About half an hour after the planter had taken his departure from the
house, Pierre Robideau paid for the mending of his bridle; and having no
other errand to detain him in the town, started homewards afoot as he
had come.
The road to Jerry Rook's house still corresponded with that leading to
Little Rock, only that the latter, now much travelled, no longer passed
through the well-known glade--a better crossing of Caney Creek having
caused it to diverge before it entered the natural clearing.
The old trace, however, was that taken by any one going to Rook's house,
and to it Pierre Robideau was making his return from the town.
With the bridle lashed belt-like across his shoulders, he was walking
unsuspectingly along, thinking how pleased Lena Rook would be at seeing
him so soon back.
On entering the glade a change came over his spirit, indicated by a dark
cloud suddenly overspreading his face. It was natural enough at sight
of that too well-remembered tree, recalling not only his own agonies,
but the foul murder there committed, for he knew that upon that same
tree his unfortunate father, whom he could not think otherwise than
innocent, had been sacrificed to the madness of a frantic mob.
There still was the branch extended towards him, as if mockingly to
remind him of a vengeance still unsatisfied!
An impulse came over him he was unable to resist; and yielding to it, he
stopped in his track, and stood gazing upon the tree--a strange lurid
light shining in his eyes.
All at once he felt a shock in the left arm, accompanied by a stinging
sensation, as if from the bite of an insect; but it was not this, for,
almost at the same instant, he heard the "spang" of a rifle, and saw a
puff of smoke flirting up over some bushes directly before him.
It was a shot that had been fired; and the blood spirting from his torn
coat-sleeve left no doubt of it having been fired at himself.
Nor could there be as to the deadly intention, though the damage done
was only a slight abrasion of the arm, scarce deeper than the thickness
of the skin.
Pierre Robideau did not stay to reflect on this. The moment he saw the
smoke he sprang forward, and ran on until he had reached the spot where
the bushes were still enveloped in the low, scattering, sulphurous
vapour.
He could see no one there; but this did not surprise him. It was not
likely that such an assassin would stay to be discovered; but he must
still be near, stealing off among the trees.
Suspending his breath Pierre stood to listen.
For a time he could hear nothing, not even the rustling of a leaf, and
he was beginning to fear that he might again be made the mark of an
unseen murderer's bullet, when the screech of a jay came sharply through
the trees.
It gave him instant relief, for he knew by the compressed scolding of
the bird that some one was intruding upon its haunts. It must be the
retreating assassin!
Guided by the chattering of the jay, he recommenced the pursuit.
He had not gone twenty yards farther when he heard footsteps, and the
"swish" of leaves, as if some one was making way through the underwood.
Directed by these sounds he rushed rapidly after.
Ten seconds more and he was in sight of a saddled horse, standing tied
to a tree, and a man in the act of untying him. The man was making all
haste, hindered by a heavy rifle carried in his hand. It was the gun
that had just been discharged, and Pierre Robideau had recognised the
man who had made the attempt to murder him.
Alfred Brandon!
With a shout, such as only one Indian-born could give, he bounded
forward, and, before the retreating assassin could climb into his
saddle, he seized him by the throat and dashed him against the trunk of
a tree. The horse, frightened by the fierce onslaught, gave a loud
neigh, and galloped off.
"I thank you," cried Robideau, "and you alone, Mr Alf Brandon, for
giving me this chance! I've got you exactly where I wanted you! For
six years I've been longing for this hour, and now it has come as if I'd
planned it myself."
Brandon, by this time recovered from the shock, threw down his gun, drew
pistol, and was about to fire; but, before he could get his finger on
the trigger, his antagonist seized him by the wrist, and, wrenching the
weapon from his hand, dashed him a second time against the tree trunk.
Reeling and giddy, he saw the muzzle of his own pistol pointed at his
head, and expected nothing else than the bullet through his brains.
The cry of the coward came from his lips as he writhed under the
terrible anticipation.
To his astonishment the shot was not fired!
Pierre Robideau, flinging the pistol away, stood before him apparently
unarmed!
"No, Mr Alf Brandon!" said he, "shooting is too good for such a dog as
you; and a dog's death you shall have. Come away from here! Come on!
I want to see which of us can _hang longest by the hand_. We tried it
six years ago, but the trial wasn't a fair one. 'Tis your turn now.
Come on!"
More than ever astonished, Brandon hesitated to comply. The calm yet
determined air of his antagonist told him it was no jest, but that
something terrible was intended. He glanced stealthily to the right and
left, and seemed to calculate the chances of escape.
Robideau read his thoughts.
"Don't attempt it," said he, throwing back the lapel of his coat, and
showing the butt of a pistol. "I have this, and will use it if you make
any effort to get off. Come!"
Saying this, he seized the cowering ruffian by the wrist, and, half
leading, half dragging, hurried him away from the spot.
In five minutes after they stood under a tree--the same upon which
Pierre Robideau had endured all the horrors of hanging.
"What do you mean to do?" asked Brandon, in a faltering voice.
"I've told you. I am curious to see how long _you_ can stand it."
As he said this, he unloosed the bridle-reins from his body, and, taking
out his knife, commenced cutting them free from the bit. It was a
double rein, composed of two long pieces of closely-plaited hair taken
from the tail of a horse.
Brandon stood pale and trembling. He could not fail to interpret the
preparations that were being made. Once more he thought of flight, and
once more Pierre Robideau read his thoughts.
"It is no use," he said sternly; "you are in my power. Attempt to get
out of it, or resist, and I dash your brains out against that tree.
Now, your wrist in this rope."
Feeble with fear, Brandon allowed his left hand to be seized, and his
wrist drawn into a noose made of one of the bridle-reins. The other end
of the cord was passed around his thigh, and then brought back and
secured by a firm knot, so as to hold the arm helpless by his side.
This done, the other rein, with a running loop, was adjusted round his
neck, its loose end thrown over one of the large branches.
"Now," cried Robideau, "mount upon this log, and take hold, as you made
me do. Quick, or I jerk you up by the neck!"
Bewildered, Brandon knew not what to do. Was his enemy in earnest, or
was it only a grim jest? He would fain have believed it this; but the
fierce, determined look of Robideau forbade him to hope for mercy. He
remembered at this moment how little he was deserving of it.
He was left no time to reflect. He felt the noose tightening around his
neck, and the cord stretching taut above him.
In another instant he was drawn from the ground and, mechanically
throwing up his right arm, he caught hold of the branch. It was the
only chance to save him from almost instant strangulation!
"Now," cried Robideau, who had sprung upon the log and made the rope
fast to the upper limb, "now, Mr Alf Brandon, you're just as you left
me six years ago. I hope you'll enjoy the situation. Good day to you!"
And, with a scornful laugh, Pierre Robideau strode away from the spot.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
All the agony that can be endured by a man who sees death before him,
and sees no chance to escape it, was at that hour endured by Alfred
Brandon.
In vain he shouted till he was hoarse, till his cries could have been no
longer heard a hundred yards from the tree, soon to become his gallows.
There was no response, save the echo of his own voice. No one to hear
or to heed it! He had no expectation of being saved by the man who had
just left him. That scornful laugh at parting precluded all hope:
though in his agonised struggle he begged aloud for mercy, calling upon
Pierre Robideau by name.
Pierre Robideau came not to his assistance; and, after a long struggle--
protracted to the utmost point of endurance--till the arm, half
disjointed, could no longer sustain his body, he let go his hold, and
dropped _to the ground_.
The peals of derisive laughter that rang in his ears as he lay exhausted
upon the earth, were not pleasant--the less so that a female voice was
heard taking part in it. But even this was endurable after the dread
agony through which he had passed; and hurriedly springing to his feet,
and releasing his neck from the rope, he sneaked off among the trees,
without staying to cast a look at Pierre Robideau or Lena Rook, who,
standing by the edge of the glade, had been witness to his unnecessary
contortions.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Our tale is told, so far as it might interest the reader. What
afterwards happened to the different character who have figured in it,
were but events such as may occur in every-day life. There was nothing
strange in a young man, with a taint of Indian blood in him, marrying
the daughter of a backwoods-settler, and carrying her off to California;
nothing strange, either, that the father of the girl should sell off his
"improvement," and make the far-western migration along with them.
And this was the history of Jerry Rook, his daughter, and his daughter's
husband; all three of whom, in less than twelve months after, might have
been seen settled in their new home, on the far shore of the Pacific,
and surrounded with every comfort required upon earth.
There Pierre Robideau had nothing further to fear from the hostility of
early enemies, or the vengeance of jealous rivals; there Lena Rook, no
longer exposed to social humiliation, had the opportunity of becoming
that for which nature had intended her--an ornament of society; and
there, too, her father found time to repent of the past, and prepare
himself for that future which awaits alike the weary and the wicked.
Of his crimes, both committed and conceived, Jerry Rook died repentant.
The fate of Alfred Brandon was somewhat similar to that of his father.
Drink brought him to a premature grave; though, unlike his father, he
died without heir and almost without heritage, having spent the whole of
his property in the low dissipation of the tavern and the gaming-table.
His executors found scarce sufficient to pay for the hearse that carried
him to the grave.
With Bill Buck it was different. His funeral, which occurred shortly
after, was at the public expense--his grave being dug near the foot of
the gallows on which he had perished for many crimes committed against
society, the last and greatest being a cold-blooded murder, with robbery
for its motive.
Spencer, Slaughter, Randall, and Grubbs, lived to take part in the late
fratricidal war--all four, as might be expected, embracing the cause of
secession, and all, it is believed, having perished in the strife, after
the perpetration of many of those cruel atrocities in which the state of
Arkansas was most conspicuously infamous.
Helena still stands on the banks of the mighty river, and there are many
there who remember the tragedy of Dick Tarleton's death; but few, if
any, who have ever heard the tale of "The Helpless Hand."