"HELP! HELP!"
Baulked in their attempt to ambuscade the supposed Indians, Clancy and
his companions thought not of abandoning the search for them. On the
contrary, they continued it with renewed eagerness, their interest
excited by the unexplained disappearance of the party.
And they have succeeded in finding it, for it is they who surround
Bosley, having surprised him unsuspectingly puffing away at his pipe.
How they made approach, remains to be told.
On reaching the river's bank, and there seeing nought of the strange
equestrians, their first feeling was profound astonishment. On
Woodley's part, also, some relapse to a belief in the supernatural;
Heywood, to a certain degree, sharing it.
"Odd it air!" mutters Sime, with an ominous shake of the head.
"Tarnashun odd! Whar kin they hev been, an' whar hev they goed?"
"Maybe back, across the river?" suggests Heywood.
"Unpossible. Thar ain't time. They'd be wadin' now, an' we'd see 'em.
No. They're on this side yit, if anywhar on airth; the last bein' the
doubtful."
"Supposin' they've taken the trace we came by? They might while we were
up the road."
"By the jumpin' Jeehosofat!" exclaims Woodley, startled by this second
suggestion, "I never thought o' that. If they hev, thar's our horses,
an' things. Let's back to camp quick as legs kin take us."
"Stay!" interposes Clancy, whose senses are not confused by any
unearthly fancies. "I don't think they could have gone that way. There
may be a trail up the bank, and they've taken it. There must be, Sime.
I never knew a stream without one."
"Ef there be, it's beyont this child's knowledge. I hain't noticed
neery one. Still, as you say, sech is usooal, ef only a way for the
wild beasts. We kin try for it."
"Let us first make sure whether they came out here at all. We didn't
watch them quite in to the shore."
Saying this, Clancy steps down to the water's edge, the others with him.
They have no occasion to stoop. Standing erect they can see hoof-marks,
conspicuous, freshly made, filled with water that has fallen from the
fetlocks.
Turning, they easily trace them up the shelving bank; but not so easily
along the road, though certain they continue that way. It is black as
pitch beneath the shadowing trees. Withal, Woodley is not to be thus
baffled. His skill as a tracker is proverbial among men of his calling;
moreover, he is chagrined at their ill success so far; and, but for
there being no time, the ex-jailer, its cause, would catch it. He does
in an occasional curse, which might be accompanied by a cuff, did he not
keep well out of the backwoodsman's way.
Dropping on all fours, Sime feels for hoof-prints of the horses that
have just crossed, groping in darkness. He can distinguish them from
all others by their being wet. And so does, gaining ground, bit by bit,
surely if slowly.
But Clancy has conceived a more expeditious plan, which he makes known,
saying:
"No need taking all that trouble, Sime. You may be the best trailer in
Texas; and no doubt you are, for a biped: still here's one can beat
you."
"Who?" asks the backwoodsman, rising erect, "show me the man."
"No man," interrupts the other with a smile. "For our purpose something
better. There stands your competitor."
"You're right; I didn't think o' the dog. He'll do it like a breeze.
Put him on, Charley!"
"Come, Brasfort!" says Clancy, apostrophising the hound, while
lengthening the leash, and setting the animal on the slot. "You tell us
where the redskin riders have gone."
The intelligent creature well understands what is wanted, and with nose
to the ground goes instantly off. But for the check string it would
soon outstrip them for its eager action tells it has caught scent of a
trail.
At first lifting it along the ford road, but only for a few yards. Then
abruptly turning left, the dog is about to strike into the timber, when
the hand of the master restrains it.
The instinct of the animal is no longer needed. They perceive the
embouchure of a path, that looks like the entrance to a cave, dark and
forbidding as the back door of a jail. But surely a trace leading in
among the trees, which the plumed horsemen have taken.
After a second or two spent in arranging the order of march, they also
take it, Clancy now assuming command.
They proceed with caution greater than ever; more slowly too, because
along a path, dark, narrow, unknown, shaggy with thorns. They have to
grope every inch of their way; all the while in surprise at the Indians
having chosen it. There must be a reason, though none of them can think
what it is.
They are not long left to conjectures. A light before their eyes throws
light upon the enigma that has been baffling their brains. There is a
break in the timber, where the moonbeams fall free to the earth.
Gliding on, silently, with undiminished caution, they arrive on the edge
of an opening, and there make stop, but inside the underwood that skirts
it.
Clancy and Woodley stand side by side, crouchingly; and in this attitude
interrogate the ground before them.
They see the great tree, with its white shroud above, and deep obscurity
beneath--the moonlit ring around it. But at first nothing more, save
the fire-flies scintillating in its shadow.
After a time, their eyes becoming accustomed to the cross light, they
see something besides; a group of figures close in to the tree's trunk,
apparently composed of horses and men. They can make out but one of
each, but they take it there are two, with two women as well. While
scanning the group, they observe a light larger and redder than that
emitted by the winged insects. Steadier too; for it moves not from its
place. They might not know it to be the coal upon a tobacco pipe, but
for the smell of the burning "weed" wafted their way.
Sniffing it, Sime says:
"That's the lot, sure; tho' thar appears but the half o't. I kin only
make out one hoss, an' one man, wi' suthin' astreetch long the groun--
one o' the squaws in coorse. The skunk on his feet air smokin'.
Strange they hain't lit a fire! True 'tain't needed 'ceptin' for the
cookin' o' thar supper. Maybe they've hed it, an' only kim hyar to get
a spell o' sleep. But ef thet's thar idee why shed yon 'un be stannin'
up. Wal; I guess, he's doin' sentry bizness, the which air allers
needcessary out hyar. How shell we act, Charley? Rush right up an'
tackle 'em? That's your way, I take it."
"It is--why not?"
"Because thar's a better--leastwise a surer to prevent spillin' thar
blood. Ye say, you don't want that?"
"On no account. If I thought there was a likelihood of it, I'd go
straight back to our camp, and leave them alone. They may be harmless
creatures, on some innocent errand. If it prove so, we musn't molest
them."
"Wal; I'm willin', for thet," rejoins Woodley, adding a reservation, "Ef
they resist, how are we to help it? We must eyther kill, or be kilt."
There is reason in this, and Clancy perceives it. While he is
cogitating what course to take, Woodley, resuming speech, points it out.
"'Thar's no use for us to harm a hair on thar beads, supposin' them to
be innercent. For all thet, we shed make sure, an' take preecaushin in
case o' them cuttin' up ugly. It air allers the best way wi redskins."
"How do you propose, Sime?"
"To surround 'em. Injuns, whether it be bucks or squaws, air slickery
as eels. It's good sixty yurds to whar they're squatted yonner. Ef we
push strait torst 'em, they'll see us crossin' that bit o' moonshine,
an' be inter the timmer like greased lightnin' through the branches o' a
gooseberry bush. Tho' out o' thar seddles now, an' some o' 'em
streetched 'long the airth, apparently sleepin', they'd be up an' off in
the shakin' o' a goat's tail. Tharefor, say I, let's surround 'em."
"If you think that the better way," rejoins Clancy, "let us. But it
will take time, and call for the greatest caution. To get around the
glade, without their seeing us, we must keep well within the timber.
Through that underwood it won't be easy. On second thoughts, Sime, I'm
inclined to chance it the other way. They can't possibly escape us. If
they do take to their horses, they couldn't gallop off beyond reach of
our rifles. We can easily shoot their animals down. Besides, remember
there's two to get mounted on each. We may as well run right up, and
determine the thing at once. I see no difficulty."
"Wheesht!" exclaims Woodley, just as Clancy ceases speaking.
"What is it? Do you hear anything, Sime?"
"Don't you, Charley?"
Clancy sets himself to listen, but at first hears nothing, save the
usual sounds of the forest, of which it is now full. A spring night, a
sultry one, the tree-crickets are in shrillest cry, the owls and
goatsuckers joining in the chorus.
But in the midst of its continuous strain there is surely a sound, not
animal, but human? Surely the voice of a man?
After a time, Clancy can distinguish it.
One is talking, in tone not loud, but with an accent which appears to be
that of boasting or triumph. And the voice is not like an Indian's,
while exclamations, at intervals uttered, are certainly such as could
only proceed from the lips of a white man.
All this is strange, and causes astonishment to the travellers--to
Clancy something more. But before he has time to reflect upon, or form
conjectures about it, he hears that which compels him to cast aside
every restraint of prudence; and springing forward, he signals the
others to follow him.
They do, without a word; and in less than twenty seconds' time, they
have entered the shadowed circle, and surrounded the group at which they
have been so long gazing.
Only three figures after all! A man, a horse, with what may be woman,
but looks less like one living than dead!
The man, Indian to all appearance, thus taken by surprise, plucks the
pipe from between his teeth. It is struck out of his hand, the sparks
flying from it, as Woodley on one side and Heywood the other, clutching,
drag him toward the light.
When the moon shines on it, they behold a face which both have seen
before.
Under its coating of charcoal and chalk they might not recognise it, but
for the man making himself known by speech, which secures his
identification. For he, too, sees a familiar face, that of Simeon
Woodley; and under the impression he is himself recognised, mechanically
pronounces the backwoodsman's name.
"Bill Bosley!" shouts the astonished Sime, "Good Lord! Painted Injun!
What's this for? Some devil's doings ye're arter as ye allers war.
Explain it, Bill! Tell the truth 'ithout preevaricashun. Ef ye lie,
I'll split your thrapple like I wud a water-millyun."
"Sime Woodley! Ned Heywood! Joe Harkness!" gaspingly ejaculates the
man, as in turn the three faces appear before him. "God Almighty!
what's it mean?"
"We'll answer that when we've heern _your_ story. Quick, tell it."
"I can't; your chokin' me. For God's sake, Heywood, take your hand off
my throat. O Sime! sure you don't intend killin' me?--ye won't, ye
won't."
"That depends--"
"But I aint to blame. Afore heaven, I swear I aint. You know that,
Harkness? You heard me protest against their ugly doin's more than
once. In this business, now, I'm only actin' under the captin's order.
He sent me 'long with the lootenant to take care of--"
"The lieutenant!" interrupts Clancy. "What name?"
"Phil Quantrell, we call him; though I guess he's got another--"
"Where is he?" inquires Clancy, tortured with a terrible suspicion.
"He went t'other side the tree, takin' the young lady along."
At that moment comes a cry from behind the oak--a woman's voice calling
"Help! help!"
Clancy stays not to hear more, but rushes off with the air of a man
struck with sudden phrenzy!
On turning the trunk, he sees other forms, a horse with man mounted, a
woman before him he endeavours to restrain, who, struggling, thirsts for
succour.
It is nigh, though near being too late. But for a fortunate
circumstance, it would be. The horse, headed towards the forest, is
urged in that direction. But, frayed by the conflict on his back, he
refuses to advance; instead, jibbing and rearing, he returns under the
tree.
Clancy, with rifle raised, is about to shoot the animal down. But at
thought of danger to her calling "help!" he lowers his piece; and
rushing in, lays hold of the bridle-rein. This instantly let go, to
receive in his arms the woman, released from the ruffian's grasp, who
would otherwise fall heavily to the earth.
The horse, disembarrassed, now obeying the rein, shoots out from under
the oak, and headed across the moonlit belt makes straight for the
timber beyond.
In the struggle Clancy has let go his gun, and now vainly gropes for it
in the darkness. But two others are behind, with barrels that bear upon
the retreating horseman. In an instant all would be over with him, but
for Clancy himself; who, rushing between, strikes up the muzzles,
crying:--
"Don't shoot, Sime! Hold your fire, Heywood! His life belongs to me!"
Strange forbearance; to the backwoodsmen, incomprehensible! But they
obey; and again Richard Darke escapes chastisement for two great crimes
he intended, but by good fortune failed to accomplish.