When once more upon the trail of the man he intends killing, Clancy
keeps on after his hound, with eager eyes watching every movement of the
animal. That Brasfort is dead upon the scent can be told by his excited
action, and earnest whimpering.
All at once he is checked up, his master drawing him back with sudden
abruptness.
The dog appears surprised at first, so does Jupiter. The latter,
looking round, discovers the cause: something which moves upon the
plain, already observed by Clancy. Not clearly seen, for it is still
dark.
"What goes yonder?" he asks, eagerly scanning it, with hands over his
eyes.
"It don't go, Masser Charle, whatever it is. Dat thing 'pears comin'."
"You're right. It is moving in this direction. A dust-cloud; something
made it. Ah! horses! Are there men on their backs? No. Bah! it's but
a drove of mustangs. I came near taking them for Comanches; not that we
need care. Just now the red gentry chance to be tied by a treaty, and
are not likely to harm us. We've more to fear from fellows with white
skins. Yes, the wild horses are heading our way; scouring along as if
all the Indians in Texas were after them. What does that signify?
Something, I take it."
Jupiter cannot say. He is, as he has confessed, inexperienced upon the
prairies, ill understanding their "sign." However well acquainted with
the craft of the forest, up in everything pertaining to timber, upon the
treeless plains of Texas, an old prairie man would sneeringly pronounce
him a "greenhorn."
Clancy, knowing this, scarce expects reply; or, if so, with little hope
of explanation.
He does not wait for it, having himself discovered why the wild horses
are going at such a rate. Besides the dust stirred up by their hooves,
is another cloud rising in the sky beyond. The black belt just looming
along the horizon proclaims the approach of a "norther." The scared
horses are heading southward, in the hope to escape it.
They come in full career towards the spot where the two have pulled up--
along a line parallel to the trend of the cliff, at some distance from
its edge. Neighing, snorting, with tossed manes, and streaming tails,
they tear past, and are soon wide away on the other side.
Clancy keeping horse and hound in check, waits till they are out of
sight. Then sets Brasfort back upon the scent, from which he so
unceremoniously jerked him.
Though without dent of hoof on the dry parched grass, the hound easily
retakes it, straining on as before.
But he is soon at fault, losing it. They have come upon the tracks of
the mustangs, these having spoiled the scent--killed it.
Clancy, halting, sits dissatisfied in the saddle; Jupiter sharing his
dissatisfaction.
What are they to do now? The mulatto suggests crossing the ground
trodden by the mustangs, and trying on the other side.
To this Clancy consents. It is the only course that seems rational.
Again moving forward, they pass over the beaten turf; and, letting
Brasfort alone, look to him. The hound strikes ahead, quartering.
Not long till the vibration of his tail tells he is once more on the
scent.
Now stiffer than ever, and leading in a straight line. He goes direct
for the copse of timber, which is now only a very short distance off.
Again Clancy draws the dog in, at the same time reining up his horse.
Jupe has done the same with his mule; and both bend their eyes upon the
copse--the grove of black-jack oaks--scanning it with glances of
inquiry. If Clancy but knew what is within, how in a glade near its
centre, is the man they are seeking, he would no longer tarry for
Brasfort's trailing, but letting go the leash altogether, and leaping
from his horse, rush in among the trees, and bring to a speedy reckoning
him, to whom he owes so much misery.
Richard Darke dreams not of the danger so near him. He is in a deep
sleep--the dreamless, helpless slumber of intoxication.
But a like near danger threatens Clancy himself, of which he is
unconscious. With face towards the copse, and eyes eagerly scrutinising
it, he thinks not of looking behind.
By the way his hound still behaves, there must be something within the
grove. What can it be? He does not ask the question. He suspects--is,
indeed, almost certain--his enemy is that something. Muttering to the
mulatto, who has come close alongside, he says:--
"I shouldn't wonder, Jupe, if we've reached our journey's end. Look at
Brasfort! See how he strains! There's man or beast among those
black-jacks--both I take it."
"Looks like, masser."
"Yes; I think we'll there find what we're searching for. Strange, too,
his making no show. I can't see sign of a movement."
"No more I."
"Asleep, perhaps? It won't do for us to go any nearer, till sure. He's
had the advantage of me too often before. I can't afford giving it
again. Ha! what's that?"
The dog has suddenly slewed round, and sniffs in the opposite direction.
Clancy and Jupe, turning at the same time, see that which draws their
thoughts from Richard Darke, driving him altogether out of their minds.
Their faces are turned towards the east, where the Aurora reddens the
sky, and against its bright background several horsemen are seen _en
silhouette_, their number each instant increasing. Some are already
visible from crown to hoof; others show only to the shoulders; while the
heads of others can just be distinguished surmounting the crest of the
cliff. In the spectacle there is no mystery, nor anything that needs
explanation. Too well does Charles Clancy comprehend. A troop of
mounted men approaching up the pass, to all appearance Indians,
returning spoil-laden from a raid on some frontier settlement. But in
reality white men, outlawed desperadoes, the band of Jim Borlasse, long
notorious throughout South-Western Texas.
One by one, they ascend _en echelon_, as fiends through a stage-trap in
some theatric scene, showing faces quite as satanic. Each, on arriving
at the summit, rides into line alongside their leader, already up and
halted. And on they come, till nineteen can be counted upon the plain.
Clancy does not care to count them. There could be nothing gained by
that. He sees there are enough to make resistance idle. To attempt it
were madness.
And must he submit? There seems no alternative.
There is for all that; one he is aware of--flight. His horse is strong
and swift. For both these qualities originally chosen, and later
designed to be used for a special purpose--pursuit. Is the noble animal
now to be tried in a way never intended--retreat?
Although that dark frowning phalanx, at the summit of the pass, would
seem to answer "yes," Clancy determines "no." Of himself he could still
escape--and easily. In a stretch over that smooth plain, not a horse in
their troop would stand the slightest chance to come up with him, and he
could soon leave all out of sight. But then, he must needs also leave
behind the faithful retainer, from whose lips has just issued a
declaration of readiness to follow him to the death.
He cannot, will not; and if he thinks of flight, it is instinctively,
and but for an instant; the thought abandoned as he turns towards the
mulatto, and gives a glance at the mule. On his horse he could yet ride
away from the robbers, but the slow-footed hybrid bars all hope for
Jupiter. The absconding slave were certain to be caught, now; and slave
or free, the colour of his skin would ensure him cruel treatment from
the lawless crew.
But what better himself taken? How can he protect poor Jupe, his own
freedom--his life--equally imperilled? For he has no doubt but that
Borlasse will remember, and recognise, him. It is barely twelve months
since he stood beside that whipping-post in the town of Nacogdoches, and
saw the ruffian receive chastisement for the stealing of his horse--the
same he is now sitting upon. No fear of the horse-thief having
forgotten that episode of his life.
He can have no doubt but that Borlasse will retaliate; that this will be
his first thought, soon as seeing him. It needs not for the robber
chief to know what has occurred by the big oak; that Bosley is a
prisoner, Quantrell a fugitive, their prisoners released, and on their
way back to the Mission. It is not likely he does know, as yet. But
too likely he will soon learn. For Darke will be turning up ere long,
and everything will be made clear. Then to the old anger of Borlasse
for the affair of the scourging, will be added new rage, while that of
Darke himself will be desperate.
In truth, the prospect is appalling; and Charles Clancy, almost as much
as ever in his life, feels that life in peril.
Could he look into the courtyard of the San Saba Mission, and see what
is there, he might think it even more so. Without that, there is
sufficient to shake his resolution about standing his ground; enough to
make him spur away from the spot, and leave Jupiter to his fate.
"No--never!" he mentally exclaims, closing all reflection. "As a coward
I could not live. If I must die, it shall be bravely. Fear not, Jupe!
We stand or fall together!"