"It's all alike which way, so long's we go far enough."
"All right!" rejoins Chisholm, who has surrendered his scruples about
the cruelty of what they intend doing, and only thinks of its being done
without danger.
"Boys!" shouts Borlasse to the men in charge of Clancy, "bring on your
prisoner! We're going to make a leetle deflection from the course--a
bit o' a pleasure trip--only a short un."
So saying, he starts off in a northerly direction, nearly at right
angles to that they have been hitherto travelling.
After proceeding about a mile, the brigand chief, still riding with
Chisholm in the advance, comes to a halt, calling back to the others to
do the same--also directing them to dismount their prisoner.
Clancy is unceremoniously jerked out of his saddle; and, after having
his arms pinioned, and limbs lashed together, laid prostrate along the
earth. This leaves them free for the infernal task, they are now
instructed to perform. One only, Watts, stays with the prisoner; the
other two, at the chiefs command, coming on to where he and Chisholm
have halted. Then all four cluster around a spot he points out, giving
directions what they are to do.
With the point of his spear Borlasse traces a circle upon the turf, some
twenty inches in diameter; then tells them to dig inside it.
Stocker and Driscoll draw their tomahawks, and commence hacking at the
ground; which, though hard, yields to the harder steel of hatchets
manufactured for the cutting of skulls. As they make mould, it is
removed by Chisholm with the broad blade of his Comanche spear.
As all prairie men are accustomed to making _caches_, they are expert at
this; and soon sink a shaft that would do credit to the "crowing" of a
South African Bosjesman. It is a cylinder full five feet in depth, with
a diameter of less than two. Up to this time its purpose has not been
declared to either Stocker, or Driscoll, though both have their
conjectures. They guess it to be the grave of him who is lying along
the earth--his living tomb!
At length, deeming it deep enough, Borlasse commands them to leave off
work, adding, as he points to the prisoner: "Now, plant your saplin'!
If it don't grow there it ought to."
The cold-blooded jest extorts a smile from the others, as they proceed
to execute the diabolical order.
And they do it without show of hesitation--rather with alacrity. Not
one of the five has a spark of compassion in his breast--not one whose
soul is unstained with blood.
Clancy is dragged forward, and plunged feet foremost into the cavity.
Standing upright, his chin is only an inch or two above the surface of
the ground. A portion of the loose earth is pushed in, and packed
around him, the ruffians trampling it firm. What remains they kick and
scatter aside; the monster, with horrible mockery, telling them to make
a "neat job of it."
During all this time Brasfort has been making wild demonstrations,
struggling to free himself, as if to rescue his master. For he is also
bound, tied to the stirrup of one of the robber's horses. But the
behaviour of the faithful animal, instead of stirring them to
compassion, only adds to their fiendish mirth.
The interment complete, Borlasse makes a sign to the rest to retire;
then, placing himself in front, with arms akimbo, stands looking Clancy
straight in the face. No pen could paint that glance. It can only be
likened to that of Lucifer.
For a while he speaks not, but in silence exults over his victim. Then,
bending down and tossing back his plumed bonnet, he asks, "D'ye know me,
Charley Clancy?"
Receiving no reply, he continues, "I'll lay a hundred dollars to one, ye
will, after I've told ye a bit o' a story, the which relates to a
circumstance as happened jest twelve months ago. The scene o' that
affair was in the public square o' Nacodosh, whar a man was tied to a
post an--"
"Whipped at it, as he deserved."
"Ha!" exclaims Borlasse, surprised, partly at being recognised, but as
much by the daring avowal. "You do remember that little matter? And me
too?"
"Perfectly; so you may spare yourself the narration. You are Jim
Borlasse, the biggest brute and most thorough scoundrel in Texas."
"Curse you!" cries the ruffian enraged, poising his spear till its point
almost touches Clancy's head, "I feel like driving this through your
skull."
"Do so!" is the defiant and desperate rejoinder. It is what Clancy
desires. He has no hope of life now. He wishes death to come at once,
and relieve him from the long agony he will otherwise have to endure.
Quick catching this to be his reason, Borlasse restrains himself, and
tosses up the spear, saying:--
"No, Mister; ye don't die that eesy way--not if I know it. You and
yours kept me two days tied like a martyr to the stake, to say nothin'
of what came after. So to make up for't I'll give you a spell o'
confinement that'll last a leetle longer. You shall stay as ye are,
till the buzzarts peck out your eyes, an' the wolves peel the skin from
your skull--ay, till the worms go crawlin' through your flesh. How'll
ye like that, Charley Clancy?"
"There's no wolf or vulture on the prairies of Texas ugly as yourself.
Dastardly dog!"
"Ah! you'd like to get me angry? But you can't. I'm cool as a
cowkumber--aint I? Your dander's up, I can see. Keep it down. No good
your gettin' excited. I s'pose you'd like me to spit in your face.
Well, here goes to obleege ye."
At this he stoops down, and does as said. After perpetrating the
outrage, he adds:--
"Why don't ye take out your handkercher an' wipe it off. It's a pity to
see such a handsome fellow wi' his face in that fashion. Ha! ha! ha!"
His four confederates, standing apart, spectators of the scene, echo his
fiendish laughter.
"Well, well, my proud gentleman;" he resumes, "to let a man spit in your
face without resentin' it! I never expected to see you sunk so low.
Humiliated up to the neck--to the chin! Ha! ha! ha!"
Again rings out the brutal cachinnation, chorused by his four followers.
In like manner the monster continues to taunt his helpless victim; so
long, one might fancy his spite would be spent, his vengeance sated.
But no--not yet. There is still another arrow in his quiver--a last
shaft to be shot--which he knows will carry a sting keener than any yet
sent.
When his men have remounted, and are ready to ride off, he returns to
Clancy, and, stooping, hisses into his ear:--
"Like enough you'll be a goodish while alone here, an' tharfore left to
your reflections. Afore partin' company, let me say somethin' that may
comfort you. _Dick Darke's got your girl; 'bout this time has her in
his arms_!"