Майн Рид
The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover

Story 1-Chapter XIV.
Stealing upon a Shanty

The breath of autumn had blown over the woods of Arkansas, and the first frost of November, followed by the beautiful Indian summer, had imparted to the foliage those rich tints of red and gold known only to the forests of America.

The squirrel, down among the dead leaves, actively engaged in garnishing its winter store, scarce heeds the footstep of the hunter heard near by among the trees.

There is one making his way through the woods at no great distance from the dwelling of Jerry Rook. He was approaching from the west, with his face in the direction of the house. But although he carried a gun, and was not travelling upon either trace or path, he did not appear to be in pursuit of game.

Squirrels scampered off before him unmolested, and, once or twice, turkeys ran across his track without tempting him to draw trigger or even take the gun from his shoulder.

In appearance he would have scarce have passed for a hunter, nor was he dressed after this fashion. His costume was more that of a traveller. Moreover, he had just come from a stand some three miles back, where he had left a horse and a pair of well-filled saddle-bags.

The “stand,” a solitary tavern, was not far from the crossing of White River, on the road leading from Little Rock to the settlements on the Mississippi. He had approached the tavern from the west as if coming from the former, and now on foot he was still advancing eastward, though not along the road which ran through the forest at some distance to his right, screened from view by thick timber standing between.

By the dust still clinging to his garments, he appeared to have come a long way. It was gradually getting brushed off by the leaves of the underwood and the thick cane-brakes through which he was compelled to pass.

Why was he avoiding the road? Was he a stranger who had taken the wrong fork that had conducted him to a blind trace now run out? No. It could not be that. The main road was not to be mistaken. Besides, he had left it at right angles after getting out of sight of the stand, and had since been keeping parallel to it as if acquainted with its direction. If a stranger, he was evidently one who had been over the ground before.

He had the appearance of being twenty-five years of age, with a complexion naturally dark, still further shaded either by exposure to a tropical sun or a protracted spell of travelling. His hair was jetty black and curly, his upper lip bearded, with a dark, well-defined whisker on the cheek. The chin was clean shaven, showing a protrusion indicative of great firmness, while the profile was of true Roman type. His eyes were dark, lustrous, and piercing. In stature, he was full six feet, with a figure of fine proportions, knit as if for strength. Its activity was displayed by his light, lithe step, as he made his way through the tangle of trees.

As already stated, the dress was not that of a hunter, either amateur or professed. The coat was of broadcloth, dark-coloured, and of good quality, cut frock-fashion. It was worn buttoned, though showing underneath a vest of Marsala, with striped shirt-bosom and sparkling breast-pin. The hat was of the kind known as grey felt. This, with the green-baize “wrappers” around the legs, showing the chafe of the stirrup-leather gave the costume somewhat of the character of a traveller’s.

The jaded horse and heavy saddle-bags, with a thick coating of dust over all, had told the tavern people as he reined up, of a long road left behind him – perhaps from the far prairies.

The keeper of the lone hostelry had thought it strange his starting off the moment his horse was stabled. But the horse and saddle-bags were earnest of his coming back; and Boniface had continued to chew his quid without being inquisitive.

As the young man threaded his way through the trees, it was evident he was not straying. His face was continually in one direction; while his glance, directed forward, seemed to search for some object expected to appear before him.

All at once he made a stop, at sight of a break among the trees. It indicated a tract of open ground, or clearing, that extended athwart the path he was pursuing.

He seemed surprised at this, and glanced quickly to the right and left, as if to assure himself that he had been going right.

“Yes,” he muttered, apparently satisfied on this head. “Right before me was the spot – the creek and the cabin. I can’t be mistaken. These old trees I remember well – every one of them. But there’s a clearing now – perhaps a plantation, – and the old shanty gone altogether.”

Without finishing the reflection he kept onward, though slowly, and with greater caution, increasing as he drew nearer to the open ground. He appeared to approach it stealthily, step by step, as if stalking a herd of deer.

He was soon on the edge of the opening, though still under cover of thick woods.

A stream made the line of demarcation between them.

On its opposite side, about twenty yards from the bank, he saw a neat farm-house, with a spacious porch in front, and surrounded by fields. There were outbuildings at the back, with sheds and corn-cribs; while in front a fenced enclosure, half garden half orchard, extended down to the stream, which formed its bottom boundary.

Just opposite this enclosure the stranger had stopped, the moment he caught sight of the house.

“As I anticipated;” he muttered to himself.

Changed – everything changed! – the cabin cleared away, and the trees. Jerry Rook gone – perhaps dead. Some stranger in his place; – and she gone too – grown up – and – and —

A choking sigh forbade the pronunciation of some word that struggled for utterance – the expression of some painful thought, made manifest by the dark shadow that swept across the countenance of the speaker.

“Oh! what an unfortunate fate. Fool that I was to go away and leave her. Fool to have listened to the counsels of her wicked father. When I learnt what he had done I should have come back, if not for love, for revenge. It may not be too late for the last; but, for the first – O God! – the girl I have loved for long years, to come back and find her – perhaps in the arms of another – O God!”

For some moments the young man stood with clouded, lace, his strong frame quivering under the shock of some painful emotion.

“Shall I cross over and make inquiry?” was the reflection that followed, as he became calmer.

“The people can, no doubt, give me some information, whether he be dead, and if she be still in the neighbourhood. No – no; I will not ask. I dread the answer to be given me.

“But, why not? I may as well know now the worst, whatever it be. I must learn it in time. Why not at once?

“There is no danger of my being recognised – even she would not know me, and these people are, perhaps, strange to the settlement. The country shows a change – clearings everywhere around, where I remember only trees. I wonder who they are? Some of them should, soon come out by that door. The day is inviting; I shall hold back awhile and see.”

During all this time the young man had been standing among thick underwood that screened his person from view.

He only changed position so that his face should be also invisible to any one upon the other side of the creek, and thus stood with eyes fixed intently upon the house.

He had not been many minutes in this attitude of expectation, when the front door, which stood open, was filled by a form, the sight of which sent the blood in a lava current through his veins, and caused his heart to bound audibly in his breast.

The apparition that had produced this effect was a young girl – a lady she might be called – in light summer dress, with a white kerchief thrown loosely over her head, only partially concealing the thick coil of shining hair held by the tortoiseshell comb underneath it.

Standing on the step of the door, with the dark background behind her, she appeared like some fair portrait suddenly set in its frame.

Changed as she was since he had last seen her – a young girl in coarse, copperas-dyed gown of homespun stuff, bareheaded, stockingless and shoeless – he who stood among the trees might not so readily have recognised her had he met her elsewhere; but there, upon that spot where stood the old cabin, under whose roof he had lived and loved – loved her – recognition came at the first glance. He knew that the fair vision before him was Lena Rook, still living, still lovely as ever.

Story 1-Chapter XV.
Lena’s Recognition

The first impulse of the young man was to spring forth from his ambush, leap over the creek, a mere rivulet, and rush into the presence of the fair creature who had shown herself in the doorway.

He was restrained by a crowd of thoughts that came surging up at the moment – doubts and memories – both painful. Her father might be still alive and inside the house. The stranger had serious reasons for not wishing to see him. Or he might be dead and she now under the control of another!

The last thought was agonising, and he gazed intently upon the girl as if searching for some sign that would release him from the torture of suspense. Scarce twenty yards from where she stood, he could see the sparkle of jewellery upon the fingers of her left hand. Did one of them carry that thin circlet of gold to show she was lost to him for ever?

His glance, instinctively directed to her hand, now traced the contour of her person, and once more mounted to her face. Form and features were alike scrutinised – the colour of her cheeks – the expression in her eyes – the air that pervaded all.

It was that of one still single, whose fresh virginal charms had not given place to the staid demeanour produced by the solicitudes of wedded life. It pleased him to fancy so.

And she, too, noted the melancholy air, and wondered at its meaning.

There was much besides to wonder at in the changes that had taken place. How had Jerry Rook, a poor white, become a proprietor? He must be so if the house were his. And if not, then back again comes the painful thought that it, and she, too, might be the property of another.

What had he best do? Retire without showing himself, and seek information elsewhere – some one living near who could tell him all? Or he might learn what he wanted from the landlord of the tavern where he had stopped. Should he return to it and stay till circumstances favoured him with an éclaircissement?

Why not have it at once; and from her? Maid or married she would not be likely to remember him. A skin changed from the soft smoothness of boyhood’s day – a complexion deeply bronzed – the downy cheek and lips now roughly bearded – stature increased by at least six inches, and a dress altogether different from that in which she had been accustomed to see him.

“No; she will not recognise me,” muttered the young man, as he completed this self-examination. “I will go round by the gate, make some excuse for a call; get into conversation with her; and then – ”

He was about turning, to make the circuit unobserved, when he saw that she had stepped out of the porch, and was coming towards the creek. It was for this that the kerchief had been spread over her crown, as a shade against the sun.

He could not safely retreat without having his ambush discovered. He resolved to keep his place.

She came on down the walk, and turned in among the trees of the orchard. Most of them were peach trees, laden with their luscious fruit, now ripe and falling. The ground was strewed with these golden globes, affording food to the honey-bee and hornet.

She was now out of his sight, or seen only at intervals, her white dress gleaming through the leaves, as she moved through the orchard.

The young man was thinking how he might present himself without seeming rude, when, all at once, a cry came from the lips of the young lady. It was a short, sharp exclamation, apparently called forth by some impending danger. It seemed a sufficient apology for intruding.

Accepting it as such, the stranger sprang across the creek, and rushed direct to the orchard.

In a few seconds he stood confronting the girl, who had turned towards the house.

“I heard you cry out,” he said; “was there any danger. May I ask – ”

But, before he had finished the interrogatory, he saw what had elicited the exclamation.

A huge snake lay coiled under one of the trees!

It had been feasting on the fallen fruit, and, nearly trodden upon, had thrown itself into the defensive attitude.

The “skirr” caused by the vibration of its tail told it to be a rattle-snake.

Without inquiring further, the young man raised his rifle, and sent a bullet through its head. Its coils flew out, and, after struggling a few seconds on the grass the reptile lay dead.

“Thanks, sir,” said the lady, as soon as she had recovered from her surprise. “I came near setting my foot upon it, and, perhaps, would have done so, if I’d not heard the rattle. You’re a good shot, sir; you’ve killed it outright!”

“I’ve had a deal of practice, Miss,” he replied, laying a marked emphasis on the last word.

His heart throbbed audibly, as he awaited the rejoinder. Would she accept the title, or correct it?

He had already glanced at her left hand, holding a peach she had plucked. There were rings; but among them he saw not the plain circlet nor its keeper. Their absence inspired him with hope.

“One can easily see that,” she rejoined. “Besides, I am not unacquainted with the way of the woods. My father is a hunter, or was.”

“You say was, Miss. Is your father still living?”

The question was asked with a double design. Would she still permit herself to be called “Miss?” Was Jerry Rook the owner of the pretty house that had supplanted his rude sheiling?

“My father living? Certainly, sir; but he does not go hunting any more – or only at times. He has enough to keep him occupied about home – clearing the ground and planting the crops.”

“Is he at home now?”

“To-day, no. He has ridden over to Helena. I expect he will be back soon. Do you wish to see him, sir. You have some business, perhaps?”

“No, no. I was merely wandering through the woods, squirrel shooting. I had strayed to the other side of the creek, when I heard you cry.”

“It was very kind of you to come to my assistance,” said the young girl, giving to the stranger a glance, in which she did not fail to note his graceful bearing. Then, observing the dust upon his garments, she added, “If I mistake not, you’re a stranger to this part of the country?”

“I once knew it well, especially around this place.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. If I remember right, there was a cabin here – upon the very spot on which your house is now standing. It was inhabited by an old hunter by the name of Rook – Jeremiah or Jerry Rook.”

“That is my father’s name.”

“Then it must have been he. What a change! It was all standing timber around – scarce an acre of clearing.”

“That is true. It is only lately that my father bought the land, and cleared it as you see. We are better off than we were then.”

“Has your father any family besides yourself – a son, or son-in-law?”

“Not any, sir,” replied the young girl, turning upon the questioner a look of some surprise; “I am the only one – his only daughter. Why do you ask?”

“I thought I remembered – or had heard – something – ”

“Heard what, sir?” asked she, cutting short the stammering speech.

“Of a young man – a boy, rather – who lived in your father’s cabin. Was he not your brother?”

“I never had one. He you speak of was no relative to us.”

“There was some one, then?”

“Yes. He is gone away – gone years ago.”

The serious tone in which these words were spoken – something like a sigh that accompanied them, with a shadow that made its appearance on the countenance of the speaker – were signs pleasing to the interrogator. His heart beat joyfully as he put upon them his own interpretation.

Before he could question her further, the young girl, as if stirred by a sudden thought, looked inquiringly in his face.

“You say you knew this place well, sir? When did you leave it? Was it a long time ago?”

“Not so long either; but, alas! long enough for you to have forgotten me, Lena.”

“Pierre, it is you!”

Story 1-Chapter XVI.
Absence Explained

It was Pierre Robideau who stood once more in the presence of Lena Rook – not in her presence alone, for they were locked in each other’s embrace.

From the first moment of seeing him, the young girl had felt strange thoughts stealing over her – weird memories, awakened by that manly presence that scarce seemed unknown to her.

She knew that Pierre Robideau still lived, and that her father had compelled her to keep it a secret. But why, she knew not, nor why her father had sent him away. It was well she knew not this.

Equally ignorant had she been kept as to where he had gone.

California, her father told her; and this was indeed true. But what knew she of California? Nothing beyond the fact of its being a far distant land, where people went to gather gold.

This much was known to every one in the settlements around – every one in America.

Lena Rook thought not of the gold. She thought only of her old playmate, and wondered why he was staying so long away.

Was he never going to return? He who had won the girl’s heart – the firstlings of her young love – had stood under the forest tree, clasping her in his arms, and telling her she had won his!

And on that dread night, when he lay upon the couch, slowly recovering from the terrible strangulation, was not the first word breathed forth from his lips her own name – Lena?

And to have gone away, and staid away, and forgotten all this!

It was not strange she wondered, not strange she grieved – or that the cloud of melancholy, already remarked upon, sat almost continually on her countenance.

She had not forgotten him– not for a single day. Throughout the long lonely years, there was scarce an hour in which she did not think, though not permitted to speak, of him. She had been true to him – both in heart and hand – true against scores of solicitations, including that of Alfred Brandon, who was now seeking her hand in marriage, determined upon obtaining it.

But she had resisted his suit – even braving the displeasure of her father who was backing it.

And all for the memory of one who had gone away, without explaining the cause of his departure, or making promise to return.

Often had she thought of this, and with bitterness – at times, too, with a feeling akin to spite.

But now with Pierre once more in her presence, his tall graceful form before her eyes, she instantly forgot all, and threw herself sobbing upon his breast.

There was no reservation in the act – no pretence of prudery. Lena’s instinct told her he was still loyal, and the firm, fervent pressure of his arms, as he received her in that sweet embrace, confirmed it.

For some time both remained silent – their hearts too happy for speech.

At length it returned to them, Lena taking the initiative.

“But tell me, Pierre, why did you stay from me, and for such a time?”

“Your question is easily answered, Lena. I have made a long journey to begin with. I have been to California, and spent some time there in searching for gold. But that is not altogether what delayed me. I was for three years a prisoner among the Arapahoes.”

“Arapahoes? What are they?”

“A tribe of Indians, who roam over the big prairie. I might have been still in their hands, but for a party of Choctaws – my mother’s people, you know – who chanced to come among the Arapahoes. They rescued me by paying a ransom, and brought me back with them to the Choctaw country, west of here, whence I have just come almost direct.”

“O, Pierre! I am so happy you are here again. And you have grown so big and so beautiful, Pierre. But you were always beautiful, Pierre. And you have been to California? I heard that. But tell me, why did you go there at all?”

“I went to find my father,” he answered, in quiet tones.

“Your father? But he – ”

The young girl checked herself at the thought of a fearful incident that only now rose to her remembrance – another episode of that night of horrors.

She repented of her speech, for she believed that Pierre knew nothing of what had then occurred. He had not been told, either by her father or by herself, that Dick Tarleton had been there, as he was still in an unconscious state when the latter left the cabin never more to return to it.

She had said nothing of it to Pierre after his recovery. Her father had cautioned her against any communication with him on the subject, and indeed there was not much chance, for the moment he was in a condition to travel, the old hunter had hurried him off, going in the dead of night, and taking the youth along with him.

Remembering all this, Lena regretted the speech half commenced, and was thinking how she should change to another subject, when Pierre, interrupting, relieved her from her embarrassment, as he spoke.

“You need not tell me, Lena,” said he, his voice trembling; “I know the sad tale – all of it, perhaps more than you, though it was later that! learnt of it, my sweet innocent! You little dreamt when – But no, I must not. Let us talk no more of those times, but only of the present. And now, Lena, I do not wish to see your father, nor do I want him to know that I am in the neighbourhood. Therefore, you must not say you have seen me.”

“I will not,” answered she, in a tone that spoke more of sorrow than surprise. “Alas! it is too easy to obey your request, for I dare not even speak of you to him. My father, I know not for what reason, has forbidden me to mention your name. If by chance I ever asked after you, or spoke of your coming back, it was only to get scolded. Will you believe it, Pierre, he once told me you were dead? But I grieved so, he afterwards repented, and said he had only done it to try me. God forgive me for speaking so of my own father, but I almost fancied at times that he wished it himself. O Pierre! what have you ever done to make him your enemy?”

“I cannot tell, that is a mystery to me; and so too his sending me away, and so too several other things; but – Whose voice is that?”

“My father’s! And the tramp of his horse! He is coming along the lane. O, Pierre! you must not let him see you!”

“Nor shall he. I can get off as I came, under cover of the trees. Adieu, dearest! meet me to-morrow night. Come out late, when all are gone to bed – say eleven. You’ll find me waiting for you here – no, by the big cottonwood yonder. How often we used to sit under its shade.”

“Go, Pierre, go! He’s got up to the gate.”

“One more kiss, love! and then – ”

Their lips met and parted; and they too parted, the girl gliding towards the house, and the young man stealing off among the peach trees, to seek safer concealment in the shadowy woods beyond.