Six years have elapsed since the lynching of Dick Tarleton. Six years,
by the statute of limitations, will wipe cut a pecuniary debt, and make
dim many a reminiscence. But there are remembrances not so easily
effaced; and one of these was the tragedy enacted in the clearing, near
the Caney Creek.
And yet it was but little remembered. In a land, where every-day life
chronicles some lawless deed, the mere murder of a man is but a slight
circumstance, scarce extending to the proverbial "nine days' wonder."
Richard Tarleton was but a "sportsman," a gambler, if not more; and, as
to the mode of his execution, several others of the same fraternity were
treated in like fashion not long after, having been hanged in the
streets of Vicksburg, the most respectable citizens of the place acting
as their executioners!
Amidst these, and other like reminiscences, the circumstance of Dick
Tarleton's death soon ceased to be talked about, or even thought of,
except, perhaps, by certain individuals who had played a part in the
illegal execution.
But some of these were dead, some gone away from the neighbourhood;
while the influx of colonising strangers, creating a thicker population
in the place, had caused those changes that tend to destroy the
souvenirs of earlier times, and obliterate the memories of many a local
legend.
There was one memory that remained fresh--one souvenir that never slept
in the minds of certain individuals who still lived in Helena or its
neighbourhood. It was of another tragic occurrence that had taken place
in the clearing near Caney Creek, on the day before that on which the
condemned gambler had been dispatched into eternity.
The knowledge of this second tragedy had been confided only to a few;
and beyond this few it had not extended. The disappearance of young
Robideau, sudden as it had been, excited scarce any curiosity--less on
account of the other and better known event that for the time occupied
the attention of all.
The boy, as if feeling the taint of his Indian blood, and conscious of a
distinction that in some way humiliated him, had never mixed much with
the youth of the surrounding settlement, and for this reason his absence
scarce elicited remark.
Those who chanced to make the inquiry were told that Jerry Rook had sent
him back to his mother's people, who were half-breed Choctaw Indians,
located beyond the western border of Arkansas territory, on lands lately
assigned to them by a decree of the Congress.
The explanation was of course satisfactory; and to most people in Helena
and its neighbourhood the boy Robideau was as if he had never been.
There were some, however, who had better reason to remember him, as also
to disbelieve this suspicious tale of Jerry Rook, though careful never
to contradict it. These were the six youths, now grown to be men, the
heroes of that wild, wicked frolic already recorded.
In their minds the remembrance of that fatal frolic was as vivid as
ever, having been periodically refreshed by an annual disbursement of a
hundred dollars each.
With the exacting spirit of a Shylock, Jerry Rook had continued to hold
them to their contract; and if at any time remonstrance was made, it was
soon silenced, by his pointing to an oblong mound of earth, rudely
resembling a grave, under that tree where he had held his last
conversation with _his friend_, Dick Tarleton.
The inference was that the remains of Pierre Robideau were deposited
beneath that sod, and could at any time be disinterred to give damning
evidence of his death.
Remonstrance was rarely made. Most of the contributors to Jerry Rook's
income had become masters of their own substance. Still, the compulsory
payment of a hundred dollars each was like the annual drawing of a
tooth; all the more painful from the reflection of what it was for, and
the knowledge as long as their creditor lived there was no chance of
escaping it.
Painful as it was, however, they continued to pay it more punctually
than they would have done had it been a debt recoverable by court, or an
obligation of honour.
They were not all equally patient under the screw thus periodically put
upon them. There were two more especially inclined to kick out of the
terrible traces that chafed them. These were Bill Buck, the son of the
horse-dealer, and Slaughter, who kept the "Helena Tavern," his father
being defunct.
Neither had greatly prospered in the world, and to both the sum of a
hundred dollars a-year was a tax worth considering.
In their conversations with one another, they had discussed this
question, and more than once had been heard to hint at some dark design
by which the impost might be removed.
These hints were only made in presence of their partners in the secret
compact, and never within earshot of Jerry Rook.
It is true they were discouraged by the others less harassed by the tax,
and, therefore, Jess tempted to take any sinister step towards removing
it. They had enough to torment them already.
Both Buck and Slaughter were capable of committing crimes even deeper
than that already on their conscience. Six years had not changed them
for the better. On the contrary, they had become worse, both being
distinguished as among the most dissolute members of the community.
A similar account might be given of the other four; though these,
figuring in positions of greater respectability, kept their characters a
little better disguised.
Two of their fathers were also dead--Randall, the judge, and Spence, the
Episcopalian clergyman, while their sons, less respected than they, were
not likely to succeed to their places.
Brandon's father still lived, though drink was fast carrying him to the
grave, and his son was congratulating himself on the proximity of an
event that would make him sole master of himself as also of a cotton
plantation.
The store-keeper, Grubbs, had gone, no one knew whither--not even the
sheriff, loth to let him depart--leaving his son to build up a new
fortune extracted out of the pockets of the Mississippi boatmen. The
horse-dealer still stuck to his old courses--coping, swopping,
swearing--likely to outlive them all.
Among the many changes observable in the settlements around Helena there
was none more remarkable than that which had taken place in the fortunes
of Jerry Rook. It was a complete transformation, alike mysterious, for
no one could tell how it came, or whence the power that had produced it.
It appeared not only in the person of Jerry himself, but in everything
that appertained to him--his house, his grounds, his dogs, and his
daughter; in short, all his belongings.
An old hunter no longer, clad in dirty buckskin, and dwelling in a
hovel, but a respectable-looking citizen of the semi-planter type,
habited in decent broadcloth, wearing clean linen, living in a neat
farm-house, surrounded by fenced fields, and kept by black domestics.
The old scarred dog was no longer to be seen; but, in his place, some
three or four hounds, lounging lazily about, and looking as if they had
plenty to eat and nothing to do.
But, in the _personnel_ of the establishment, there was, perhaps, no
transformation more striking than that which had taken place in Jerry
Rook's daughter. There was no change in her beauty; that was still the
same, only more womanly--more developed. But the sun-tanned, barefoot
girl, in loose homespun frock, with unkempt hair sweeping over her
shoulders, was now, six years after, scarce recognisable in the young
lady in white muslin dress, fine thread stockings, and tresses plaited,
perfumed, and kept from straying by the teeth of a tortoiseshell comb.
And this was Lena Rook, lovely as ever, and more than ever the theme of
man's admiration.
Despite all this, despite her father's prosperity, and the comfort,
almost luxury, surrounding her, few failed to remark an expression of
melancholy constantly pervading her countenance, though none could tell
its cause.
Some dread souvenir must have become fixed in the mind of that young
girl--some dark cloud had descended over her heart, perhaps, to shadow
it for ever!