that true, Rook? Are you speaking the truth? Did you find him dead?”
“Dead as a buck arter gittin’ a bullet from Jerry Rook’s rifle. If ye don’t b’lieve it, maybe you’d step down to my shanty, and see him streeched out.”
“No, no. But we didn’t do it; we didn’t intend it, by Heaven!”
“No swarin’, young fellars. I don’t care what your intentions war; ye’ve done the deed. I seed how it war, and all abeout it; ye hung him up for sport – pretty sport that war – an’ ye rud off, forgitting all abeout him. Yur sport hev been his death.”
“My God! we are sorry to hear it. We had no thought of such a thing. A bear came along, and set the hounds up.”
“Oh, a bar, war it? I thort so. An’ ye tuk arter the bar, and let the poor young fellar swing?”
“It is true; we can’t deny it. We had no intention of what has happened; we thought only of the bear.”
“Wal, now, ye’ll have to think o’ something else. What d’ye intend doin’?”
“It’s a terrible ugly affair. We’re very sorry.”
“No doubt ye air, an’ ye’d be a precious sight sorrier of the young fellar had any kinfolk to look arter it, and call ye to account. As it be, there ain’t nobody but me – and he warn’t no kin o’ mine – only a stayin’ wi’ me, that may make it easier for you.”
“But, what have you done with – the – the body?”
Brandon asks the question hesitatingly, and thinking of Rook’s daughter.
“The body? Wal, I’ve carried it to the shanty, an’ put it out o’ sight. I didn’t want the hul country to be on fire till I’d fust seed ye. As yet, thar ain’t nobody the wiser.”
“And – ”
“An’ what?”
“Your daughter.”
“Oh! my darter don’t count. She air a ’bedient gurl, and ain’t gwine to blabbin’ while I put the stopper on her tongue. Don’t ye be skeeart ’beout thet.”
“Jerry Rook!” says Brandon, recovering confidence from the old hunter’s hints, “it’s no use being basket-faced over this business. We’ve got into a scrape, and and we know it. You know it, too. We had no intention to commit a crime; it was all a lark; but since it’s turned out ugly, we must make the best we can of it. You’re the only one who can make it disagreeable for us, and you won’t. I know you won’t. We’re willing to behave handsomely if you act otherwise. You can say this young fellow has gone away – down to Orleans, or anywhere else. I’ve heard you once say he was not to be with you much longer. That will explain to your neighbours why he is missing. To be plain, then, what is the price of such an explanation?”
“Durn me, Alf Brandon, ef you oughtn’t to be a lawyer, or something o’ thet sort. You hit it so adzactly. Wal; let’s see! I risk someat by keepin’ your secret – a good someat. I’ll stand a chance o’ bein’ tuk up for aidin’ an’ abettin’. Wal; let’s see! Thar war six o’ ye. My girl tolt me so, an’ I kin see it by the tracks o’ your critters. Whar’s the other four?”
“Not far off.”
“Wal; ye’d better bring ’em all up hyar. I s’pose they’re all’s deep in the mud as you in the mire. Besides, it air too important a peint to be settled by depity. I’d like all o’ yur lot to be on the groun’ an’ jedge for theerselves.”
“Agreed; they shall come. Bring them up, Bill.”
Bill does as directed, and the six young hunters are once more assembled in the glade; but with very different feelings from those stirring them when there before.
Bill has told them all, even to the proposal made by Rook; and they sit upon their horses downcast, ready to consent to his terms.
“Six o’ ye,” says the hunter, apparently calculating the price of the silence to be imposed on him; “all o’ ye sons o’ rich men, and all able to pay me a hundred dollars a-year for the term o’ my nateral life. Six hundred dollars. ’Tain’t much to talk abeout; jess keep my old carcase from starvin’. Huntin’s gone to the dogs ’bout hyar, an’ you fellars hev hed somethin’ to do in sendin’ it thar. So on that account o’ itself ye oughter be only too happy in purvidin’ for one whose business ye’ve speiled. It air only by way o’ a penshun. Hundred dollars apiece, and that reg’larly paid pre-annum. Ye all know what ’tis for. Do ye consent?”
“I do.”
“And I.”
“And I.”
And so signify the six.
“Wal, then, ye may go hum; ye’ll hear no more ’beout this bizness from me, ’ceptin’ any o’ ye shed be sech a dod-rotted fool as ter fall behind wi’ yur payments. Ef ye do, by the Eturnal – ”
“You needn’t, Jerry Rook,” interposes Brandon, to avoid hearing the threat; “you may depend upon us. I shall myself be responsible for all.”
“Enuf sed. Abeout this bar skin hanging on the tree. I ’spose ye don’t want to take that wi’ ye? I may take’ it, may I, by way o’ earnest to the bargain?”
No one opposes the request. The old hunter is made welcome to the spoils of the chase, both those on the spot and in the forest further off.
They who obtained them are but too glad to surrender every souvenir that may remind them of that ill-spent day.
Slow, and with bitter thoughts, they ride off, each to return to his own home, leaving Jerry Rook alone to chuckle over the accursed compact.
And this does he to his satisfaction.
“Now!” cries he, sweeping the bear’s skin from the branch, and striding off along the trace; “now to make things squar wi’ Dick Tarleton. Ef I ken do thet, I’ll sot this day down in the kullinder as bein’ the luckiest o’ my life.”
The sound of human voices has ceased in the glade. There is heard only the “whish” of wings as the buzzards return to their interrupted repast.
Story 1-Chapter X.
Vows of Vengeance
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.
