THE LOTTERY OF DEATH.
Other events were occurring upon that same night, that now claim our
attention.
A small timber island that stood close beside the stream before spoken
of as running near the hunters’ bivouac, was the scene of a strange and
peculiar trial; one that might with propriety be termed _a lottery of
death_.
Shortly after dark a band of horsemen began congregating here, riding
silently into the road, dismounting and tethering their animals in a
small glade that occupied the center of the _motte_. That they were
white men, was plain from the few words spoken, though the overhanging
trees concealed their features.
One man who was among the first to arrive, appeared high in authority,
judging from the deference with which he was regarded by the others. He
seemed ill at ease, or very impatient, moving restlessly to and fro,
muttering more than one curse beneath his breath, stamping his foot
fiercely or nervously fingering the weapons at his belt.
“How many are there here, Thompson?” he uttered, abruptly pausing beside
a tall, muscular frame.
“Seventeen, by my count, Cap’n Jap,” replied the man, with the stumpy
pipe still clenched betwixt his teeth. “Thar’s two more yit—Colton an’
Marcks.”
“Can it be that he suspects the purpose of our meeting to-night? The
soft-headed fool may have seen his brother since then, and as he knows
the laws of our band, that would put him on his guard. Let him beware!
He’d better cut his own throat than to prove false to us now.”
“True es preachin’, Cap’n Jap,” quoth Thompson. “We’d sarve him wuss’n
we did Hans Koch. But he’ll be here, I reckon. He’s most al’ays
behindhan’.”
“Start the fire, Jim. We must have light for the drawing. Ha! there
comes some one now!”
“Yas—an’ it’s _him_, too. He rides the only racker in the band.”
“Good!” then adding in a low, rapid tone. “You must watch him close,
Thompson. When he learns what is on the boards, he may cut up nasty.
Keep close enough to him to grab him if I give the word. You
understand?”
“Bet ye—I’ll do it, never fear,” muttered the man, as he gathered a
handful of dried leaves and grass.
“Well, Colton,” sternly uttered the man addressed as Captain Jap—his
name being Jasper Morton—turning to the last comer, “you are late, as
usual.”
“I could not help it, Captain Morton. I was kept—”
“No excuses. But if you ever hope to rise higher in the band, you must
break yourself of this habit. Only for one thing, you would have been
discharged from the league, long ago.”
“And that is—”
“We know you would betray us before the week was out. There—you need not
deny it. I know you too well. I merely mentioned this now because I
believe you need a hint of the kind. You are watched—I tell you that
much. You remember Hans Koch? It has not been so long since that you
should forget his fate. Take care that we do not have to deal with you
in that manner.”
“What have I done that you should threaten me in this manner, Captain
Morton? Have I ever proved false—haven’t I always obeyed orders?”
“There—don’t get your back up, Jack Colton. What I say is for your own
good. If I am not mistaken you will be tested to-night, more severely
than you think. See to it that you do not fail. If you do—_you die_!”
“I don’t understand you.”
“You will, before long. That will do, Thompson. We only require a little
light, and some prying eye might catch the glimmer. Now, men,” he added,
after a brief pause, “gather round and listen well to what I say. We
have work to do this night—some of you may know what I mean, but most of
you do not. Listen well, but keep silence.
“First, a word as to the objects of our league, then as to our laws. It
will do no harm to freshen your memory on these points. We all know our
calling—our name, for it is _confiscation_—others call it stealing; but
that don’t matter. Among ourselves we are “Night Hawks.” To others we
are simple cattle-drovers, mustangers, or quiet settlers.
“We have been organized some six months. In that time our profits have
been nearly two thousand dollars per man: a little better than simple
farming. But it will be better still, now that our markets are fairly
opened, and a chain established along which we can ship our plunder
without chance of being detected. All this, however, you know.
“Now about our laws. The first is—_death to all traitors_. The
next—death to those who stubbornly refuse to perform the duty assigned
to them. Our motto is, blood for blood. If a member of our league is
taken prisoner, we swear to free him, though it cost the lives of half
our number. If one is killed, we swear to avenge him.
“You all remember Hans Koch. He warned a friend that we intended
cleaning out his corral on a certain night. A trap was set for us, but
we escaped it, because a trusted spy discovered Koch’s treachery. You
know that Koch met his reward. I killed him, because the lot fell to me.
Had I refused, your laws would have condemned me, even though I was
twice your leader. You wonder why I say all this? I will tell you now.
“You know that Koch’s death reduced the number of our league to twenty.
There are only eighteen here now. One—Tony Marcks—is absent on duty
assigned him by me. The other—Israel Hackett—is dead.”
A low murmur of surprise followed this announcement, and it was evident
that few, if any of the band had known of their comrade’s fate. Jasper
Morton waved his hand for silence, then resumed:
“Yes, Israel Hackett is dead—he was killed last night, while performing
his duty. He was one of our best men, and now duty becomes a pleasure—we
must avenge him as our laws demand.”
“He shall be avenged—the name? who killed him?” came the fierce cry from
more than one pair of lips.
“Keep cool—all in good time, men. We will proceed by rule. It is only
one man, and upon one of us the duty falls. We will decide by _the
lottery_. It is the fairest way. Thompson—the pouch!”
A small, narrow buck-skin bag was handed the leader, who knelt beside
the small fire that flickered faintly and feebly. At a gesture from him
the outlaws—for such they undoubtedly were—gathered more closely around,
bending forward and watching his every motion.
“You know the rules of this—that a bullet shall be placed in the bag for
each and every person present, all but one of them being old and stained
by rubbing together—the other one bright and new. Then we draw, one by
one, until the bright bullet is chosen. The man who draws that is the
one chosen executioner. There can be no refusal—no retreating. It is a
sacred command, and the one who refuses to obey proclaims himself a
traitor. Do you all understand me?”
“Yes—we are ready!”
“And _you_?” turning abruptly toward the man he had called Jack Colton.
“I vow with the rest—I am ready,” came the quiet reply.
“Good! I confess that I had some doubts, for you have acted rather
queerly since Koch’s death,” sneered Morton.
“He was my friend—you can not blame me for feeling touched at his
horrible death.”
“There is nothing wrong in that—only beware that you do not let your
friendship carry you in his footsteps. His wretched fate would be
happiness compared with yours, in that case.”
Morton seemed to have some secret spite against this member of his band,
but Colton commanded himself by an effort of will, and with a scowl the
outlaw leader turned once more to the subject in hand.
“Thompson, mold a bullet, your molds run the truest. Make haste.”
Five minutes later, all was ready. Jasper Morton took the bullets—one
bright as silver, the others all dingy and dark—and slowly dropped them
one by one into the buck-skin pouch, so that all could see. Then he
shook them up thoroughly.
“Now, as I call, let each man step forward and draw. You are standing in
a circle. I will begin here at my right hand, and go to the left. When
you draw, open your hand and hold the bullet in the firelight so that
all may see. You first, Wilkins.”
The man advanced, plunged his hand into the pouch, withdrew it, holding
the pellet of lead where the firelight shone full upon it. It was dark
and dingy.
So were the next half-dozen drawn. Some seemed pleased at the result,
others indifferent, but one uttered a low curse, as though he had been
deprived of a prized boon in not drawing the bright bullet.
Jack Colton came next, and the features of the outlaw chief lighted up
with a gleam of malignant joy, as the young man held up the fatal
pellet. It was just what he had been longing for. Had he known the
meaning of the word, it is probable that he would have prayed for this
result.
“You are the elected, Colton,” he cried, in a voice that rung with
triumph. “_Your_ hand must deal the avenging blow! But first—to show
that all was conducted fair. See—here are the other bullets. All are
dark—you drew the only bright one. Are you satisfied?”
“Yes, I am satisfied. I will avenge Hackett, since fate selects me. Tell
me the name, and what I must do,” quietly replied the young man.
“You must kill him, and before morning. Such are the rules. No
unnecessary delay.”
“I know—his name?” impatiently.
“Listen. Of course I am very sorry that it has happened as it has. It
would have been better had the choice fallen on some other man; but
since you _are_ elected, you must forget all save that you belong to
this league,” and as he spoke Morton’s eyes gleamed with diabolical joy.
“What do you mean by this?” faltered Colton, his bronzed cheek paling.
“Only to prepare you. Israel Hackett was killed by _your brother, Henry
Colton_!”
“My God!” gasped Colton, the terrible truth bursting upon his heart. “My
brother—and I—but no, no! You can not mean that!”
“Thompson, remember what I told you,” cried Morton, sharply, shrinking
back from before the agitated outlaw, one hand seeking his belt. “Yes, I
_do_ mean it. Your brother killed Hackett, and he is doomed. _You_ took
your chance with the rest of us—you must fulfill your oath.”
“I will not—I’ll kill you first!” screamed the unfortunate young man,
and in his frenzy, his revolver was jerked from the sheath at his side.
Now Morton’s precautions stood him in good stead. Thompson sprung
forward and clutched the half-crazed outlaw, pinning his arms closely to
his sides, holding him powerless as a child.
Thus assisted, Morton quickly disarmed Colton, then motioned Thompson to
release him. With a hot, angry glance around him, the young man stood
still, quelling his emotion by a powerful exertion of will.
“Now let me know just what you mean by this action, Jack Colton. Have
you forgotten your oath this soon? Do you intend to defy the league?”
“Yes—when you try to make me soil my hands with the blood of a brother,”
was the firm reply.
“Ah, you remember the tie now, do you?” sneered Morton. “And yet, only a
few weeks since, you swore that you’d have his heart’s blood. Have you
forgotten that he cursed you, and drove you from his door like a dog,
because, as he said, you insulted his wife?”
“He only served me right. I did insult her, but it was when I was drunk.
Never mind that now. I tell you that I will not murder him.”
“Take care—you are sealing your own doom by these words. You have been
told your duty—obey, or take the consequence.”
“Let it come. I am ready.”
“Durn the fool—what’s the use o’ palaverin’?” growled Thompson. “Here’s
the bullets; shake ’em up, an’ give _him_ a turn.”
“For the last time—will you obey?”
“No.”
Again the drawing of the death-lottery was gone through, this time even
more deliberately than before. Evidently Morton was anxious to put
Colton to death, from some reason of his own. During its progress, the
attitude of the prisoner—for such he now was—did not change, but his
features altered greatly. His resolution seemed dying out as he noted
the cool nonchalance with which the lots were drawn. Life appeared more
and more dear to him.
“It’s me,” uttered Thompson, with a coarse laugh. “Well, Colton, my boy,
since it’s so, reckon I must. How’ll you hev it—lead or steel?”
“Neither. Spare me—do not murder me!” gasped the young man, pale and
trembling.
“You know the alternative,” coldly replied Morton. “Do your duty and you
are safe.”
“You are not jesting—you mean this?”
“Yes. Strike the blow that avenges Israel Hackett, and we will forget
that you refused to do your duty.”
“I will do it. I did not think it was so hard to die; and he _did_ treat
me mean—like a dog—he even kicked me!” muttered Colton, tremblingly.
Morton’s eye gleamed. This sudden change seemed to please him greatly.
Thompson looked on in disgust. He felt only contempt for this pitiful
craven.
“Come, we have lost time enough. Mount and let’s be going. We’ll make a
clean sweep of the corrals, too, while about it. Thompson, you and I
will keep our friend, here, company,” and Morton glanced significantly
at his acolyte.
The little band filed forth from the woods, and then set out over the
prairie at a rapid gallop—the one gait of Morton’s horsemen. They had
only a few miles to travel, and of that they made short work.
Jack Colton rode between Thompson and Morton, his head bowed as though
strongly agitated. The outlaw chief was in high spirits. Whatever may
have been his object, he was greatly pleased with the course affairs had
that night taken.
“Yonder’s the ranche,” muttered Thompson, slackening his pace. “Now,
what’s the programme, old man?”
“Well, our first care is to see that Colton, here, does his duty. Either
you or I can go with him to the door, just to keep his courage up, you
know; the other can take charge of the men and go through the stables
and corral.”
“Jest as you say, Cap’n Jap. But how’d we best work it—bu’st in an’ take
the critter by s’prise, or knock ’im up?”
“Best rap at the door. He’ll think it’s all right when he hears Jack’s
voice. And as for you, my man,” addressing Colton, “remember that your
life depends upon how you act this night. Thompson, you will keep him
covered with your pistol, and at the first sign of treachery, drop him.
You hear me?”
“Yas—I’ll do it, too, so mind yer eye, ole boy,” and the tall ruffian
uttered an oath to bind his threat.
“You waste a great many words. I have to do this deed, and I will do it.
Why do you threaten so much?” quietly added Colton.
“Because I don’t half-trust you. I believe you are a traitor at heart,
and I am half-sorry that I gave you another chance at the grove. But
take care! You’d better have been born dead than to attempt any
treachery toward us now. While one of the band lives, your life will be
in peril.”
“His will may be good a-plenty, but he hain’t got the sand in his craw
to act the traitor. But never fret, Cap’n Jap. I’ll see that he puts Hen
Colton out o’ the way, or down he goes hisself. Come, we’d better git
down here. The houn’s begin to smell us a’ready.”
The entire party now dismounted, securing their animals to the rude rail
fence, at this point being hidden from the house by the long hay-topped
stables. After a few whispered instructions from Jasper Morton, Thompson
linked his arm in that of Colton, and glided silently toward the house.
As they crossed the stile-blocks, a furious barking broke the air, and
half a dozen large hounds came rushing toward them. Thompson cocked his
pistol, as he muttered in Colton’s ear:
“Quiet ’em, Jack—still the brutes, or you’ll never live to make love to
Hen’s widow!”
“Should you harm me, those brutes would tear you to pieces before you
could fire twice,” coolly replied Colton. “See—they know me.”
The huge hounds had recognized the hand that had so often fed them in
days gone by, and their angry greeting turned to one of joy. With
difficulty Colton kept them from leaping upon his body in a swarm,
licking his hands and face.
Thompson uttered an oath. The baying of the hounds had aroused the
inmates of the building, for a faint light shone through the heavily
shuttered windows.
“Wal, it don’t matter much, a’ter all. We won’t hev to knock so long.
But now mind how ye act, Jack Colton. You see—I hev my shooter cocked
an’ ready. The fust crooked step you make—down goes your apple-cart!
Onderstand?”
“Yes. But suppose he refuses to open the door?”
“He won’t if you play it fine. You tell him to open; thet you’re hard
hit—bin in a muss at the Corners. I’ll sw’ar to it. Thet’ll fetch him,
sure. So—kinder lean on me. It’ll look better an’ ’ll hide your barker
from him ontil he comes out. Keep cool now, and mind your eye, for your
life depends on your doing this job slick an’ without any bunglin’.”
“All right. You hail him. I’m hurt too bad to call so loud,” added
Colton, with a sickly laugh.
“Hellow—the house! You Hen Colton—I say—_durn_ it all, man be ye deef?”
roared Thompson, supporting the young man upon one strong arm.
“What’s wanting out there?” demanded a clear, strong voice from the
interior.
“You’re wanted—got a sick man here thet needs a little doctorin’. Some
kin o’ your’n, I reckon. Says he’s your brother.”
“What’s that?” and the heavy door was cautiously swung ajar a few
inches.
“It’s me, Henry,” and the young man’s voice trembled.
“What’s the matter with you?” the settler demanded, a trace of suspicion
in his tones.
“Nothin’ much—only cut up a little. _Monte_ Pete an’ One-eyed Johnny
doubled teams on him, down to the Corners. They’re subjects for a
fust-class wake, an’ the lad here is hurt consid’able. He would hev me
fetch him here—said he wanted to make it up ’th you, or somethin’ like
that. But I reckon he’s wuth two dead critters yit,” hastily explained
the tall outlaw.
“It’s true, Henry. Give me shelter for one night, or until my hurts can
be looked to. You will?”
“Of course—you are my brother still, though you had acted twice as bad
as you have done. Come—let me help you.”
The settler, unsuspecting treachery, stepped out upon the porch, his
countenance expressing his anxiety. Then Thompson nudged Jack Colton
with his elbow, as he loosened his hold.
What followed was quick as thought. A bright flash—a sharp report—a
death-cry of intense agony—a heavy fall upon the broad stone steps.
Then Colton, still clutching the smoking pistol, sprung forward and
seizing his brother pushed him forcibly back into the building, in a
moment closing the heavy oaken door and dropping the stout bars into
place.
Inside the brothers—outside, what? A writhing, bleeding body from which
the life was rapidly ebbing. Thompson the outlaw had been outwitted, and
paid the penalty with his life!
As he gave Colton the signal that the time had come for his bloody deed,
the young man turned his pistol against his breast and fired. With
bullet-pierced breast, the outlaw fell, dying.
Henry Colton was thunderstruck. At first he believed that the assault
was upon him, but when his brother closed and barred the door, with that
horrible groaning outside, an inkling of the truth flashed upon his
mind.
“What is this—what do you mean, Jack?” he gasped, bewildered.
“It means that I have saved your life, Henry, for the present. But
come—is the house well secured? We’ll have a desperate fight on our
hands before many minutes.”
“Yes—all is secure. But explain—I don’t understand. You are not
hurt—that man lied?”
“No, I am well. That was part of a plot. But first—out with the light,
then go and tell your wife that you are safe. Tell her that there is no
real danger, for we can easily beat them off until day, and they’ll not
dare stay longer, for fear of the neighbors. Go now—then hasten back
here.”
Henry Colton followed his brother’s advice, for he heard his affrighted
wife calling his name in anxious tones from the upper half-story, that
answered for sleeping apartments. A true woman of the border, she felt
safe on seeing him unhurt, and stilling the child, she hastily dressed
and followed her husband to the lower floor.
“Mary, this is no place for you,” murmured Henry as she glided to his
side. “Go and stay with Tommy. There may be danger here.”
“No more to me than to you, Henry. I can load your weapons for you, if
you have not time. No—I will not go. Tommy is safe up stairs, and my
place is here beside you.”
“Let her stay, Henry. It will show me what I have to make amends for.
Mary,” added Jack, his voice sounding husky, “while I have time, let me
pray your forgiveness. I was drunk and half crazy, or I would have known
better than to have insulted you. You will try and forget my words?”
“Yes—and we will be true brother and sister after this. You can not
guess how deeply it hurt me, knowing that I had caused hard feelings
between you and Henry.”
“He was right—it was my fault. But I’ll make amends, if my life is
spared.”
His brother understood this last remark though Mary did not, for Jack
had, in a few hasty words, told him all. How, when driven from his home
by his only brother, he had fallen into the tempter’s snare, and become
one of Jasper Morton’s “Night Hawks.” He told him too of the death-doom
sworn by the outlaws, and that while one of the Night Hawks lived,
neither would be safe from danger. It was this thought that clouded both
their brows.
Henry Colton marveled greatly that no attack had been made, though full
quarter of an hour had elapsed since the fall of Thompson, but a word
from Jack explained this. The Night Hawks, busy plundering the stables
and corral, no doubt fancied that the death-cry proceeded from the
settler, and that the chosen executioner had done his work well. But
they would soon discover the truth, and then—
“Ha! it’s coming now!” muttered Jack Colton, in a low, strained tone, as
a peculiar whistle came faintly to their ears. “That’s Morton’s signal
to Thompson.”
“Stand in this corner, Mary, out of range. We must show the devils no
mercy now, and remember that the more we lay out to-night, the less we
will have to fight in the future,” sternly added the settler.
“If the moon only shone brighter!” muttered Jack, his eyes gleaming
viciously. “I’d give my left hand for a fair shot at that devil,
Morton!”
“I know him now. If he’s wise, he’ll keep out of range. Look! yonder
they come!”
The rifles of the brothers clicked ominously, and then two dark muzzles
protruded slightly from the small loop holes. The house had been built
with an eye to defense against the Indians though until now the settler
had been unmolested. The outlaw whom he had shot, he detected riding off
on a valuable stallion, the day before, and at his rifle’s crack, Israel
Hackett fell dead. Horse-stealing was regarded as an even more heinous
crime than murder, in those days.
Jasper Morton had chuckled fiendishly, as he heard the shot and
death-cry. He believed that his plans had been successfully carried out.
But he became uneasy at the long delay of his acolyte, and gave the
signal as stated. No answer coming, he began to suspect the truth, and
mustering his men, was now approaching the dark and silent building.
“When you are sure of your aim, Jack,” muttered Colton, “tell me.”
“I’m ready now.”
“Then—fire!”
Two whiplike reports rung out upon the clear night air, sounding almost
like one. Two of the Night Hawks fell to the ground, writhing in their
death-agonies. Wild cries broke from the survivors, and with one accord
they broke and fled, seeking the nearest cover, for the moment
completely demoralized.
The brothers laughed, and quickly reloaded their weapons. But Mary
seemed greatly agitated. As Henry noted her pale and frightened face,
she murmured
“_What if they fire the house!_”
“My God! I did not think of that!” gasped Colton.