perched upon the summit of some high eminence, or the “whip-poor-will” soaring still higher in pursuit of the moon-loving moth.
An hour later, and at a point of the prairie ten miles farther from Fort Inge, the relative positions of the three travellers had undergone a considerable change.
The foremost was just entering into a sort of alley or gap in the chapparal forest; which here extended right and left across the plain, far as the eye could trace it. The alley might have been likened to a strait in the sea: its smooth turfed surface contrasting with the darker foliage of the bordering thickets; as water with dry land. It was illumined throughout a part of its length – a half mile or so – the moon showing at its opposite extremity. Beyond this the dark tree line closed it in, where it angled round into sombre shadow.
Before entering the alley the foremost of the trio of travellers, and for the first time, exhibited signs of hesitation. He reined up; and for a second or two sate in his saddle regarding the ground before him. His attention was altogether directed to the opening through the trees in his front. He made no attempt at reconnoitring his rear.
His scrutiny, from whatever cause, was of short continuance.
Seemingly satisfied, he muttered an injunction to his horse, and rode onward into the gap.
Though he saw not him, he was seen by the cavalier in the cloak, following upon the same track, and now scarce half a mile behind.
The latter, on beholding him, gave utterance to a slight exclamation.
It was joyful, nevertheless; as if he was gratified by the prospect of at length overtaking the individual whom he had been for ten miles so earnestly pursuing.
Spurring his horse to a still more rapid pace, he also entered the opening; but only in time to get a glimpse of the other, just passing under the shadow of the trees, at the point where the avenue angled.
Without hesitation, he rode after; soon disappearing at the same place, and in a similar manner.
It was a longer interval before the third and hindmost of the horsemen approached the pass that led through the chapparal.
He did approach it, however; but instead of riding into it, as the others had done, he turned off at an angle towards the edge of the timber; and, after leaving his horse among the trees, crossed a corner of the thicket, and came out into the opening on foot.
Keeping along it – to all appearance still more solicitous about something that might be in his rear than anything that was in front of him – he at length arrived at the shadowy turning; where, like the two others, he abruptly disappeared in the darkness.
An hour elapsed, during which the nocturnal voices of the chapparal – that had been twice temporarily silenced by the hoofstroke of a horse, and once by the footsteps of a man – had kept up their choral cries by a thousand stereotyped repetitions.
Then there came a further interruption; more abrupt in its commencement, and of longer continuance. It was caused by a sound, very different from that made by the passage of either horseman or pedestrian over the prairie turf.
It was the report of a gun, quick, sharp, and clear – the “spang” that denotes the discharge of a rifle.
As to the authoritative wave of the conductor’s baton the orchestra yields instant obedience, so did the prairie minstrels simultaneously take their cue from that abrupt detonation, that inspired one and all of them with a peculiar awe.
The tiger cat miaulling in the midst of the chapparal, the coyoté howling along its skirts; even the jaguar who need not fear any forest foe that might approach him, acknowledged his dread of that quick, sharp explosion – to him unexplainable – by instantly discontinuing his cries.
As no other sound succeeded the shot – neither the groan of a wounded man, nor the scream of a stricken animal – the jaguar soon recovered confidence, and once more essayed to frighten the denizens of the thicket with his hoarse growling.
Friends and enemies – birds, beasts, insects, and reptiles – disregarding his voice in the distance, reassumed the thread of their choral strain; until the chapparal was restored to its normal noisy condition, when two individuals standing close together, can only hold converse by speaking in the highest pitch of their voices!
Chapter 37
A Man Missing
The breakfast bell of Casa del Corvo had sounded its second and last summons – preceded by a still earlier signal from a horn, intended to call in the stragglers from remote parts of the plantation.
The “field hands” labouring near had collected around the “quarter;” and in groups, squatted upon the grass, or seated upon stray logs, were discussing their diet – by no means spare – of “hog and hominy” corn-bread and “corn-coffee,” with a jocosity that proclaimed a keen relish of these, their ordinary comestibles.
The planter’s family assembled in the sala were about to begin breakfast, when it was discovered that one of its members was missing.
Henry was the absent one.
At first there was but little notice taken of the circumstance. Only the conjecture: that he would shortly make his appearance.
As several minutes passed without his coming in, the planter quietly observed that it was rather strange of Henry to be behind time, and wonder where he could be.
The breakfast of the South-western American is usually a well appointed meal. It is eaten at a fixed hour, and table-d’hôte[232] fashion – all the members of the family meeting at the table.
This habit is exacted by a sort of necessity, arising out of the nature of some of the viands peculiar to the country; many of which, as “Virginia biscuit,” “buckwheat cakes,” and “waffles,” are only relished coming fresh from, the fire: so that the hour when breakfast is being eaten in the dining-room, is that in which the cook is broiling her skin in the kitchen.
As the laggard, or late riser, may have to put up with cold biscuit, and no waffles or buckwheat cakes, there are few such on a Southern plantation.
Considering this custom, it was somewhat strange, that Henry Poindexter had not yet put in an appearance.
“Where can the boy be?” asked his father, for the fourth time, in that tone of mild conjecture that scarce calls for reply.
None was made by either of the other two guests at the table. Louise only gave expression to a similar conjecture. For all that, there was a strangeness in her glance – as in the tone of her voice – that might have been observed by one closely scrutinising her features.
It could scarce be caused by the absence of her brother from the breakfast-table? The circumstance was too trifling to call up an emotion; and clearly at that moment was she subject to one.
What was it? No one put the inquiry. Her father did not notice anything odd in her look. Much less Calhoun, who was himself markedly labouring to conceal some disagreeable thought under the guise of an assumed naïvété.
Ever since entering the room he had maintained a studied silence; keeping his eyes averted,
table-d’hôte – 1. a large dinner table for many people in hotels and restaurants; 2. a fixed menu at a fixed price
