"To the best of my opeenyun, our plan will be to put straight on to whar
Planter Armstrong intends settin' up his sticks. I know the place 'most
as well as the public squar o' Natchez. This chile intends jeinin' the
ole kurnel, anyhow. As for you, Charley Clancy, we know whar ye want to
go, an' the game ye intend trackin' up. Wal; ef you'll put trust in
what Sime Woodley say, he sez this: ye'll find that game in the
neighbourhood o' Helen Armstrong;--nigh to her as it dar' ventur'."
The final words have an inflammatory effect upon Clancy. He springs up
from the log, and strides over the ground, with a wild look and
strangely excited air. He seems impatient to be back in his saddle.
"In coorse," resumes Woodley, "we'll foller the trail o' Borlasse an'
his lot. It air sure to lead to the same place. What they're arter
'tain't eezy to tell. Some deviltry, for sartin. They purtend to make
thar livin' by ropin' wild horses? I guess he gits more by takin' them
as air tame;--as you, Clancy, hev reezun to know. I hain't a doubt he'd
do wuss than that, ef opportunity offered. Thar's been more'n one case
o' highway robbery out thar in West Texas, on emigrant people goin' that
way; an' I don't know a likelier than Borlasse to a had a hand in't. Ef
Kurnel Armstrong's party wan't so strong as 'tis, an' the kurnel hisself
a old campayner, I mout hev my fears for 'em. I reckin they're safe
enuf. Borlasse an' his fellurs won't dar tech them. Johnny sez thar
war but ten or twelve in all. Still, tho' they moutn't openly attack
the waggon train, thar's jest a chance o' their hangin' on its skirts,
an' stealin' somethin' from it. Ye heerd in Naketosh o' a young Creole
planter, by name Dupray, who's goed wi' Armstrong, an's tuk a big count
o' dollars along. Jest the bait to temp Jim Borlasse; an' as for Dick
Darke, thar's somethin' else to temp him. So--"
"Woodley!" exclaims Clancy, without waiting for the hunter to conclude;
"we must be off from here. For God's sake let us go!"
His comrades, divining the cause of Clancy's impatience, make no attempt
to restrain him. They have rested and sufficiently refreshed
themselves. There is no reason for their remaining any longer on the
ground.
Rising simultaneously, each unhitches his horse, and stands by the
stirrup, taking in the slack of his reins.
Before they can spring into their saddles, the deer-hound darts off from
their midst--as he does so giving out a growl.
The stroke of a hoof tells them of some one approaching, and the next
moment a horseman is seen through the trees.
Apparently undaunted, he comes on towards their camp ground; but when
near enough to have fair view of their faces, he suddenly reins up, and
shows signs of a desire to retreat.
If this be his intention, it is too late.
Before he can wrench round his horse a rifle is levelled, its barrel
bearing upon his body; while a voice sounds threateningly in his ears,
in clear tone, pronouncing the words,--
"Keep yur ground, Joe Harkness! Don't attempt retreetin'. If ye do,
I'll send a bullet through ye sure as my name's Sime Woodley."
The threat is sufficient. Harkness--for it is he--ceases tugging upon
his rein, and permits his horse to stand still.
Then, at a second command from Woodley, accompanied by; a similar
menace, he urges the animal into action, and moves on towards their
bivouac.
In less than sixty seconds after, he is in their midst, dismounted and
down upon his knees, piteously appealing to them to spare his life.
The ex-jailor's story is soon told, and that without any reservation.
The man who has connived at Richard Darke's escape, and made money by
the connivance, is now more than repentant for his dereliction of duty.
For he has not only been bullied by Borlasse's band, but stripped of his
ill-gotten gains. Still more, beaten, and otherwise so roughly handled
that he has been long trying to get quit of their company. Having
stolen away from their camp--while the robbers were asleep--he is now
returning along the trail they had taken into Texas, on his way back to
the States, with not much left him, except a very sorry horse and a
sorrowing heart.
His captors soon discover that, with his sorrow, there is an admixture
of spite against his late associates. Against Darke in particular, who
has proved ungrateful for the great service done him.
All this does Harkness communicate to them, and something besides.
Something that sets Clancy well-nigh crazed, and makes almost as much
impression upon his fellow-travellers.
After hearing it they bound instantly to their saddles, and spur away
from the spot; Harkness, as commanded, following at their horses' heels.
This he does without daring to disobey; trotting after, in company with
the dog, seemingly less cur than himself.
They have no fear of his falling back. Woodley's rifle, whose barrel
has been already borne upon him, can be again brought to the level in an
instant of time.
The thought holds him secure, as if a trail-rope attached him to the
tail of the hunter's horse.