"Surely the end has come!"
So reflects Clancy, as with keen apprehension he listens to the tread of
the approaching horseman. For to a certainty he approaches, the dull
distant thud of hooves gradually growing more distinct. Nor has he any
doubt of its being the same steed late reined up in front of him, the
fresh score of whose calkers are there within a few feet of his face.
The direction whence comes the sound, is of itself significant; that in
which Darke went off. It is he returning--can be no other.
Yes; surely his end has come--the last hour of his life. And so near
being saved! Ten minutes more, and Brasfort would have disinterred him.
Turning his eyes downward, he can see the cavity enlarged, and getting
larger. For the dog continues to drag out the earth, as if not hearing,
or disregarding the hoof-stroke. Already its paws are within a few
inches of his elbow.
Is it possible for him to wrench out his arm! With it free he might do
something to defend himself. And the great stag-hound will help him.
With hope half resuscitated, he makes an effort to extricate the arm,
heaving his shoulder upward. In vain.--It is held as in a vice, or the
clasp of a giant. There is _no_ alternative--he must submit to his
fate. And such a fate! Once more he will see the sole enemy of his
life, his mother's murderer, standing triumphant over him; will hear his
taunting speeches--almost a repetition of the scene under the cypress!
And to think that in all his encounters with this man, he has been
unsuccessful; too late--ever too late! The thought is of itself a
torture.
Strange the slowness with which Darke draws nigh! Can he still be in
dread of the unearthly? No, or he would not be there. It may be that
sure of his victim, he but delays the last blow, scheming some new
horror before he strike it?
The tramp of the horse tells him to be going at a walk; unsteady too, as
if his rider were not certain about the way, but seeking it. Can this
be so? Has he not yet seen the head and hound? The moon must be on his
back, since it is behind Clancy's own. It may be that Brasfort--a new
figure in the oft changing tableau--stays his advance. Possibly the
unexplained presence of the animal has given him a surprise, and hence
he approaches with caution?
All at once, the hoof-stroke ceases to be heard, and stillness reigns
around. _No_ sound save that made by the claws of the dog, that
continues its task with unabated assiduity--not yet having taken any
notice of the footsteps it can scarce fail to hear.
Its master cannot help thinking this strange. Brasfort is not wont to
be thus unwatchful. And of all men Richard Darke should be the last to
approach him unawares. What may it mean?
While thus interrogating himself, Clancy again hears the "tramp-tramp,"
the horse no longer in a walk, but with pace quickened to a trot. And
still Brasfort keeps on scraping! Only when a shadow darkens over, does
he desist; the horseman being now close behind Clancy's head, with his
image reflected in front. But instead of rushing at him with savage
growl, as he certainly would were it Richard Darke Brasfort but raises
his snout, and wags his tail, giving utterance to a note of friendly
salutation!
Clancy's astonishment is extreme, changing to joy, when the horseman
after making the circuit of his head, comes to a halt before his face.
In the broad bright moonlight he beholds, not his direst foe, but his
faithful servitor. There upon his own horse, with his own gun in hand,
sits one who causes him mechanically to exclaim--
"Jupiter!" adding, "Heaven has heard my prayer!"
"An' myen," says Jupiter, soon as somewhat recovered from his
astonishment at what he sees; "Yes, Masser Charle; I'se been prayin' for
you ever since they part us, though never 'spected see you 'live 'gain.
But Lor' o' mercy, masser! what dis mean? I'se see nothin' but you
head! Wharever is you body? What have dem rascally ruffins been an'
done to ye?"
"As you see--buried me alive."
"Better that than bury you dead. You sure, masser," he asks, slipping
down from the saddle, and placing himself _vis-a-vis_ with the face so
strangely situated. "You sure you ain't wounded, nor otherways hurt?"
"Not that I know of. I only feel a little bruised and faint-like; but I
think I've received no serious injury. I'm now suffering from thirst,
more than aught else."
"That won't be for long. Lucky I'se foun' you ole canteen on the
saddle, an' filled it 'fore I left the creek. I'se got somethin'
besides 'll take the faintness 'way from you; a drop o' corn-juice, I
had from that Spanish Indyin they call the half-blood. Not much blood
in him now. Here 'tis, Masser Charle."
While speaking, he has produced a gourd, in which something gurgles.
Its smell, when the stopper is taken out, tells it to be whiskey.
Inserting the neck between his master's lips, he pours some of the
spirit down his throat; and then, turning to the horse near by, he lifts
from off the saddle-horn a larger gourd--the canteen, containing water.
In a few seconds, not only is Clancy's thirst satisfied, but he feels
his strength restored, and all faintness passed away.
"Up to de chin I declar'!" says Jupiter, now more particularly taking
note of his situation, "Sure enough, all but buried 'live. An' Brasfort
been a tryin' to dig ye out! Geehorum! Aint that cunnin' o' the ole
dog? He have prove himself a faithful critter."
"Like yourself, Jupe. But say! How have you escaped from the robbers?
Brought my horse and gun too! Tell me all!"
"Not so fass, Masser Charle. It's something o' a longish story, an' a
bit strangeish too. You'll be better out o' that fix afore hearin' it.
Though your ears aint stopped, yez not in a position to lissen patient
or comfortable. First let me finish what Brasfort's begun, and get out
the balance o' your body."
Saying this, the mulatto sets himself to the task proposed.
Upon his knees with knife in hand, he loosens the earth around Clancy's
breast and shoulders, cutting it carefully, then clawing it out.
The hound helps him, dashing in whenever it sees a chance, with its paws
scattering the clods to rear. The animal seems jealous of Jupiter's
interference, half angry at not having all the credit to itself.
Between them the work progresses, and the body of their common master
will soon be disinterred. All the while, Clancy and the mulatto
continue to talk, mutually communicating their experiences since
parting. Those of the former, though fearful, are neither many nor
varied, and require but few words. What Jupiter now sees gives him a
clue to nearly all.
His own narrative covers a greater variety of events, and needs more
time for telling than can now be conveniently spared. Instead of
details, therefore, he but recounts the leading incidents in brief
epitome--to be more particularly dwelt upon afterwards, as opportunity
will allow. He relates, how, after leaving the lone cottonwood, he was
taken on across the plain to a creek called Coyote, where the robbers
have a camping place. This slightly touched upon, he tells of his own
treatment; of his being carried into a tent at first, but little looked
after, because thought secure, from their having him tightly tied.
Through a slit in the skin cover he saw them kindle a fire and commence
cooking. Soon after came the chief, riding Clancy's horse, with
Chisholm and the other three. Seeing the horse, he supposed it all over
with his master.
Then the feast, _al fresco_, succeeded by the transformation scene--the
red robbers becoming white ones--to all of which he was witness. After
that the card-playing by the camp fire, during which the chief came to
his tent, and did what he could to draw him. In this part of his
narration, the mulatto with modest naivete, hints of his own adroitness;
how he threw his inquisitor off the scent, and became at length
disembarrassed of him. He is even more reticent about an incident, soon
after succeeding, but referred to it at an early part of his
explanation.
On the blade of his knife, before beginning to dig, Clancy observing
some blotches of crimson, asks what it is.
"Only a little blood, Masser Charle," is the answer.
"Whose?"
"You'll hear afore I get to the end. Nuf now to say it's the blood of a
bad man."
Clancy does not press him further, knowing he will be told all in due
time. Still, is he impatient, wondering whether it be the blood of Jim
Borlasse, or Richard Darke; for he supposes it either one or the other.
He hopes it may be the former, and fears its being the latter. Even
yet, in his hour of uncertainty, late helpless, and still with only a
half hope of being able to keep his oath, he would not for all the world
Dick Darke's blood should be shed by other hand than his own!
He is mentally relieved, long before Jupiter reaches the end of his
narration. The blood upon the blade, now clean scoured off, was not
that of Richard Darke.
For the mulatto tells him of that tragical scene within the tent,
speaking of it without the slightest remorse. The incidents succeeding
he leaves for a future occasion; how he stole out the horse, and with
Brasfort's help, was enabled to return upon the trail as far as the
cottonwood; thence on, the hound hurriedly leading, at length leaving
him behind.
But before coming to this, he has completed his task, and laying hold of
his master's shoulders, he draws him out of the ground, as a gardener
would a gigantic carrot.
Once more on the earth's surface stands Clancy, free of body, unfettered
in limb, strong in his sworn resolve, determined as ever to keep it.