if I know. I heerd a shriek as ef some’dy war in trouble. Yes, thar ’tis agin! By the Etarnal, it’s Pierre’s voice!”
“It is father,” said Lena, who had glided out, and stood listening by his side. “It is his voice; I could tell it anywhere. I fear they have been doing something. I’m sure those boys don’t like him, and I know they were drinking.”
“No, Dick! don’t you go. Some of them young fellurs might know you. I’ll go myself, and Lena kin kum along wi’ me. My gun, gurl! An’ you may turn, too, ole Sneezer; you’d be more’n a match for the hul pack o’ thar curs. I tell ye, you shan’t go, Dick! Git inside the shanty, and stay thar till we kum back. Maybe, ’tain’t much; some lark o’ them young scamp-graces. Anyhow, this chile’ll soon see it all straight. Now, Lena! arter yur ole dad.”
At the termination of this chapter of instructions, the hunter, long rifle in hand, hound and daughter close following upon his heels, strode off at the double-quick in the direction in which he had heard the cries.
For some moments their guest stood outside the door, apparently unresolved as to whether he should stay behind or follow his host. But, a shadow passing over his face, showed that some sentiment – perhaps fear – stronger than affection for his son, was holding him in check; and, yielding to this, he turned, and stepped back into the shanty.
A remarkable-looking man was this old acquaintance of Jerry Rook; as unlike the hunter as Hyperion to the Satyr. He was still under forty years of age, while Jerry had outlived the frosts of full sixty winters. But the difference between their ages was nothing compared with that existing in other respects. While Jerry, crooked in limb and corrugated in skin, was the beau ideal of an old borderer, with a spice of the pirate in him to boot, Richard Tarleton stood straight as a lance, and had been handsome as Apollo.
Jerry, clad in his half-Indian costume of skin cap and buck-leather, looked like the wild woods around him, while his guest in white linen shirt and shining broadcloth, seemed better suited for the streets of that city from which his conversation showed him to have lately come.
What strange chance has brought two such men together? And what stranger episode had kept them bound in a confidence neither seemed desirous of divulging?
It must have been a dark deed on the side of Dick Tarleton – a strong fear that could hinder a father from rushing to the rescue of his son!
Story 1-Chapter VII.
The Body Taken Down
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
