On the far frontier of Texas, still unsettled by civilised man, no
chanticleer gives note of the dawn. Instead, the _meleagris_ salutes
the sunrise with a cry equally high-toned, and quite as home-like. For
the gobbling of the wild turkey-cock is scarcely distinguishable from
that of his domesticated brother of the farm-yard.
A gang of these great birds has roosted in the pecan grove, close to
where the prairie pirates are encamped. At daylight's approach, they
fly up to the tops of the trees; the males, as is their wont in the
spring months of the year, mutually sounding their sonorous challenge.
It awakes the robbers from the slumber succeeding their drunken debauch;
their chief first of any.
Coming forth from his tent, he calls upon the others to get up--ordering
several horses to be saddled. He designs despatching a party to the
upper plain, in search of Quantrell and Bosley, not yet come to camp.
He wants another word with the mulatto; and steps towards the tent,
where he supposes the man to be.
At its entrance he sees blood--inside a dead body!
His cry, less of sorrow than anger, brings his followers around. One
after another peering into the tent, they see what is there. There is
no question about how the thing occurred. It is clear to all. Their
prisoner has killed his guard; as they say, assassinated him. Has the
assassin escaped?
They scatter in search of him, by twos and threes, rushing from tent to
tent. Some proceed to the corral, there to see that the bars are down,
and the horses out.
These are discovered in a strip of meadow near by, one only missing. It
is that the chief had seized from their white prisoner, and
appropriated. The yellow one has replevined it!
The ghastly spectacle in the tent gives them no horror. They are too
hardened for that. But it makes them feel, notwithstanding; first
anger, soon succeeded by apprehension. The dullest brute in the band
has some perception of danger as its consequence. Hitherto their
security has depended on keeping up their incognito by disguises, and
the secrecy of their camping place. Here is a prisoner escaped, who
knows all; can tell about their travesties; guide a pursuing party to
the spot! They must remain no longer there.
Borlasse recognising the necessity for a change of programme, summons
his following around him.
"Boys!" he says, "I needn't point out to ye that this ugly business puts
us in a bit o' a fix. We've got to clear out o' hyar right quick. I
reckon our best way 'll be to make tracks for San Antone, an' thar
scatter. Even then, we won't be too safe, if yellow skin turns up to
tell his story about us. Lucky a nigger's testymony don't count for
much in a Texan court; an' thar's still a chance to make it count for
nothin' by our knocking him on the head."