then showing
a faint smile as the hound comes up, and licks his outstretched hand.
Heywood has nothing to say; while Jupiter is not expected to take any
part in the conversation.
For a time they all seem under a spell of lethargy--the lassitude of
fatigue. They have ridden a long way, and need rest. They might go to
sleep alongside the log, but none of them thinks of doing so, least of
all Clancy. There is that in his breast forbidding sleep, and he is but
too glad when Woodley's next words arouse him from the torpid repose to
which he has been yielding. These are:--
"Now we've struck thar trail, what, boys, d'ye think we'd best do?"