exclaimed Randall. “There’s something yet – something that should be done before any chance separates us.”
“What is it?”
“We’re all alike in this ugly business – in the same boat. It don’t matter who contrived it, or who fixed the rope. We all agreed to it. Is that not so?”
“Yes, all. I for one acknowledge it.”
“And I!”
“And I!”
All six give their assent, showing at least loyalty to one another.
“Well, then,” continues Randall, “we must be true to each other. We must swear it, and now, before going further. I propose we all take an oath.”
“We’ll do that. You, Randall, you repeat it over, and we’ll follow you.”
“Head your horses round, then, face to face.”
The horses are drawn into a circle, their heads together, with muzzles almost touching.
Randall proceeds, the rest repeating after him.
“We swear, each and every one of us, never to make known by act, word, or deed, the way in which the half-breed Indian, called Choc, came by his death, and we mutually promise never to divulge the circumstances connected with that affair, even if called upon in a court of law; and, finally, we swear to be true to each other in keeping this promise until death.”
“Now,” says Brandon, as soon as the six young scoundrels have shaken hands over their abominable compact, “let us on, and put the Indian out of sight. I know a pool close by, deep enough to drown him. If he do get discovered, that will look better than hanging.”
There is no reply to this astute proposal; and though it helps to allay their apprehensions, they advance in solemn silence towards the scene of their deserted bivouac.
There is not one of them who does not dread to go back in that glade, so lately gay with their rude roystering; not one who would not give the horse he is riding and the gun he carries in his hand, never to have entered it.
But the dark deed has been done, and another must needs be accomplished to conceal it.
Story 1-Chapter IX.
A Compulsory Compact
Heavy with apprehension, rather than remorse for their crime, the six hunters ride on towards the clearing.
They avoid the travelled track, lest they may meet some one upon it, and approach through the thick timber.
Guiding their horses, so as to make the least noise, and keeping the hounds in check, they advance slowly and with caution.
Some of the less courageous are reluctant to proceed, fearing the spectacle that is before them.
Even the loud-talking Slaughter would gladly give up the newly-conceived design, but for the manifest danger of leaving it undone.
Near the edge of the opening, still screened from their view by the interposing trunks and cane-culms, they again halt, and hold council – this time speaking in whispers.
“We should not all go forward,” suggests the son of the tavern-keeper. “Better only one or two at first, to see how the land lies.”
“That would be better,” chimes in Spence.
“Who’ll go, then?”
Buck and Brandon are pointed out by the eyes of the others resting upon them. These two have been leaders throughout the whole affair. Without showing poltroon, they cannot hang back now.
They volunteer for the duty, but not without show of reluctance. It is anything but agreeable.
“Let’s leave our horses. We’ll be better without them. If there’s any one on the ground, we can steal back without being seen.”
It is the young planter’s proposition, and Buck consents to it.
They slip out of their saddles, pass the bridles to two of those who stay behind, and then, like a couple of cougars stealing upon the unsuspicious fawn, silently make their way through the underwood.
The clearing is soon under their eyes, with all it contains.
There is the carcase of the bear, black with buzzards, and the skin still hanging from the tree.
But the object of horror they expected to see hanging upon another tree is not there. That sight is spared them.
There is no body on the branch, no corpse underneath it. Living or dead, the Indian is gone.
His absence is far from re-assuring them; the more so as, on scanning the branch, they perceive, still suspended from it, a piece of the rope they had so adroitly set to ensnare him.
Even across the glade they can see that it has been severed with the clean cut of a knife, instead of, as they could have wished, given way under its weight.
Who could have cut the rope? Himself? Impossible! Where was the hand to have done it? He had none to spare for such a purpose. Happy for them to have thought that he had.
They skulk around the glade to get nearer, still going by stealth, and in silence. The buzzards perceive them, and though dull birds, reluctant to leave their foul feast, they fly up with a fright. Something in the air of the two stalkers seemed to startle them, as if they too knew them to have been guilty of a crime.
“Yes, the rope’s been cut, that’s sartin,” says Buck, us they stand under it. “A clean wheep o’ a knife blade. Who the divvel cud a done it?”
“I can’t think,” answers the young planter, reflecting. “As like as not old Jerry Rook, or it might have been a stray traveller.”
“Whoever it was, I hope the cuss came in time; if not – ”
“If not, we’re in for it. Bless’d if I wouldn’t liked it better to’ve found him hanging; there might have been some chance of hiding him out of the way. But now, if he’s been dropped upon dead, we’re done for. Whoever found him will know all about it. Lena Rook knew we were here, and her sweet lips can’t be shut, I suppose. If’t had been only Rook himself, the old scoundrel, there might have been a chance. Money would go a long ways with him; and I’m prepared – so would we all be – to buy his silence.”
“Lucky you riddy for that, Mister Alfred Brandon. That’s jest what Rook, ‘the old scoundrel,’ wants, and jess the very thing he means to insist upon hevin’. Now name your price.”
If a dead body had dropped down from the branch above them it could not have startled the two culprits more than did the living form of Jerry Rook, as it came gliding out of the thick cane close by the stem of the tree.
“You, Jerry Rook!” exclaim both together, and in a tone that came trembling through their teeth. “You here?”
“I’m hyar, gentlemen; an’ jess in time, seeing as ye wanted me. Now, name yur price; or, shall I fix it for ye? ’Tain’t no use ’fectin’ innercence o’ what I mean; ye both know cleer enuf, an’ so do this chile, all ’beout it. Ye’ve hanged young Pierre Robideau,
