Borlasse, riding at the head of his band, has been the first to arrive
at the upper end of the gorge.
Perceiving some figures upon the plain, he supposes them to be Quantrell
and Bosley with the captives. For his face is toward the west, where
the sky is still night-shadowed, and he can but indistinctly trace the
outlines of horses and men. As their number corresponds to that of his
missing comrades, he has no thought of its being other than they. How
could he, as none other are likely to be encountered there?
Congratulating himself on his suspicions of the lieutenant's defection
proving unfounded, and that he will now clutch the prize long coveted,
he gives his horse the spur, and rides gaily out of the gorge.
Not till then does he perceive that the men before him are in civilised
costume, and that but one is on horseback, the other bestriding a mule.
And they have no captives, the only other thing seen beside them being a
dog!
They are not Quantrell and Bosley!
"Who can they be?" he asks of Chisholm, who has closed up behind him.
"Hanged if I know, cap. Judgin' by their toggery, they must be whites;
though 'gainst that dark sky one can't make sure about the colour of
their hides. A big dog with them. A couple of trappers I take it; or,
more likely, Mexican mustangers."
"Not at all likely, Luke. There's none o' them 'bout here--at least
I've not heard of any since we came this side the Colorado. Cannot be
that. I wonder who--"
"No use wonderin', cap. We can soon settle the point by questioning
them. As there's but the two, they'll have to tell who they are, or
take the consequences."
By this, the other robbers have come up out of the ravine. Halted in a
row, abreast, they also scan the two figures in front, interrogating one
another as to who and what they are. All are alike surprised at men
there, mounted or afoot; more especially white men, as by their garb
they must be. But they have no apprehension at the encounter, seeing
there are so few.
The chief, acting on Chisholm's suggestion, moves confidently forward,
the others, in like confidence, following.
In less than sixty seconds they are up to the spot occupied by Clancy
and Jupiter.
Borlasse can scarce believe his eyes; and rubs them to make sure they
are not deceiving him. If not they, something else has been--a
newspaper report, and a tale told by one confessing himself a murderer,
boastfully proclaiming it. And now, before him is the murdered man, on
horseback, firmly seated in the saddle, apparently in perfect health!
The desperado is speechless with astonishment--only muttering to
himself:--"What the devil's this?"
Were the question addressed to his, comrades, they could not answer it;
though none of them share his astonishment, or can tell what is causing
it. All they know is that two men are in their midst, one white, the
other a mulatto, but who either is they have not the slightest idea.
They see that the white man is a handsome young fellow--evidently a
gentleman--bestriding a steed which some of them already regard with
covetous glances; while he on the mule has the bearing of a
body-servant.
None of them has ever met or seen Clancy before, nor yet the fugitive
slave. Their leader alone knows the first, too much of him, though
nothing of the last. But no matter about the man of yellow skin. He
with the white one is his chief concern.
Recovering from his first surprise, he turns his thoughts towards
solving the enigma. He is not long before reaching its solution. He
remembers that the newspaper report said: "the body of the murdered man
has not been found." Ergo, Charles Clancy hasn't been killed after all;
for there he is, alive, and life-like as any man among them; mounted
upon a steed which Jim Borlasse remembers well--as well as he does his
master. To forget the animal would be a lapse of memory altogether
unnatural. There are weals on the robber's back,--a souvenir of
chastisement received for stealing that horse,--scars cicatrised, but
never to be effaced.
Deeper still than the brand on his body has sunk the record into his
soul. He was more than disappointed--enraged--on hearing that Richard
Darke had robbed him of a premeditated vengeance. For he knew Clancy
was again returning to Texas, and intended taking it on his return.
Now, discovering he has not been forestalled, seeing his prosecutor
there, unexpectedly in his power, the glance he gives to him is less
like that of man than demon.
His followers take note that there is a strangeness in his manner, but
refrain from questioning him about it. He seems in one of his moods,
when they know it is not safe to intrude upon, or trifle with him. In
his belt he carries a "Colt," which more than once has silenced a too
free-speaking subordinate.
Having surrounded the two strangers, in obedience to his gesture, they
await further instructions how to deal with them.
His first impulse is to make himself known to Clancy; then indulge in an
ebullition of triumph over his prisoner. Put a thought restraining him,
he resolves to preserve his incognito a little longer. Under his Indian
travestie he fancies Clancy cannot, and has not, recognised him. Nor is
it likely he would have done so, but for the foreknowledge obtained
through Bosley. Even now only by his greater bulk is the robber chief
distinguishable among his subordinates, all their faces being alike
fantastically disfigured.
Drawing back behind his followers, he whispers some words to Chisholm,
instructing him what is to be done, as also to take direction of it.
"Give up yer guns!" commands the latter, addressing himself to the
strangers.
"Why should we?" asks Clancy.
"We want no cross-questionin', Mister. 'Tain't the place for sech, nor
the time, as you'll soon larn. Give up yer guns! Right quick, or
you'll have them taken from ye, in a way you won't like."
Clancy still hesitates, glancing hastily around the ring of mounted men.
He is mad at having permitted himself to be taken prisoner, for he
knows he is this. He regrets not having galloped off while there was
yet time. It is too late now. There is not a break in the enfilading
circle through which he might make a dash. Even if there were, what
chance ultimately to escape? None whatever. A score of guns and
pistols are around him, ready to be discharged should he attempt to stir
from the spot. Some of them are levelled, their barrels bearing upon
him. It would be instant death, and madness in him to seek it so. He
but says:--
"What have we done, that you should disarm us? You appear to be
Indians, yet talk the white man's tongue. In any case, and whoever you
are, we have no quarrel with you. Why should you wish to make us
prisoners?"
"We don't do anything of the sort. That would be wastin' wishes.
You're our pris'ners already."