Stillness is again restored around the crossing of the San Saba, so far
as it has been disturbed by the sound of human voices. Nature has
resumed her reign, and only the wild creatures of her kingdom can be
heard calling, in tones that tell not of strife.
But for a short while does this tranquillity continue. Soon once more
upon the river's bank resound rough voices, and rude boisterous
laughter, as a band of mounted men coming from the Mission side, spur
their horses down into its channel, and head to go straight across.
While under the shadow of the fringing timber, no one could tell who
these merry riders are; and, even after they have advanced into the open
moonlight, it would be difficult to identify them. Seeing their plumed
heads with their parti-coloured complexions, a stranger would set them
down as Indians; while a Texan might particularise their tribe, calling
them Comanches. But one who is no stranger to them--the reader--knows
they are not Indians of any kind, but savages who would show skins of a
tripe colour, were the pigment sponged off. For it is the band of
Borlasse.
They have brought their booty thus far, _en route_ for their rendezvous.
Gleeful they are, one and all. Before them on their saddle-bows, or
behind on the croups, are the boxes of silver coin; enough, as they
know, to give them a grand spree in the town of San Antonio, whither
they intend proceeding in due time.
But first for their lair, where the spoil is to be partitioned, and a
change made in their toilet; there to cast off the costume of the
savage, and resume the garb of civilisation.
Riding in twos across the river, on reaching its bank they make halt.
There is barely room for all on the bit of open ground by the embouchure
of the ford road; and they get clumped into a dense crowd--in its midst
their chief, Borlasse, conspicuous from his great bulk of body.
"Boys!" he says, soon as all have gained the summit of the slope, and
gathered around him, "it ain't no use for all o' us going to where I
told Quantrell an' Bosley to wait. The approach to the oak air a bit
awkward; therefore, me an' Luke Chisholm 'll slip up thar, whiles the
rest o' ye stay hyar till we come back. You needn't get out of your
saddles. We won't be many minutes, for we mustn't. They'll be a
stirrin' at the Mission, though not like to come after us so quick,
seeing the traces we've left behind. That'll be a caution to them, I
take it. And from what our friend here says," Borlasse nods to the
half-blood, Fernand, who is seen seated on horseback beside him, "the
settlers can't muster over forty fightin' men. Calculatin' there's a
whole tribe o' us Comanches, they'll be too scared to start out all of a
suddint. Besides, they'll not find that back trail by the bluff so
easy. I don't think they can before mornin'. Still 'twont do to hang
about hyar long. Once we get across the upper plain we're safe.
They'll never set eyes on these Indyins after. Come, Luke! let you an'
me go on to the oak, and pick up the stragglers. An' boys! see ye
behave yourselves till we come back. Don't start nail, or raise lid,
from any o' them boxes. If there's a dollar missin', I'll know it; an'
by the Eternal--well, I guess, you understan' Jim Borlasse's way wi'
treeturs."
Leaving this to be surmised, the robber chief spurs out from their
midst, with the man he has selected to accompany him; the rest, as
enjoined, remaining.
Soon he turns into the up-river trace, which none of those who have
already travelled it, knew as well as he. Despite his greater size,
neither its thorns, nor narrowness, hinders him from riding rapidly
along it. He is familiar with its every turn and obstruction, as is
also Chisholm. Both have been to the big oak before, time after time;
have bivouacked, slept under it, and beside booty. Approaching it now
for a different purpose, they are doomed to disappointment. There is no
sign of creature beneath its shade--horse, man, or woman!
Where is Quantrell? Where Bosley? What has become of them, and their
captives?
They are not under the oak, or anywhere around it. They are nowhere!
The surprise of the robber chief instantly changes to anger. For a
suspicion flashes across his mind, that his late appointed lieutenant
has played false to him.
He knows that Richard Darke has only been one of his band by the
exigency of sinister circumstances; knows, also, of the other, and
stronger lien that has kept Clancy's assassin attached to their
confederacy--his love for Helen Armstrong. Now that he has her--the
sister too--why may he not have taken both off, intending henceforth to
cut all connection with the prairie pirates? Bosley would be no bar.
The subordinate might remain faithful, and to the death; still Quantrell
could kill him.
It is all possible, probable; and Borlasse, now better acquainted with
the character of Richard Darke, can believe it so. Convinced of his
lieutenant's treachery, he rages around the tree like a tiger deprived
of its prey.
Little cares he what has become of Darke himself, or Helen Armstrong.
It is Jessie he misses; madly loving her in his course carnal fashion.
He had hoped to have her in his arms, to carry her on to the rendezvous,
to make her his wife in the same way as Darke threatened to do with her
sister.
Fortunately for both, the sky has become clouded, and the moon is
invisible; otherwise he might see that the ground has been trodden by a
half-dozen horses, and discover the direction these have taken. Though
Simeon Woodley, with his party, is now a good distance off, it would
still be possible to overtake them, the robbers being well mounted and
better knowing the way. Woe to Helen and Jessie Armstrong were the moon
shining, as when they parted from that spot!
Neither Borlasse nor his confederate have a thought that any one has
been under the oak, save Quantrell, Bosley, and the captives. How could
they? And now they think not that these have been there; for, calling
their names aloud, they get no response. Little do the two freebooters
dream of the series of exciting incidents that in quick succession, and
so recently, have occurred in that now silent spot. They have no
suspicion of aught, save that Bosley has betrayed his trust, Phil
Quantrell instigating him, and that both have forsaken the band, taking
the captives along.
At thought of their treachery Borlasse's fury goes beyond bounds, and he
stamps and storms.
To restrain him, Chisholm says, suggestingly, "Like as not, Cap',
they're gone on to head-quarters. I guess, when we get there we'll find
the whole four."
"You think so?"
"I'm good as sure of it. What else could they do, or would they?
Quantrell darn't go back to the States, with that thing you spoke of
hangin' over him. Nor is he like to show himself in any o' the
settlements of Texas. And what could the two do by themselves out on
the wild prairie?"
"True; I reckon you're about right, Luke. In any case we musn't waste
more time here. It's getting well on to morning and by the earliest
glint of day the settlers 'll take trail after us. We must on to the
upper plain."
At this he heads his horse back into the narrow trail; and, hurrying
along it, rejoins his followers by the ford.
Soon as reaching them, he gives the command for immediate march;
promptly obeyed, since every robber in the ruck has pleasant
anticipation of what is before, with ugly recollection of what is, and
fears of what may be, behind him.