Silent is Clancy, sullen as a tiger just captured and encaged. As the
moments pass, and he listens to the lawless speech of his captors, more
than ever is he vexed with himself for having so tamely submitted to be
taken.
Though as yet no special inhumanity has been shown him, he knows there
will ere long. Coarse jests bandied between the robbers, whispered
innuendoes, forewarn him of some fearful punishment about to be put upon
him. Only its nature remains unknown.
He does not think they intend killing him outright. He has overheard
one of his guards muttering to the other, that such is not the chiefs
intention, adding some words which make the assurance little
consolatory. "Worse than death" is the fragment of a sentence borne
ominously to his ears.
Worse than death! Is it to be torture?
During all this time Borlasse has not declared himself, or given token
of having recognised his prisoner. But Clancy can tell he has done so.
He saw it in the Satanic glance of his eye as they first came face to
face. Since, the robber has studiously kept away from him, riding at
the head of the line, the prisoners having place in its centre.
On arrival at the underwood, all dismount; but only to slake their
thirst, as that of their horses. The spring is unapproachable by the
animals; and leathern buckets are called into requisition. With these,
and other marching apparatus, the freebooters are provided. While one
by one the horses are being watered, Borlasse draws off to some
distance, beckoning Chisholm to follow him; and for a time the two seem
engaged in earnest dialogue, as if in discussion. The chief promised
his followers a spectacle,--a "bit of sport," as he facetiously termed
it. Clancy has been forecasting torture, but in his worst fear of it
could not conceive any so terrible as that in store for him. It is in
truth a cruelty inconceivable, worthy a savage, or Satan himself. Made
known to Chisholm, though hardened this outlaw's heart, he at first
shrinks from assisting in its execution--even venturing to remonstrate.
But Borlasse is inexorable. He has no feelings of compassion for the
man who was once the cause of his being made to wince under the whip.
His vengeance is implacable; and will only be satisfied by seeing Clancy
suffer all that flesh can. By devilish ingenuity he has contrived a
scheme to this intent, and will carry it out regardless of consequences.
So says he, in answer to the somewhat mild remonstrance of his
subordinate.
"Well, cap," rejoins the latter, yielding, "if you're determined to have
it that way, why, have it. But let it be a leetle privater than you've
spoke o'. By makin' it a public spectacle, an' lettin' all our fellars
into your feelins, some o' 'em mightn't be so much amused. An some
might get to blabbin' about it afterwards, in such a way as to breed
trouble. The originality an' curiousness o' the thing would be sure to
'tract attention, an' the report o't would run through all Texas, like a
prairie on fire. 'Twould never sleep as long's there's a soger left in
the land; and sure as shootin' we'd have the Rangers and Regulators hot
after us. Tharfore, if you insist on the bit o' interment, take my
advice, and let the ceremony be confined to a few friends as can be
trusted wi' a secret."
For some seconds Borlasse is silent, pondering upon what Chisholm has
said. Then responds:--
"Guess you're about right, Luke. I'll do as you suggest. Best way will
be to send the boys on ahead. There's three can stay with us we can
trust--Watts, Stocker, and Driscoll. They'll be enough to do the
grave-digging. The rest can go on to the rendezvous. Comrades!" he
adds, moving back towards his men, who have just finished watering their
horses, "I spoke o' some sport I intended givin' you here. On second
thinkin' it'll be better defarred till we get to head-quarters. So into
your saddles and ride on thar--takin' the yeller fellow along wi' ye.
The other I'll look after myself. You, Luke Chisholm, stay; with Watts,
Stocker, and Driscoll. I've got a reason for remaining here a little
longer. We'll soon be after, like enough overtake ye 'fore you can
reach the creek. If not, keep on to camp without us. An', boys; once
more I warn ye about openin' them boxes. I know what's in them to a
dollar. Fernand! you'll see to that."