Perfectly sure that the band is that of Borlasse, which he almost
instantly is, Clancy draws his horse behind the rock, directing Jupiter
to do likewise. Thus screened, they can command a view of the horsemen,
without danger of being themselves seen.
For greater security both dismount; the mulatto holding the horses,
while his master sets himself to observe the movements of the
approaching troop. Is it approaching?
Yes; but not direct for the rock. Its head is towards the tree, and the
robbers are evidently making to reach this. As already said, the
topography of the place is peculiar; the lone cottonwood standing on the
crest of a _couteau de prairie_, whose sides slope east and west. It
resembles the roof of a house, but with gentler declination. Similarly
situated on the summit of the ridge, is the boulder, but with nearly a
league's length between it and the tree.
Soon as assured that the horsemen are heading for the latter, Clancy
breathes freer breath. But without being satisfied he is safe. He
knows they will not stay there; and where next? He reflects what might
have been his fate were he still in the _prairie stocks_. Borlasse will
be sure to pay that place a visit. Not finding the victim of his
cruelty, he will seek elsewhere. Will it occur to him to come on to the
rock?
Clancy so interrogates, with more coolness, and less fear, than may be
imagined. His horse is beside him, and Jupiter has another. The
mulatto is no longer encumbered by a mule. Darke's steed is known to be
a swift one, and not likely to be outrun by any of the robber troop. If
chased, some of them might overtake it, but not all, or not at the same
time. There will be less danger from their following in detail, and
thus Clancy less fears them. For he knows that his yellow-skinned
comrade is strong as courageous; a match for any three ordinary men.
And both are now well armed--Darke's double-barrel, as his horse, having
reverted to Jupiter. Besides, as good luck has it, there are pistols
found in the holsters, to say nothing of that long-bladed, and late
blood-stained, knife. In a chase they will have a fair chance to
escape; and, if it come to a fight, can make a good one.
While he is thus speculating upon the probabilities of the outlaws
coming on to the rock, and what may be the upshot afterwards, Clancy's
ear is again saluted by a cry from his companion. But this time in tone
very different: for it is jubilant, joyous.
Turning, he sees Jupiter standing with face to the east, and pointing in
that direction. To what? Another cloud of dust, that prinkles with
sparkling points; another mounted troop moving across the plain! And
also making for the tree, which, equi-distant between the two, seems to
be the beacon of both.
Quick as he reached the conclusion about the first band being that of
Borlasse, does he decide as to that of the second. It is surely the
pursuing colonists, and as sure with Sime Woodley at their head.
Both cohorts are advancing at a like rate of speed, neither riding
rapidly. They have been so, but now, climbing the acclivity, they have
quieted their horses to a walk. The pace though slow, continued, will
in time bring them together. A collision seems inevitable. His glance
gladdens as he measures the strength of the two parties. The former not
only in greater number, but with God on their side; while the latter
will be doing battle under the banner of the Devil.
About the issue of such encounter he has no anxiety. He is only
apprehensive it may not come off. Something may arise to warn the
outlaws, and give them a chance to shun it.
As yet neither party has a thought of the other's proximity or approach.
They cannot, with the ridge between. Still is there that, which should
make them suspicious of something. Above each band are buzzards--a
large flock. They flout the air in sportive flight, their instinct
admonishing them that the two parties are hostile, and likely to spill
each other's blood.
About the two sets of birds what will both sides be saying? For, high
in heaven, both must long since have observed them. From their presence
what conjectures will they draw?
So Clancy questions, answering himself:
"Borlasse will suppose the flock afar to be hovering over my head; while
Woodley may believe the other one above my dead body!"
Strange as it may appear, just thus, and at the same instant, are the
two leaders interpreting the sign! And well for the result Clancy
desires; since it causes neither to command halt or make delay. On the
contrary impels them forward more impetuously. Perceiving this, he
mechanically mutters:
Thank the Lord! They must meet now! Curbing his impatience, as he best
can, he continues to watch the mutually approaching parties. At the
head of the colonists he now sees Sime Woodley, recognises him by his
horse--a brindled "clay-bank," with stripes like a zebra. Would that he
could communicate with his old comrade, and give him word, or sign of
warning. He dares not do either. To stir an inch from behind the rock,
would expose him to the view of the robbers, who might still turn and
retreat.
With heart beating audibly, blood, coursing quick through his veins, he
watches and waits, timing the crisis. It must come soon. The two
flocks of vultures have met in mid-air, and mingle their sweeping
gyrations. They croak in mutual congratulation, anticipating a splendid
repast.
Clancy counts the moments. They cannot be many. The heads of the
horsemen already align with the tufts of grass growing topmost on the
ridge. Their brows are above it; their eyes. They have sighted each
other!
A halt on both sides; horses hurriedly reined in; no shouts; only a word
of caution from the respective leaders of the troops, each calling back
to his own. Then an interval of silence, disturbed by the shrill
screams of the horses, challenging from troop to troop, seemingly
hostile as their riders.
In another instant both have broken halt, and are going in gallop over
the plain; not towards each other, but one pursuing, the other pursued.
The robbers are in retreat!
Clancy had not waited for this; his cue came before, soon as they caught
sight of one another. Then, vaulting into his saddle, and calling
Jupiter to follow, he was off.
Riding at top speed, cleaving the air, till it whistles past his ears,
with eyes strained forward, he sees the changed attitude of the troops.
He reflects not on it; all his thoughts becoming engrossed, all his
energies bent, upon taking part in the pursuit, and still more in the
fight he hopes will follow. He presses on in a diagonal line between
pursued and pursuers. His splendid steed now shows its good qualities,
and gladly he sees he is gaining upon both. With like gladness that
they are nearing one another, the short-striding mustangs being no match
for the long legged American horses. As yet not a shot has been fired.
The distance is still too great for the range of rifles, and
backwoodsmen do not idly waste ammunition. The only sounds heard are
the trampling of the hooves, and the occasional neigh of a horse. The
riders are all silent, in both troops alike--one in the mute eagerness
of flight, the other with the stern earnestness of pursuit.
And now puffs of smoke arise over each, with jets of flame projected
outward. Shots, at first dropping and single, then in thick rattling
fusillade. Along with them cries of encouragement, mingled with shouts
of defiance. Then a wild "hurrah," the charging cheers the colonists
close upon the outlaws.
Clancy rides straight for the fray. In front he sees the plain shrouded
in dense sulphureous mist, at intervals illumined by yellow flashes.
Another spurt, and, passing through the thin outer strata of smoke, he
is in the thick of the conflict--among men on horseback grappling other
mounted men, endeavouring to drag them out of the saddle--some afoot,
fighting in pairs, firing pistols, or with naked knives, hewing away at
one another!
He sees that the fight is nigh finished, and the robbers routed. Some
are dismounted, on their knees crying "quarter," and piteously appealing
for mercy.
Where is Sime Woodley? Has his old comrade been killed?
Half frantic with this fear, he rashes distractedly over the ground,
calling out the backwoodsman's name. He is answered by another--by Ned
Heywood, who staggers to his side, bleeding, his face blackened with
powder.
"You are wounded, Heywood?"
"Yes; or I wouldn't be here."
"Why?"
"Because Sime--"
"Where is he?"
"Went that way in chase o' a big brute of a fellow. I've jest spied
them passin' through the smoke. For God's sake, after! Sime may stand
in need o' ye."
Clancy stays not to hear more, but again urges his horse to speed, with
head in the direction indicated.
Darting on, he is soon out into the clear atmosphere; there to see two
horsemen going off over the plain, pursued and pursuer. In the former
he recognises Borlasse, while the latter is Woodley. Both are upon
strong, swift, horses; but better mounted than either, he soon gains
upon them.
The backwoodsman is nearing the brigand. Clancy sees this with
satisfaction, though not without anxiety. He knows Jim Borlasse is an
antagonist not to be despised. Driven to desperation, he will fight
like a grizzly bear. Woodley will need all his strength, courage, and
strategy.
Eager to assist his old comrade, he presses onward; but, before he can
come up, they have closed, and are at it.
Not in combat, paces apart, with rifles or pistols. Not a shot is being
exchanged between them. Instead, they are close together, have clutched
one another, and are fighting, hand to hand, with _bowies_!
It commenced on horseback, but at the first grip both came to the
ground, dragging each other down. Now the fight continues on foot, each
with his bared blade hacking and hewing at the other.
A dread spectacle these two gigantic gladiators engaged in mortal
strife! All the more in its silence. Neither utters shout, or speaks
word. They are too intent upon killing. The only sound heard is their
hoarse breathing as they pant to recover it--each holding the other's
arm to hinder the fatal stroke.
Clancy's heart beats apprehensively for the issue; and with rifle
cocked, he rides on to send a bullet through Borlasse.
It is not needed. No gun is to give the _coup de grace_ to the chief of
the prairie pirates. For, the blade of a bowie-knife has passed between
his ribs, laying him lifeless along the earth.
"You, Charley Clancy!" says Sime, in joyful surprise at seeing his
friend still safe. "Thank the Lord for it! But who'd a thought o'
meeting ye in the middle of the skrimmage! And in time to stan' by me
hed that been needful. But whar hev ye come from? Dropt out o' the
clouds? An' what o' Dick Darke? I'd most forgot that leetle matter.
Have ye seed him?"
"I have."
"Wal; what's happened? Hev ye did anythin' to him?"
"The same as you have done to _him_," answers Clancy, pointing to the
body of Borlasse.
"Good for you! I know'd it 'ud end that way. I say'd so to that sweet
critter, when I war leevin' her at the Mission."
"You left her there--safe?"
"Wal, I left her in her father's arums, whar I reckon she'll be safe
enough. But whar's Jupe?"
"He's here--somewhere behind."
"All right! That accounts for the hul party. Now let's back, and see
what's chanced to the rest o' this ruffin crew. So, Jim Borlasse, good
bye!"
With this odd leave taking, he turns away, wipes the blood from his
bowie, returns it to its sheath, and once more climbing into his saddle,
rides off to rejoin the victorious colonists.
On the ground where the engagement took place, a sad spectacle is
presented. The smoke has drifted away, disclosing the corpses of the
slain--horses as well as men. All the freebooters have fallen, and now
lie astretch as they fell to stab or shot; some on their backs, others
with face downward, or doubled sideways, but all dead, gashed, and
gory--not a wounded man among them! For the colonists, recalling that
parallel spectacle in the Mission courtyard, have given loose rein to
the _lex talionis_, and exacted a terrible retribution.
Nor have they themselves got off unscathed. The desperadoes being
refused quarter, fought it out to the bitter end; killing several of the
settlers, and wounding many more; among the latter two known to us--
Heywood and Dupre. By good fortune, neither badly, and both to recover
from their wounds; the young Creole also recovering his stolen treasure,
found secreted at the camp on Coyote creek.
Our tale might here close; for it is scarce necessary to record what
came afterwards. The reader will guess, and correctly, that Dupre
became the husband of Jessie, and Helen the wife of Clancy; both
marriages being celebrated at the same time, and both with full consent
and approval of the only living parent--Colonel Armstrong.
And on the same day, though at a different hour, a third couple was made
man and wife; Jupe getting spliced to his Jule, from whom he had been so
long cruelly kept apart.
It is some years since then, and changes have taken place in the colony.
As yet none to be regretted, but the reverse. A Court-House town has
sprung up on the site of the ancient Mission, the centre of a district
of plantations--the largest of them belonging to Luis Dupre; while one
almost as extensive, and equally as flourishing, has Charles Clancy for
owner.
On the latter live Jupe and Jule; Jupe overseer, Jule at the head of the
domestic department; while on the former reside two other personages
presented in this tale, it is hoped with interest attached to them.
They are Blue Bill, and his Phoebe; not living alone, but in the midst
of a numerous progeny of piccaninnies.
How the coon-hunter comes to be there requires explanation. A word will
be sufficient. Ephraim Darke stricken down by the disgrace brought upon
him, has gone to his grave; and at the breaking up of his slave
establishment, Blue Bill, with all his belongings, was purchased by
Dupre, and transported to his present home. This not by any accident,
but designedly; as a reward for his truthfulness, with the courage he
displayed in declaring it.
Between the two plantations, lying contiguous, Colonel Armstrong comes
and goes, scarce knowing which is his proper place of residence. In
both he has a bedroom, and a table profusely spread, with the warmest of
welcomes.
In the town itself is a market, plentifully supplied with provisions,
especially big game--bear-meat, and venison. Not strange, considering
that it is catered for by four of the most skilful hunters in Texas;
their names, Woodley, Heywood, Hawkins, and Tucker. When off duty these
worthies may be seen sauntering through the streets, and relating the
experiences of their latest hunting expedition.
But there is one tale, which Sime, the oldest of the quartette, has told
over and over--yet never tires telling. Need I say, it is the "Death
Shot?"