The Death Shot Part 6

During the time that Darke is engaged in covering up Clancy's body, and afterwards occupied in the attempt to kill his dog, the c.o.o.n-hunter, squatted in the sycamore fork, sticks to his seat like "death to a dead n.i.g.g.e.r." And all the time trembling. Not without reason. For the silence succeeding the short exclamatory speech has not re-a.s.sured him.

He believes it to be but a lull, denoting some pause in the action, and that one, or both, of the actors is still upon the ground. If only one, it will be his master, whose monologue was last heard. During the stillness, somewhat prolonged, he continues to shape conjectures and put questions to himself, as to what can have been the _fracas_, and its cause. Undoubtedly a "shooting sc.r.a.pe" between d.i.c.k Darke and Charles Clancy. But how has it terminated, or is the end yet come? Has one of the combatants been killed, or gone away? Or have both forsaken the spot where they have been trying to spill each other's blood?

While thus interrogating himself, a new sound disturbs the tranquillity of the forest--the same, which the a.s.sa.s.sin at first fancied was the voice of one wailing for his victim. The c.o.o.n-hunter has no such delusion. Soon as hearing, he recognises the tongue of a stag-hound, knowing it to be Clancy's. He is only astray about its peculiar tone, now quite changed. The animal is neither barking nor baying; nor yet does it yelp as if suffering chastis.e.m.e.nt. The soft tremulous whine, that comes pealing in prolonged reverberation through the trunks of the cypresses, proclaims distress of a different kind--as of a dog asleep and dreaming!

And now, once more a man's voice, his master's. It too changed in tone.

No longer in angry exclaim, or quiet conversation, but as if earnestly entreating; the speech evidently not addressed to Clancy, but the hound.

Strange all this; and so thinks the c.o.o.n-hunter. He has but little time to dwell on it, before another sound waking the echoes of the forest, interrupts the current of his reflections. Another shot! This time, as twice before, the broad round boom of a smooth-bore, so different from the short sharp "spang" of a rifle.

Thoroughly versed in the distinction--indeed an adept--Blue Bill knows from whose gun the shot has been discharged. It is the double-barrel belonging to Richard Darke. All the more reason for him to hug close to his concealment.

And not the less to be careful about the behaviour of his own dog, which he is holding in hard embrace. For hearing the bound, the cur is disposed to give response; would do so but for the muscular fingers of its master closed chokingly around its throat, at intervals detached to give it a cautionary cuff.

After the shot the stag-hound continues its lugubrious cries; but again with altered intonation, and less distinctly heard; as though the animal had gone farther off, and were still making away.

But now a new noise strikes upon the c.o.o.n-hunter's ears; one at first slight, but rapidly growing louder. It is the tread of footsteps, accompanied by a swis.h.i.+ng among the palmettoes, that form an underwood along the edge of the swamp. Some one is pa.s.sing through them, advancing towards the tree where he is concealed.

More than ever does he tremble on his perch; tighter than ever clutching the throat of his canine companion. For he is sure, that the man whose footsteps speak approach, is his master, or rather his master's son.

The sounds seem to indicate great haste--a retreat rapid, headlong, confused. On which the peccant slave bases a hope of escaping observation, and too probable chastis.e.m.e.nt. Correct in his conjecture, as in the prognostication, in a few seconds after he sees Richard Darke coming between the trees; running as for very life--the more like it that he goes crouchingly; at intervals stopping to look back and listen, with chin almost touching his shoulder!

When opposite the sycamore--indeed under it--he makes pause longer than usual. The perspiration stands in beads upon his forehead, pours down his cheeks, over his eyebrows, almost blinding him. He whips a kerchief out of his coat pocket, and wipes it off. While so occupied, he does not perceive that he has let something drop--something white that came out along with the kerchief. Replacing the piece of cambric he hurries on again, leaving it behind; on, on, till the dull thud of his footfall, and the crisp rustling of the stiff fan-like leaves, become both blended with the ordinary noises of the forest.

Then, but not before, does Blue Bill think of forsaking the fork.

Descending from his irksome seat, he approaches the white thing left lying on the ground--a letter enveloped in the ordinary way. He takes it up, and sees it has been already opened. He thinks not of drawing out the sheet folded inside. It would be no use; since the c.o.o.n-hunter cannot read. Still, an instinct tells him, the little bit of treasure-trove may some time, and in some way, prove useful. So forecasting, he slips it into his pocket.

This done he stands reflecting. No noise to disturb him now. Darke's footsteps have died away in the distance, leaving swamp and cypress forest restored to their habitual stillness. The only sound, Blue Bill hears, is the beating of his own heart, yet loud enough.

No longer thinks he of the c.o.o.n he has succeeded in treeing. The animal, late devoted to certain death, will owe its escape to an accident, and may now repose securely within its cave. Its pursuer has other thoughts--emotions, strong enough to drive c.o.o.n-hunting clean out of his head. Among these are apprehensions about his own safety.

Though unseen by Richard Darke--his presence there unsuspected--he knows that an unlucky chance has placed him in a position of danger. That a sinister deed has been done he is sure.

Under the circ.u.mstances, how is he to act? Proceed to the place whence the shots came, and ascertain what has actually occurred?

At first he thinks of doing this; but surrenders the intention.

Affrighted by what is already known to him, he dares not know more. His young master may be a murderer? The way in which he was retreating almost said as much. Is he, Blue Bill, to make himself acquainted with the crime, and bear witness against him who has committed it? As a slave, he knows his testimony will count for little in a court of justice. And as the slave of Ephraim Darke, as little would his life be worth after giving it.

The last reflection decides him; and, still carrying the c.o.o.n-dog under his arm, he parts from the spot, in timid skulking gait, never stopping, not feeling safe, till he finds himself inside the limits of the "negro quarter."

CHAPTER NINE.

AN a.s.sa.s.sIN IN RETREAT.

Athwart the thick timber, going as one pursued--in a track straight as the underwood will allow--breaking through it like a chased bear--now stumbling over a fallen log, now caught in a trailing grape-vine-- Richard Darke flees from the place where he has laid his rival low.

He makes neither stop, nor stay. If so, only for a few instants, just long enough to listen, and if possible learn whether he is being followed.

Whether or not, he fancies it; again starting off, with terror in his looks, and trembling in his limbs. The _sangfroid_ he exhibited while bending over the dead body of his victim, and afterwards concealing it, has quite forsaken him now. Then he was confident, there could be no witness of the deed--nothing to connect him with it as the doer. Since, there is a change--the unthought-of presence of the dog having produced it. Or, rather, the thought of the animal having escaped. This, and his own imagination.

For more than a mile he keeps on, in headlong reckless rus.h.i.+ng. Until fatigue overtaking him, his terror becomes less impulsive, his fancies freer from exaggeration; and, believing himself far enough from the scene of danger, he at length desists from flight, and comes to a dead stop.

Sitting down upon a log, he draws forth his pocket-handkerchief, and wipes the sweat from his face. For he is perspiring at every pore, panting, palpitating. He now finds time to reflect; his first reflection being the absurdity of his making such precipitate retreat; his next, its imprudence.

"I've been a fool for it," he mutters. "Suppose that some one has seen me? 'Twill only have made things worse. And what have I been running away from? A dead body, and a living dog! Why should I care for either? Even though the adage be true--about a live dog better than a dead lion. Let me hope the hound won't tell a tale upon me. For certain the shot hit him. That's nothing. Who could say what sort of ball, or the kind of gun it came from? No danger in that. I'd be stupid to think there could be. Well, it's all over now, and the question is: what next?"

For some minutes he remains upon the log, with the gun resting across his knees, and his head bent over the barrels. He appears engaged in some abstruse calculation. A new thought has sprang up in his mind--a scheme requiring all his intellectual power to elaborate.

"I shall keep that tryst," he says, in soliloquy, seeming at length to have settled it. "Yes; I'll meet her under the magnolia. Who can tell what changes may occur in the heart of a woman? In history I had a royal namesake--an English king, with an ugly hump on his shoulders--as he's said himself, 'deformed, unfinished, sent into the world scarce half made up,' so that the 'dogs barked at _him_,' just as this brute of Clancy's has been doing at me. And this royal Richard, shaped 'so lamely and unfas.h.i.+onable,' made court to a woman, whose husband he had just a.s.sa.s.sinated--more than a woman, a proud queen--and more than wooed, he subdued her. This ought to encourage me; the better that I, Richard Darke, am neither halt, nor hunchbacked. No, nor yet unfas.h.i.+onable, as many a Mississippian girl says, and more than one is ready to swear.

"Proud Helen Armstrong may be, and is; proud as England's queen herself.

For all that, I've got something to subdue her--a scheme, cunning as that of my royal namesake. May G.o.d, or the Devil, grant me like success!"

At the moment of giving utterance to the profane prayer, he rises to his feet. Then, taking out his watch, consults it.

It is too dark for him to see the dial; but springing open the gla.s.s, he gropes against it, feeling for the hands.

"Half-past nine," he mutters, after making out the time. "Ten is the hour of her a.s.signation. No chance for me to get home before, and then over to Armstrong's wood-ground. It's more than two miles from here.

What matters my going home? Nor any need changing this dress. She won't notice the hole in the skirt. If she do, she wouldn't think of what caused it--above all it's being a bullet. Well, I must be off! It will never do to keep the young lady waiting. If she don't feel disappointed at seeing me, bless her! If she do, I shall curse her!

What's pa.s.sed prepares me for either event. In any case, I shall have satisfaction for the slight she's put upon me. By G.o.d I'll get that!"

He is moving away, when a thought occurs staying him. He is not quite certain about the exact hour of Helen Armstrong's tryst, conveyed in her letter to Clancy. In the madness of his mind ever since perusing that epistle, no wonder he should confuse circ.u.mstances, and forget dates.

To make sure, he plunges his hand into the pocket, where he deposited both letter and photograph--after holding the latter before the eyes of his dying foeman, and witnessing the fatal effect. With all his diabolical hardihood, he had been awed by this--so as to thrust the papers into his pocket, hastily, carelessly.

They are no longer there!

He searches in his other pockets--in all of them, with like result. He examines his bullet-pouch and gamebag. But finds no letter, no photograph, not a sc.r.a.p of paper, in any! The stolen epistle, its envelope, the enclosed _carte de visite_--all are absent.

After ransacking his pockets, turning them inside out, he comes to the conclusion that the precious papers are lost.

It startles, and for a moment dismays him. Where are they? He must have let them fall in his hasty retreat through the trees; or left them by the dead body.

Shall he go back in search of them?

No--no--no! He does not dare to return upon that track. The forest path is too sombre, too solitary, now. By the margin of the dank lagoon, under the ghostly shadow of the cypresses, he might meet the ghost of the man murdered!

And why should he go back? After all, there is no need; nothing in the letter which can in any way compromise him. Why should he care to recover it?

"It may go to the devil, her picture along! Let both rot where I suppose I must have dropped them--in the mud, or among the palmettoes.

No matter where. But it does matter, my being under the magnolia at the right time, to meet her. Then shall I learn my fate--know it, for better, for worse. If the former, I'll continue to believe in the story of Richard Plantagenet; if the latter, Richard Darke won't much care what becomes of him."

So ending his strange soliloquy, with a corresponding cast upon his countenance, the a.s.sa.s.sin reb.u.t.tons his coat--thrown open in search for the missing papers. Then, flinging the double-barrelled fowling-piece-- the murder-gun--over his sinister shoulder, he strides off to keep an appointment not made for him, but for the man he has murdered!

CHAPTER TEN.

THE EVE OF DEPARTURE.