fact of the matter is that the old hunter had made a clear guess at the truth.
Warren had a passion for Sansuta, the daughter of Oluski.
Not a manly, loving passion, though.
Her beauty had cast a spell upon him. Had his soul been pure, the spell would have worked its own cure. Out of the magic of her very simplicity would have arisen chaste love.
But his heart was wicked, and its growth weeds.
Hitherto the difference of race had shielded from harm the object of his admiration. He would have been ashamed to avow it in an honest way.
Secretly, therefore, he had forged a false friendship for her brother, as a mask to conceal his base treachery.
In the incident with which our tale opens, he had found a ready means of advancing his own interests by more closely cementing Nelatu’s simple friendship, and moulding it to his will.
We have said that Red Wolf, the would-be assassin, fell by the bullet of his rifle.
With his hand upon the trigger, and in the very act of sending this wretch to his account, a thought had flashed across young Rody’s mind, which made his aim more certain.
Let us explain.
Nelatu said that Red Wolf had spoken wicked words of Sansuta and of Warren.
The very conjunction of their names supplied the calumny.
Nelatu spoke truly; but what he did not know was, that the wretch who paid the forfeit of his life for his foul speech was only the dupe of Nelatu’s own friend, Warren Rody.
Red Wolf, an idle, drunken scamp, had been a fit instrument in Rody’s hands to be employed as a messenger between him and the Indian girl.
For these services Red Wolf received repeated compensation in gold.
But the old story of the bad master becoming discontented with a bad servant was true in this case.
Warren was afraid that Red Wolf would, in one of his drunken orgies, talk too much, and betray the secret with which he had entrusted him.
So far, he was right; for it was whilst endeavouring to warn Nelatu of his sister’s danger that Red Wolf made use of language about the girl.
He had reviled Nelatu’s sister while traducing his friend.
The issue is already known.
Wicked were Warren’s thoughts as he stood, rifle in hand, watching the two.
If Red Wolf – and he recognised him at once – were removed in the very act of killing Nelatu, a dangerous tongue would be for ever silenced, while Nelatu’s friendship would be further secured, and Sansuta eventually become his.
The decision was taken, the bullet sent through Red Wolf’s brain, and Warren Rody accomplished a part of his design.
Having succeeded so far, it was terribly mortifying to find that one clear-sighted individual had penetrated his schemes, and, without appearing to do so, had placed a restraint upon the otherwise warm sense of gratitude with which Nelatu regarded him.
All this Cris Carrol had done, and therefore Warren Rody was angry with him.
He left the cabin vowing vengeance upon Carrol, and casting about for the means to accomplish it.
He had not long to wait, or far to seek.
At the end of the bye-road upon which the backwoodsman’s dwelling stood, he encountered the very tool suitable for his purpose.
It was in the person of a negro, with a skin black as Erebus, who was seen perched upon the top of a tall fence.
He was odd enough looking to attract the attention of the most careless traveller.
His head, denuded of the old ragged piece of felt he called hat, was unusually large, and covered with an enormous shock of tightly-curling wool.
This did not, however, conceal the apeish form of the skull, that bore a strong resemblance to that of a chimpanzee.
Rolling and sparkling in a field of white, were eyes preternaturally large, and wickedly expressive, above a nose and mouth of the strongest African type.
His arms were ludicrously long, and seemed by their unusual proportions to make up for the shortness, and impish form of the body.
He was whistling in a discordant strain some wild melody, and kicking his heels about like one possessed.
As Warren Rody approached, he paused in his ear-splitting music, and leaped nimbly from his perch, whilst flourishing his tattered felt in a sort of salutation.
It might have been observed that he was lame, and the few halting steps he took imparted a droll, hobbling motion to his diminutive body.
His dress was a curious warp of rags – woven, as it were – upon a still more ragged woof.
They were held together more by sympathy than cohesion.
In his right hand was a stout gnarled stick, with which he assisted himself in his frog-like progress.
At sight of young Rody, the huge mouth of this uncouth creature seemed to open from ear to ear.
“Ha, ha! Who, whoo! Gor bress me, if it ain’t Massa Warren hisself dat I see! My stars, massa, but dis ole man am glad to see ye, dat he is!”
Such was his salutation.
The young man came to a stop, and surveyed the negro with a smile.
“Well, Crookleg, what do you want with me, you old fiend?”
“Ha, ha! Ho, ho! Bress him, what a brave young gen’lman it is! How han’som’ – jess like a pictur’. What do the ole fien’ want? Why he want a good deal, massa, good deal.”
“Are you out of work again?”
“Ha, ha, ain’t done a bressed stroke of work, massa, for more nor two week! Ain’t, ’pon dis old nigger’s solemn word! Ain’t had it, massa, to do. Poor Crookleg am most used up, sa, most used up.”
As if to prove his last assertion the hideous wretch cut a high caper into the air, and settled down again in a grotesque attitude.
Young Rody laughed heartily at this feat, slapped his riding-whip roughfully across the negro’s back, pitched a piece of silver to him, and passed on.
Whilst Crookleg stopped to pick up the coin he glanced after him under his arm, and saw, with some surprise, that the youth had paused at a few paces distance as if in thought.
After a time the latter faced round and came back along the road.
“By the way, Crookleg,” said he, “come up to the house, my sister may have something to give you.”
“Ha, ha! he, he! Miss Alice, bress her, so she may, massa! I’ll come, sartin; dis old nigger’s always glad to get what he can from Miss Alice.”
“And,” continued Rody, “ask for me when you come. I
