The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover. Reid Mayne
dollars?” Durn Dick Tarleton! Jest for the sake o’ a silly revenge he’d be a speiln’ all, leavin’ me as I’ve been all my life, poor as he’s turkey gobbler.
“It must be preevented, it must!
“How air the thing to be done? Le’s see.
“Thar’s one way I knows o’, that appear to be eezy enuf.
“Dick has goed to the town, an’s boun’ to kum back agin from the town. That’s no reeson why he shed kum back hyar. Thar’s nobody to miss him! The gurl won’t know he ain’t gone for good. He’s boun’ to kum back afore mornin’, an’ afore thar’s sunlight showin’ among the trees. He’ll be sartin’ to kum along the trace, knowing thar’s not much danger o’ meetin’ anybody, or bein’ reco’nised in the dark. Why shedn’t I meet him?”
With this interrogatory, a fiendish expression, though unseen by human eye, passes over the face of the old hunter. A fiendish thought has sprung up in his heart.
“Why shedn’t I?” he pursues, reiterating the reflection. “What air Dick Tarleton to me? I haint no particklar spite agin him, thet is ef he’ll do what I’ve devised him to do. But ef he won’t, ef he won’t —
“An’ he won’t. He’s sed so, he’s swore it.
“What, then! Am I to lose six hundred dollars pre-annum, jess for the satisfakshun o’ his spite? Durned ef I do, cost what it may.
“The thing’d be as eezy es tumbling off o’ a log. A half-an-hour’s squatting among the bushes beside that ere gleed, the pull in’ o’ a trigger, an’ it air done. That mout be a leetle bit o’ haulin’ an’ hidin’, but I kin eezy do the fust, and the Crik ’ll do the last. I know a pool close by, thet’s just the very place for sech a kinceelmint.
“Who’d iver sispect? Thar’s nobody to know; neery soul but myself, an’ I reck’n that ere secret ’ud be safe enuf in this coon’s keepin’.”
For some time the old hunter stands silent, as if further reflecting on the dark scheme, and calculating the chances of success or discovery.
All at once an exclamation escapes him that betokens a change of mind. Not that he has repented of his hellish design, only that some other plan promises better for its execution.
“Jerry Rook, Jerry Rook!” he mutters in apostrophe to himself, “what the stewpid hae ye been thinking o’. Ye’ve never yit spilt hewmin blood, an’ mustn’t begin thet game now. It mout lie like a log upon yur soul, and besides, it’s jest possible that somebody mout get to hear o’t. The crack o’ a rifle air a sespishous soun’ at any time, but more espeeshully i’ the dead o’ night, if thar should chance to be the howl of a wounded man comin’ arter it. Sposin he, that air Dick, warn’t shot dead at fust go. Durned ef I’d like to foller it up; neery bit o’t. As things stan’ thar need be no sech chances, eyther o’ fearin’ or failin’. A word to Planter Brandon ’ll be as good as six shots out o’ the surest rifle. It’s only to let him know Dick Tarleton’s hyar, an’ a direckshun beouts whar he kin be foun’. He’ll soon summons the other to ’sist him in thet same bizness they left unfinished, now, God knows how miny yeer ago. They’ll make short work wi’ him. No danger ov thar givin’ him time to palaver beout thet or anythin’ else, I reckin; an’ no danger to me. A hint’ll be enuf, ’ithout my appearin’ among ’em. The very plan, by the Etarnal!”
“How’s best for the hint ter be konvayed to ’em? Ha! I kin rite. Fort’nit I got skoolin’ enuf for thet. I’ll write to Planter Brandon. The gurl kin take it over to the plantation. She needn’t be know’d eyther. She kin rop up in hur cloke, and gi’e it ter sum o’ the niggers, as’ll sure ter be ’beout the place outside. Thar’s no need for a answer. I know what Brandon’ll do arter gittin’ it.
“Thar’s no time to be squandered away. By this, Dick hes got ter the town. Thar’s no tellin’ how long he may stay thar, an’ they must intrap him on his way back. They kin be a waitin’ an’ riddy, in that bit o’ clearin’. The very place for the purpis, considerin’ it’s been tried arready.
“No, thar arn’t a minnit to be lost. I must inter the shanty, an’ scrape off the letter.”
Bent upon his devilish design, he hastens inside the house; as he enters, calling upon his daughter to come into the kitchen.
“Hyar gurl. Ye’ve got some paper ye rite yur lessons upon. Fetch me a sheet o’t, along wi’ a pen an’ ink. Be quick ’bout it.”
The young girl wonders what he can want with things so rarely used by him, but she is not accustomed to question him, and without saying a word, complies with the requisition.
The pen, inkstand, and paper, are placed on the rude slab table, and Jerry Rook sits down before it, taking the pen between his fingers.
After a few moments spent in silent cogitation, reflecting on the form of his epistle, it is produced.
Badly spelt, and rudely scrawled, but short and simple, it runs thus: —
“To Planter Brandin, Esquare.
“Sir, – I guess as how ye recollex a man, by name, Dick Tarleton; an’ maybe ye mout be desireous o’ seein’ him. Ef ye be, ye kin gratify yur desire. He air now, at this present moment, in the town o’ Helena, tho’ what part o’ it I don’t know. But I know whar he will be afore mornin’. That air upon the road leadin’ from the town t’ward the settlements on White River. He arn’t a gwine fur out, as he’s travellin’ afoot, and he’s sartin to keep the trace through the bit o’ clearin’ not fur from Caney Crik. Ef you or anybody else wants ter see him, that wud be as good a place as thar is on the road.
“Y’urs at command,
“A Strenger but a Fren’.”
Jerry Rook has no fear of his handwriting beings recognised. So long since he has seen it, he would scarce know it himself.
Folding up the sheet, and sealing it with some drops of resin, melted in the dull flame of the dip, he directs it as inside – “To Planter Brandin, Esquare.”
Then handing it to his daughter, and instructing the young girl how to deliver it incog, he despatches her upon her errand.
Lena, with her cloak folded closely around her fairy form, and hooded over her head, proceeds along the path leading to the Brandon plantation. Poor, simple child, herself innocent as the forest fawn, she knows not that she is carrying in her hand the death-warrant of one, – who, although but little known, should yet be dear to her – Dick Tarleton, the father of Pierre Robideau.
She succeeds in delivering the letter, though failing to preserve her incognito. The hooded head proved but a poor disguise. The domestic who takes the epistle out of her hand recognises, by the white out-stretched arm and slender symmetrical fingers, the daughter of “old Rook, de hunter dat live ’pon Caney Crik.” So reports he to his master, when questioned about the messenger who brought the anonymous epistle.
Known or unknown, the name is of slight significance; the withholding of it does not affect the action intended by the writer, nor frustrate the cruel scheme. As the morning sun strikes into the “bit o’ clearing” described in Jerry Rook’s letter, it throws light upon a terrible tableau – the body of a man suspended from the branch of a tree. It is upon the same branch where late hung the young hunter Robideau. It is the body of his father.
There is no one near – no sign of life, save the buzzards still lingering around the bones of the bear, and the quaint, grey wolf that has shared with them their repast. But there are footmarks of many men – long scores across the turf, that tell of violent struggling, and a patch of grass more smoothly trampled down beneath the gallows tree. There stood Judge Lynch, surrounded by his jury and staff of executioners, while above him swung the victim of their vengeance.
Once more had the travestie of a trial been enacted; once more condemnation pronounced; and that tragedy, long postponed, was now played to the closing scene, the dénouement of