The Fatal Cord Part 4

"There was Alf Brandon, and Bill Buck, and young Master Randall, the judge's son, and there was Jeff Grubbs, the son of Mr Grubbs, that keeps the store, and Slaughter's son, and another boy I don't remember ever seeing before."

"A preecious pack o' young scamp-graces, every mother's son o' 'em, 'ceptin the one you didn't know, an' he can't be much different, seein'

the k.u.mpany he air in. What war they a doin'?"

"They had hounds and horses. They had killed a bear."

"Killed a bar! Then that's the lot that went scurryin' up the crik, while ago. Durn 'em! they never killed the bar. The houn's dud it for 'em. Ye see how it air, d.i.c.k? Who the Etarnal ked make his bread out o' huntin' hyar, when sech green goslins as them goes screamin' through the woods wi' a hul pack o' houn's to drive the game hillward! How d'ye know, gurl, thet they killed a bar?"

"I saw it lying on the ground, and the skin hanging to a tree."

"Skinned it, too, did they?"

"Yes. They had a fire, and they had been roasting and eating some of it. I think they had been drinking too. They looked as if they had, and I could smell whiskey about the place."

"But what kept Pierre among 'em?"

"They were trying who could hang longest to the branch of a tree. As Pierre was coming past, Alf Brandon stopped him, and challenged him to try too; then offered to make a bet--their rifles, I think--and Pierre consented, and I came away."

"Pierre should have k.u.m along wi' ye, an' left them to theirselves. I know Alf Brandon don't owe the boy any goodwill, nor Bill Buck neyther, nor any o' that hul lot. I reckon they must a riled him, and rousted his speerit a bit."

As the old hunter said this, he stepped over the threshold of the door, and stood outside, as if looking out for the coming of d.i.c.k Tarleton's son.

Seeing that he was listening, the other two, to avoid making a noise, conversed in a low tone.

"I kin hear the houn's," remarked Rook, speaking back into the cabin.

"Thar's a growl! Durn me, ef they hain't started suthin'. Thar they go, an' the curs yellin' arter 'em as ef h.e.l.l war let loose. Wonder what it kin mean? Some varmint must a crawled right inter thar camp.

Wal, Pierre ain't like to a gone along wi' 'em, seein' as he's got no hoss. I reck'n we'll soon see him hyar, an' maybe Alf Brandon's rifle along wi' him. Ef it's bin who kin hang longest to the branch of a tree, I'd back him agin the toughest-tailed possum in all these parts.

Ef that be the tarms o' the wager, he'll git the gun."

The old hunter returned chuckling into the cabin.

Some conversation pa.s.sed between him and his daughter, about getting dinner for their guest; and then, thinking that the expected Pierre was a long time in showing himself, he went out again, and stood listening as before.

He had not been many moments in this att.i.tude, when he was seen to start, and then listen more eagerly with an uneasy look.

Tarleton, looking from the inside, saw this, and so too the girl.

"What is it, Jerry?" inquired the former, moving hastily towards the door.

"Durned 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, d.i.c.k! don't you go. Some of them young fellurs might know you.

I'll go myself, and Lena kin k.u.m 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, d.i.c.k! Git inside the shanty, and stay thar till we k.u.m 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 pa.s.sing 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 s.h.i.+rt and s.h.i.+ning 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 d.i.c.k Tarleton--a strong fear that could hinder a father from rus.h.i.+ng to the rescue of his son!

STORY ONE, CHAPTER SEVEN.

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 carca.s.s 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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!"