The sun is down, and there is deep darkness over the firmament; deeper
under the shadows of the forest. But for the gleam of the lightning
bugs, the forms of two men standing under the trees could scarce be
distinguished.
By such fickle light it is impossible to read their features, but by
their voices may they be recognised, engaged as they are in an earnest
conversation.
They are Jerry Rook and Dick Tarleton.
The scene is on the bank of the sluggish stream or _bayou_, that runs
past the dwelling of the hunter, and not twenty yards from the shanty
itself. Out of this they have just stepped apparently for the purpose
of carrying on their conversation beyond earshot of any one.
The faint light burning within the cabin, that part of it that serves as
sitting-room and kitchen, is from the fire. But there is no one there;
no living thing save the hound slumbering upon the hearth.
A still duller light from a dip candle shows through the slits of a shut
door, communicating with an inner apartment. One gazing in might see
the silhouette of a young girl seated by the side of a low bedstead, on
which lies stretched the form of a youth apparently asleep. At all
events, he stirs not, and the girl regards him in silence. There is
just enough light to show that her looks are full of anxiety or sadness,
but not sufficient to reveal which of the two, or whether both.
The two men outside have stopped by the stem of a large cottonwood, and
are but continuing a dialogue commenced by the kitchen fire, that had
been kindled but for the cooking of the evening meal, now eaten. It is
still warm autumn weather, and the bears have not begun to hybernate.
"I tell ye, Dick," says the old hunter, whose turn it is to speak, "for
you to talk o' revenge an' that sort o' thing air the darndest kind o'
nonsense. Take it afore the coort ideed! What good 'ud thet do ye?
They'd be the coort, an' the jedges; that is, thar fathers wud, an' ye'd
stan' as much chance o' gettin' jestice out o' 'em as ye wud o' lightin'
yur pipe at one o' them thar fire-bugs. They've got the money an' the
inflooence, an' thar's no law in these parts, 'ithout one or the
t'other."
"I know it--I know it," says Tarleton, with bitter emphasis.
"I reckin ye've reezun to know it, Dick, now you haven't the money to
spare for sech purposes, an', therefore, on thet score 'ud stan' no
chance. Besides thar's the old charge agin ye, and ye dasent appear to
parsecute. It's the same men ye see, or the sons o' the same--"
"Curse them! The very same. Buck, Brandon, Randall--every one of them.
Oh, God! There is destiny in it! 'Twas their fathers who ruined me,
blighted my whole life, and now the sons to have done this. Strange--
fearfully strange!"
"Wal, it air kewrious, I admit, an' do look as ef the devvil hed a hand
in't. But he's playin' agen ye, Dick, yet, an' he'd beat ye sure, ef ye
try to fout agin him. Take the device I've gin ye, an' git out o' his
and thar way as fur's ye kin. Kaliforny's a good way off. Go thar as
ye intended. Git rich if ye kin, an' ye think ye hev a chance. Do
that, and then kum back hyar ef ye like. When yur pockets are well
filled wi' them thar shinin' pebbles, ye kin command the law as ye like,
and hev as much o' it as ye've a mind to."
"I shall have it for my own wrongs, or for his."
"Wal, I reck'n you hev reezun both ways. They used _you_ durn'd ill.
Thar's no doubt o' that. Still, Dick, ye must acknowledge that
appearances war dreadfully agin' ye."
"Against me--perdition! From the way you say that, Jerry Rook, I might
fancy that you too believed it. If I thought you did--"
"But I didn't, an' don't, ne'er a bit o' it, Dick. I know you war
innercent o' _thet_.
"Jerry Rook, I have sworn to you, and swear it again, that I am as
innocent of that girl's murder as if I had never seen her. I
acknowledge that she used to meet me in the woods, and on the spot where
she was found with a bullet through her heart, and my own pistol lying
empty beside her. The pistol was stolen from my house by him who did
the deed. It was one of the two men; which, I could never tell. It was
either Buck or Brandon, the fathers of those fellows who have been
figuring to-day. Like father, like son! Both were mad after the girl,
and jealous of me. They knew I had outshined them, and that was no
doubt their reason for destroying her. One or other did it, and if I'd
known which, I'd have sent him after her long ago. I didn't wish to
kill the wrong man, and to say the truth, the girl was nothing to me.
But after what's happened to-day, I'll have satisfaction on them and
their sons too--ay, every one who has had a hand in this day's work!"
"Wal, wal; but let it stan' over till ye kum back from Kaliforny. I
tell, ye, Dick, ye kin do nuthin' now, 'ceptin' to git yur neck into a
runnin' rope. The old lot are as bitter agin you now as they war that
day when they had ye stannin' under a branch, wi' the noose half
tightened round your thrapple; and ef ye hadn't got out o' thar
clutches, why, then thar'd a been an end o't. Ef you war to show here
agin, it wud be jest the same thing, an' no chance o' yur escapin' a
second time. Therefar, go to Kaliforny. Gather as many o' them
donicks, an' as much o' the dust as ye kin lay yur claws on. Kum back,
an' maybe then I mout do someat ter 'sist ye to the satisfacshin ye
speak o'."
Tarleton stands silent, seeming to reflect. Strange that in all he has
said, there is no tone of sorrow--only anger. The grief he should feel
for his lost son--where is it?
Has it passed away so soon? Or is it only kept under by the keener
agony of revenge?