Never did man believe himself nigher death, or experience greater
satisfaction at being saved from it, than Charles Clancy. For upon his
life so near lost, and as if miraculously preserved, depend issues dear
to him as that life itself.
And these, too, may reach a successful termination; some thing whispers
him they will.
But though grateful to God for the timely succour just received, and on
Him still reliant, he does not ask God for guidance in what he intends
now. Rather, shuns he the thought, as though fearing the All-Merciful
might not be with him. For he is still determined on vengeance, which
alone belongs to the Lord.
Of himself, he is strong enough to take it; and feels so, after being
refreshed by another drink of the whiskey. The spirit of the alcohol,
acting on his own, reinvigorates, and makes him ready for immediate
action. He but stays to think what may be his safest course, as the
surest and swiftest. His repeated repulses, while making more cautious,
have done nought to daunt, or drive him from his original purpose.
Recalling his latest interview with Helen Armstrong, and what he then
said, he dares not swerve from it. To go back leaving it undone, were a
humiliation no lover would like to confess to his sweetheart.
But he has no thought of going back, and only hesitates, reflecting on
the steps necessary to ensure success.
He now knows why Darke retreated in such wild affright. Some speeches
passing between the robbers, overheard by Jupiter, and by him reported,
enable Clancy to grasp the situation. As he had conjectured, Darke was
straying, and by chance came that way. No wonder at the way he went.
It is not an hour since he fled from the spot, and in all likelihood he
is still straying. If so, he cannot be a great way off; but, far or
near, Brasfort can find him.
It is but a question of whether he can be overtaken before reaching the
rendezvous. For the only danger of which Clancy has dread, or allows
himself to dwell upon, is from the other robbers. Even of these he
feels not much fear. But for the mulatto and his mule, he would never
have allowed them to lay hand on him. And now with his splendid horse
once more by his side, the saddle awaiting him, he knows he will be safe
from any pursuit by mounted men, as a bird upon the wing.
For the safety of his faithful follower he has already conceived
measures. Jupiter is to make his way back to the San Saba, and wait for
him at their old camp, near the crossing. Failing to come, he is to
proceed on to the settlement, and there take his chances of a reception.
Though the fugitive slave may be recognised, under Sime Woodley's
protection he will be safe, and with Helen Armstrong's patronage, sure
of hospitable entertainment.
With all this mentally arranged, though not yet communicated to Jupe,
Clancy gives a look to his gun to assure himself it is in good order;
another to the caparison of his horse; and, satisfied with both, he at
length leaps into the saddle.
The mulatto has been regarding his movements with uneasiness. There is
that in them which forewarns him of still another separation.
He is soon made aware of it, by the instructions given him, in
accordance with the plan sketched cat. On Clancy telling him, he is to
return to the San Saba alone, with the reasons why he should do so, he
listens in pained surprise.
"Sure you don't intend leavin' me, Masser Charle?"
"I do--I must."
"But whar you goin' youself?"
"Where God guides--it may be His avenging angel. Yes, Jupe; I'm off
again, on that scoundrel's track. This shall be my last trial. If it
turn out as hitherto, you may never see me more--you, nor any one else.
Failing, I shan't care to face human kind, much less her I love. Ah!
I'll more dread meeting my mother--her death unavenged. Bah! There's
no fear, one way or the other. So don't you have any uneasiness about
the result; but do as I've directed. Make back to the river, and wait
there at the crossing. Brasfort goes with me; and when you see us
again, I'll have a spare horse to carry you on to our journey's end;
that whose shoes made those scratches--just now, I take it, between the
legs of Dick Darke."
"Dear masser," rejoins Jupiter, in earnest protest. "Why need ye go
worryin' after that man now? You'll have plenty opportunities any day.
He aint likely to leave Texas, long's that young lady stays in it.
Besides, them cut-throats at the creek, sure come after me. They'll be
this way soon's they find me gone, an' set their eyes on that streak o'
red colour I left ahind me in the tent. Take my advice, Masser Charle,
an' let's both slip out o' thar way, by pushin' straight for the
settlement."
"No settlement, till I've settled with him! He can't have got far away
yet. Good, Brasfort! you'll do your best to help me find him?"
The hound gives a low growl, and rollicks around the legs of the horse,
seeming to say:--
"Set me on the scent; I'll show you."
Something more than instinct appears to inspire the Molossian. Though
weeks have elapsed since in the cypress swamp it made savage
demonstrations against Darke, when taking up his trail through the San
Saba bottom it behaved as if actuated by the old malice, remembering the
smell of the man! And now conducted beyond the place trodden by
Borlasse and the others, soon as outside the confusion of scents, and
catching his fresher one, it sends forth a cry strangely intoned,
altogether unlike its ordinary bay while trailing a stag. It is the
deep sonorous note of the sleuth-hound on slot of human game; such as
oft, in the times of Spanish American colonisation, struck terror to the
heart of the hunted aboriginal.
As already said, Brasfort has a strain of the bloodhound in him; enough
to make danger for Richard Darke. Under the live-oak the hound would
have pulled him from his saddle, torn him to pieces on the spot, but for
Jupiter, to whom it was consigned, holding it hard back.
Clancy neither intends, nor desires, it to do so now. All he wants with
it, is to bring him face to face with his hated foeman. That done, the
rest he will do himself.
Everything decided and settled, he hastily takes leave of Jupiter, and
starts off along the trail, Brasfort leading.
Both are soon far away.
On the wide waste the mulatto stands alone, looking after--half
reproachfully for being left behind--regretting his master's rashness--
painfully apprehensive he may never see him more.