The glade is silent as a graveyard, with a tableau in it far more
terribly solemn than tombs. A fire smoulders unheeded in its centre,
and near it the carcass of some huge creature, upon which the black
vultures, soaring aloft, have fixed their eager eyes.
And they glance too at something upon the trees. There is a broad black
skin suspended over a branch; but there is more upon another branch--
there is a _man_!
But for the motions lately made by him the birds would ere this have
descended to their banquet.
They may come down now. He makes no more motions, utters no cry to keep
them in the air affrighted. He hangs still, silent, apparently dead.
Even the scream of a young girl rushing out from the underwood does not
stir him, nor yet the shout of an old man sent forth under like
excitement.
Not any more when they are close to the spot with arms almost touching
him--arms upraised and voices loud in lamentation.
"It is Pierre! Oh, father, they have hanged him! Dead--he is dead!"
"Hush gurl! Maybe not," cries the old man, taking hold of the loose
limbs and easing the strain of the rope. "Quick! come under here, catch
hold as you see me, an' bear up wi' all your strength. I must git my
knife out and spring up'ard to git at the durned rope. Thet's it.
Steady, now."
The young girl has glided forward, and, as directed, taken hold of the
hanging limbs. It is a terrible task--a trying, terrible task even for
a backwoods maiden. But she is equal to it; and bending to it with all
her strength, she holds up what she believes to be the dead body of her
playmate and companion. Her young heart is almost bursting with agony
as she feels that in the limbs embraced there is no motion--not even a
tremor.
"Hold on hard," urges her father. "Thet's a stout gurl. I won't be a
minnit."
While giving this admonition, he is hurrying to get hold of his knife.
It is out, and with a spring upward, as if youth had returned to his
sinews, the old hunter succeeds in reaching the rope. It is severed
with a "snig!" and the body, bearing the girl along with it, drops to
the ground.
The noose is instantly slackened and switched off; the old hunter with
both hands embraces the throat, pressing the windpipe back into it;
then, placing his ear close to the chest, listens.
With eyes set in agonised suspense, and ears also; Lena listens, too, to
hear what her father may say.
"Oh! father, do you think he is dead? Tell me he still lives."
"Not much sign o' it. Heigh! I thort I seed a tremble. You run to the
shanty. Thar's some corn whisky in the cubberd. It's in the stone
bottle. Bring it hyar. Go, gurl, an' run as fast as your legs kin
carry ye!"
The girl springs to her feet, and is about starting off.
"Stay, stay! It won't do to let Dick know; this'll drive _him_ mad.
Durn me, if I know what ter do. Arter all he may as well be told on't.
He must find it out, sooner or later. That must be, an' dog-gone it
'twon't do to lose time. Ye may go. No, stay! No, go--go! an' fetch
the bottle; ye needn't tell him what it's for. But he'll know thars
suthin' wrong. He'll be sure to know. He'll come back along wi' ye.
That's equilly sartin. Well, let him. Maybe thet's the best. Yes,
fetch him back wi' ye. Thar's no danger o' them chaps--showin' here
arter this, I reck'n. Hurry him along but don't forget the bottle.
Now, gurl, quick as lightnin', quick!"
If not quite so quick as lightning, yet fast as her feet can carry her,
the young girl starts along the trace leading to the shanty. She is not
thinking of the sad tidings she bears to him who hides in her father's
cabin. Her own sorrow is sufficient for the time, and stifles every
other thought in her heart.
The old hunter does not stand idly watching her. He is busy with the
body, doing what he can to restore life. He feels that it is warm. He
fancies it is still breathing.
"Now, how it came abeout?" he asked himself, scanning the corpse for an
explanation. "Tied one o' his hands an' not the tother! Thar's a
puzzle. What can it mean?
"They must a meant hangin' anyhow, poor young fellar! They've dud it
sure. For what? What ked he hev done, to hev engered them? Won the
rifle for one thing, an' thet they've tuk away.
"The hul thing hez been a trick; a durned, infernal, hellniferous trick
o' some sort.
"Maybe they only meant it for a joke. Maybe they only intended scarin'
him; an' jess then that varmint kim along, an' sot the houn's on to it,
an' them arter, an' they sneaked off 'thout thinkin' o' him? Wonder ef
that was the way.
"Ef it warn't, what ked a purvoked them to this drefful deed? Durn me
ef I kin think o' a reezun.
"Wal, joke or no joke, it hev ended in a tregidy--a krewel tregidy.
Poor young fellar!
"An' dog-gone my cats! ef I don't make 'em pay for it, every mother's
chick o' 'em. Yes, Mr Alf Brandon, an' you, Master Randall, an' you,
Bill Buck, an' all an' every one o' ye.
"Ya! I've got a idea; a durned splendifirous idea! By the Etarnal, I
kin make a good thing out o' this. Well thought o', Jeremiah Rooke;
ye've hed a hard life o't lately; but ye'll be a fool ef ye don't live
eezier for the future, a darned greenhorn o' a saphead! Oh, oh! ye
young bloods an' busters! I'll make ye pay for this job in a way ye
ain't thinkin' o', cussed ef I don't.
"What's fust to be done? He musn't lie hyar. Somebody mout kum along,
an' that 'ud spoil all. Ef 'twar only meent as a joke they mout kum to
see the end o't. I heerd shots. That must a been the finish o' the
anymal. 'Tain't likely they'll kum back, but they may; an' ef so, they
musn't see this. I'll tell them I carried the corp away and berried it.
They won't care to inquire too close 'beout it.
"An' Dick won't object. I won't let him object. What good would it do
him? an' t'other 'll do me good, a power o' good. Keep me for the
balance o' my days. Let Dick go a gold gatherin' his own way, I'll go
mine.
"Thar ain't any time to lose. I must toat him to the shanty; load
enough for my old limbs. But I'll meet them a comin', an' Dick an' the
gurl kin help me. Now, then, my poor Pierre, you come along wi' me."
This strange soliloquy does not occupy much time. It is spoken
_sotto-voce_, while the speaker is still engaged in an effort to
resuscitate life; nor is he yet certain that Pierre Robideau is dead,
while raising his body from the ground and bearing it out of the glade.
Staggering under the load, for the youth is of no light weight, he
re-enters the trace conducting to his own domicile. The old bear-hound
slinks after with a large piece of flesh between his teeth, torn from
the carcase of the butchered bear.
The vultures, no longer scared by man's presence, living or dead, drop
down upon the earth, and strut boldly up to their banquet.