The Death Shot: A Story Retold. Reid Mayne
and not the slightest hope of the latter being able to pay it – the Darkes seem to have the vantage ground, and may dictate their own terms.
Helen Armstrong knows nought of the mortgage; no more, of herself being the cause which keeps it from foreclosure. Little does she dream, that her beauty is the sole shield imposed between her father and impending ruin. Possibly if she did, Richard Darke’s attentions to her would be received with less slighting indifference. For months he has been paying them, whenever, and wherever, an opportunity has offered – at balls, barbecues, and the like. Of late also at her father’s house; where the power spoken of gives him not only admission, but polite reception, and hospitable entertainment, at the hands of its owner; while the consciousness of possessing it hinders him from observing, how coldly his assiduities are met by her to whom they are so warmly addressed.
He wonders why, too. He knows that Helen Armstrong has many admirers. It could not be otherwise with one so splendidly beautiful, so gracefully gifted. But among them there is none for whom she has shown partiality.
He has, himself, conceived a suspicion, that a young man, by name Charles Clancy – son of a decayed Irish gentleman, living near – has found favour in her eyes. Still, it is only a suspicion; and Clancy has gone to Texas the year before – sent, so said, by his father, to look out for a new home. The latter has since died, leaving his widow sole occupant of an humble tenement, with a small holding of land – a roadside tract, on the edge of the Armstrong estate.
Rumour runs, that young Clancy is about coming back – indeed, every day expected.
That can’t matter. The proud planter, Armstrong, is not the man to permit of his daughter marrying a “poor white” – as Richard Darke scornfully styles his supposed rival – much less consent to the so bestowing of her hand. Therefore no danger need be dreaded from that quarter.
Whether there need, or not, the suitor of Helen Armstrong at length resolves on bringing the affair to an issue. His love for her has become a strong passion, the stronger for being checked – restrained by her cold, almost scornful behaviour. This may be but coquetry. He hopes, and has a fancy it is. Not without reason. For he is far from being ill-favoured; only in a sense moral, not physical. But this has not prevented him from making many conquests among backwood’s belles; even some city celebrities living in Natchez. All know he is rich; or will be, when his father fulfils the last conditions of his will – by dying.
So fortified, so flattered, Dick Darke cannot comprehend why Miss Armstrong has not at once surrendered to him. Is it because her haughty disposition hinders her from being too demonstrative? Does she really love him, without giving sign?
For months he has been cogitating in this uncertain way; and now determines upon knowing the truth.
One morning he mounts his horse; rides across the boundary line between the two plantations, and on to Colonel Armstrong’s house. Entering, he requests an interview with the colonel’s eldest daughter; obtains it; makes declaration of his love; asks her if she will have him for a husband; and in response receives a chilling negative.
As he rides back through the woods, the birds are trilling among the trees. It is their merry morning lay, but it gives him no gladness. There is still ringing in his ears that harsh monosyllable, “no.” The wild-wood songsters appear to echo it, as if mockingly; the blue jay, and red cardinal, seem scolding him for intrusion on their domain!
Having recrossed the boundary between the two plantations, he reins up and looks back. His brow is black with chagrin; his lips white with rancorous rage. It is suppressed no longer. Curses come hissing through his teeth, along with them the words, —
“In less than six weeks these woods will be mine, and hang me, if I don’t shoot every bird that has roost in them! Then, Miss Helen Armstrong, you’ll not feel in such conceit with yourself. It will be different when you haven’t a roof over your head”. So good-bye, sweetheart! Good-bye to you.
“Now, dad!” he continues, in fancy apostrophising his father, “you can take your own way, as you’ve been long wanting. Yes, my respected parent; you shall be free to foreclose your mortgage; put in execution; sheriff’s officers – anything you like.”
Angrily grinding his teeth, he plunges the spur into his horse’s ribs, and rides on – the short, but bitter, speech still echoing in his ears.
Chapter Three.
A Forest Post-Office
From the harsh treatment of slaves sprang a result, little thought of by the inhuman master; though greatly detrimental to his interests. It caused them occasionally to abscond; so making it necessary to insert an advertisement in the county newspaper, offering a reward for the runaway. Thus cruelty proved expensive.
In planter Darke’s case, however, the cost was partially recouped by the cleverness of his son; who was a noted “nigger-catcher,” and kept dogs for the especial purpose. He had a natural penchant for this kind of chase; and, having little else to do, passed a good deal of his time scouring the country in pursuit of his father’s advertised runaways. Having caught them, he would claim the “bounty,” just as if they belonged to a stranger. Darke, père, paid it without grudge or grumbling – perhaps the only disbursement he ever made in such mood. It was like taking out of one pocket to put into the other. Besides, he was rather proud of his son’s acquitting himself so shrewdly.
Skirting the two plantations, with others in the same line of settlements, was a cypress swamp. It extended along the edge of the great river, covering an area of many square miles. Besides being a swamp, it was a network of creeksy bayous, and lagoons – often inundated, and only passable by means of skiff or canoe. In most places it was a slough of soft mud, where man might not tread, nor any kind of water-craft make way. Over it, at all times, hung the obscurity of twilight. The solar rays, however bright above, could not penetrate its close canopy of cypress tops, loaded with that strangest of parasitical plants – the tillandsia usneoides.
This tract of forest offered a safe place of concealment for runaway slaves; and, as such, was it noted throughout the neighbourhood. A “darkey” absconding from any of the contiguous plantations, was as sure to make for the marshy expanse, as would a chased rabbit to its warren.
Sombre and gloomy though it was, around its edge lay the favourite scouting-ground of Richard Darke. To him the cypress swamp was a precious preserve – as a coppice to the pheasant shooter, or a scrub-wood to the hunter of foxes. With the difference, that his game was human, and therefore the pursuit more exciting.
There were places in its interior to which he had never penetrated – large tracts unexplored, and where exploration could not be made without great difficulty. But for him to reach them was not necessary. The runaways who sought asylum in the swamp, could not always remain within its gloomy recesses. Food must be obtained beyond its border, or starvation be their fate. For this reason the fugitive required some mode of communicating with the outside world. And usually obtained it, by means of a confederate – some old friend, and fellow-slave, on one of the adjacent plantations – privy to the secret of his hiding-place. On this necessity the negro-catcher most depended; often finding the stalk – or “still-hunt,” in backwoods phraseology – more profitable than a pursuit with trained hounds.
About a month after his rejection by Miss Armstrong, Richard Darke is out upon a chase; as usual along the edge of the cypress swamp, rather should it be called a search: since he has found no traces of the human game that has tempted him forth. This is a fugitive negro – one of the best field-hands belonging to his father’s plantation – who has absented himself, and cannot be recalled.
For several weeks “Jupiter” – as the runaway is named – has been missing; and his description, with the reward attached, has appeared in the county newspaper. The planter’s son, having a suspicion that he is secreted somewhere in the swamp, has made several excursions thither, in the hope of lighting upon his tracks. But “Jupe” is an astute fellow, and has hitherto contrived to leave no sign, which can in any way contribute to his capture.
Dick Darke is returning home, after an unsuccessful day’s search, in anything but a cheerful mood. Though not so much from having failed