Night has spread its sable pall over the desert plain, darker in the
deep chasm through which runs Coyote Creek. There is light enough in
the encampment of the prairie pirates; for the great fire kindled for
cooking their dinners still burns, a constant supply of resinous
pine-knots keeping up the blaze, which illuminates a large circle
around. By its side nearly a score of men are seated in groups, some
playing cards, others idly carousing. No one would suppose them the
same seen there but a few hours before; since there is not the semblance
of Indian among them. Instead, they are all white men, and wearing the
garb of civilisation; though scarce two are costumed alike. There are
coats of Kentucky jeans, of home-wove copperas stripe, of blanket-cloth
in the three colours, red, blue, and green; there are blouses of brown
linen, and buckskin dyed with dogwood ooze; there are Creole jackets of
Attakapas "cottonade," and Mexican ones of cotton velveteen. Alike
varied is the head, leg, and foot-wear. There are hats of every shape
and pattern; pantaloons of many a cut and material, most of them tucked
into boots with legs of different lengths, from ankle to mid-thigh.
Only in the under garment is there anything like uniformity; nine out of
ten wearing shirts of scarlet flannel--the fashion of the frontier.
A stranger entering the camp now, would suppose its occupants to be a
party of hunters; one acquainted with the customs of South-Western
Texas, might pronounce them _mustangers_--men who make their living by
the taking and taming of wild horses. And if those around the fire were
questioned about their calling, such would be the answer.--In their
tents are all the paraphernalia used in this pursuit; lassoes for
catching the horses; halters and hobbles for confining them; bits for
breaking, and the like; while close by is a "corral" in which to keep
the animals when caught.
All counterfeit! There is not a real mustanger among these men, nor one
who is not a robber; scarce one who could lay his hand upon his heart,
and say he has not, some time or other in his life, committed murder!
For though changed in appearance, since last seen, they are the same who
entered the camp laden with Luis Dupre's money--fresh from the massacre
of his slaves. The transformation took place soon as they snatched a
hasty meal. Then all hurried down to the creek, provided with pieces of
soap; and plunging in, washed the paint from their hands, arms, and
faces.
The Indian costume has not only been cast aside, but secreted, with all
its equipments.
If the encampment were searched now, no stained feathers would be found;
no beads or belts of wampum; no breech-clouts, bows, or quivers; no
tomahawks or spears. All have been "cached" in a cave among the rocks;
there to remain till needed for some future maraud, or massacre.
Around their camp-fire the freebooters are in full tide of enjoyment.
The dollars have been divided, and each has his thousands. Those at the
cards are not contented, but are craving more. They will be richer, or
poorer. And soon; playing "poker" at fifty dollars an "ante."
Gamesters and lookers on alike smoke, drink, and make merry. They have
no fear now, not the slightest apprehension. If pursued, the pursuers
cannot find the way to Coyote creek. If they did, what would they see
there? Certainly not the red-skinned savages, who plundered the San
Saba mission, but a party of innocent horse hunters, all Texans. The
only one resembling an Indian among them is the half-breed--Fernand.
But he is also so metamorphosed, that his late master could not
recognise him. The others have changed from red men to white; in
reverse, he has become to all appearance a pure-blooded aboriginal.
Confident in their security, because ignorant of what has taken place
under the live-oak, they little dream that one of their confederates is
in a situation, where he will be forced to tell a tale sure to thwart
their well-constructed scheme, casting it down as a house of cards.
Equally are they unaware of the revelation which their own prisoner, the
mulatto, could make. They suppose him and his master to be but two
travellers encountered by accident, having no connection with the San
Saba settlers. Borlasse is better informed about this, though not
knowing all. He believes Clancy to have been _en route_ for the new
settlement, but without having reached it. He will never reach it now.
In hope of getting a clearer insight into many things still clouded,
while his followers are engaged at their games, he seeks the tent to
which Jupiter has been consigned, and where he is now under the
surveillance of the half-blood, Fernand.
Ordering the mestizo to retire, he puts the prisoner through a course of
cross-questioning.
The mulatto is a man of no ordinary intelligence. He had the misfortune
to be born a slave, with the blood of a freeman in his veins; which,
stirring him to discontent with his ignoble lot, at length forced him to
become a fugitive. With a subtlety partly instinctive, but strengthened
by many an act of injustice, he divines the object of the robber
captain's visit.
Not much does the latter make of him, question as he may. Jupe knows
nothing of any Phil Quantrell, or any Richard Darke. He is the slave of
the young gentleman who has been separated from him. He makes no
attempt to conceal his master's name, knowing that Borlasse is already
acquainted with Clancy, and must have recognised him. They were on
their way to join the colony of Colonel Armstrong, with a party from the
States. They came up from the Colorado the night before, camping in the
San Saba bottom, where he believes them to be still. Early in the
morning, his master left the camp for a hunt, and the hound had tracked
a bear up the gully. That was why they were on the upper plain; they
were trying for the track of the bear, when taken.
The mulatto has no great liking for his master, from whom he has had
many a severe flogging. In proof he tells the robber chief to turn up
his shirt, and see how his back has been scored by the cowhide.
Borlasse--does so; and sure enough there are the scars, somewhat similar
to those he carries himself.
If not pity, the sight begets a sort of coarse sympathy, such as the
convict feels for his fellow; an emotion due to the freemasonry of
crime. Jupiter takes care to strengthen it, by harping on the cruelty
of his master--more than hinting that he would like to leave him, if any
other would but buy him. Indeed he'd be willing to run away, if he saw
the chance.
"Don't trouble yerself 'bout that," says the bandit, 'as the interview
comes near its end, "maybe, I'll buy ye myself. At all events, Mister
Clancy ain't likely to flog you any more. How'd ye like _me_ for yer
master?"
"I'd be right glad, boss."
"Are ye up to takin' care of horses?"
"That's just what Masser Clancy kept me for."
"Well; he's gone on to the settlement without you. As he's left you
behind that careless way, ye can stay with us, an' look after my horse.
It's the same ye've been accustomed to. I swopped with your master
'fore we parted company."
Jupe is aware that Clancy's splendid steed is in the camp. Through a
chink in the tent he saw the horse ridden in, Borlasse on his back;
wondering why his master was not along, and what they had done with him.
He has no faith in the tale told him, but a fear it is far otherwise.
It will not do to show this, and concealing his anxiety, he rejoins:--
"All right, masser. I try do my best. Only hope you not a gwine where
we come cross Masser Clancy. If he see me, he sure have me back, and
then I'se get the cowhide right smart. He flog me dreadful."
"You're in no danger. I'll take care he never sets eye on you again.
"Here, Nandy!" he says to the mestizo, summoned back. "You can remove
them ropes from your prisoner. Give him somethin' to eat and drink.
Treat him as ye would one o' ourselves. He's to be that from this time
forrard. Spread a buffler skin, an' get him a bit o' blanket for his
bed. Same time, for safety's sake, keep an eye on him."
The caution is spoken _sotto voce_, so that the prisoner may not hear
it. After which, Borlasse leaves the two together, congratulating
himself on the good speculation he will make, not by keeping Jupe to
groom his horse, but selling him as a slave to the first man met willing
to purchase him.
In the fine able-bodied mulatto, he sees a thousand dollars cash--soon
as he can come across a cotton-planter.