Майн Рид
The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover
Story 1-Chapter XXIII.
A Companion
For some seconds Jerry Rook stood in the shadow without saying a word, but thinking intensely.
His thoughts were black and bitter. The return of Pierre Robideau would be nothing less than ruin to him, depriving him of the support upon which for years he had been living. Once Buck, Brandon, and Co. should ascertain that he they supposed dead was still living, not only would the payment be stopped, but they might demand to be recouped the sums of which he had so cunningly mulcted them.
He had not much fear of this last.
If they had not actually committed murder, they would still be indictable for the attempt; and though, under the circumstances, they might not fear any severe punishment, they would yet shrink from the exposure.
It was not the old score that Jerry Rook was troubled about, but the prospect now before him. No more black mail; no money from any source; and Alf Brandon his creditor, now released from the bondage in which he had hitherto been held, spited by the rejection of yesterday, would lose no time in coming down upon him for the debt.
The quondam squatter saw before him only a feature of gloom and darkness – ejection from his ill-gotten home and clearing – a return to his lowly life – to toil and poverty – along with a dishonoured old age.
Mingling with these black thoughts, there was one blacker – a regret that he had not pulled the trigger in time!
Had he shot Pierre Robideau inside the tree all would have been well. No one would have known that he had killed him; and to his own daughter he could have pleaded ignorance that there was any one inside. Much as she might have lamented the act, she could scarcely have believed it wilful, and would have said nothing about it.
It was too late now. To kill the young man as he stood, in the darkness – it might still have been done – or even at a later time, would be the same as to murder him under the eyes of his daughter. From what she now knew the hand of the assassin could not be concealed.
These thoughts occupied Jerry Rook scarce any time. They came and passed like lightning that flashes deadly through dark clouds.
This prolonged silence was due to other thoughts. He was reflecting on what course he would take with the man, whose unexpected appearance had placed him in such a dilemma.
Turning to the latter, he at length spoke —
“How long ’ve ye been back, Pierre?”
The tone of pretended kindness did not deceive the returned gold-seeker.
“I came into the neighbourhood yesterday,” he replied, coldly.
“Have ye seed any one that know’d ye?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“Ye’ll excuse me for bein’ a leetle rough wi’ ye. I war a bit flurried ’beout the gurl bein’ out, not knowin’ who she wur with. There’s a lot o’ fellars arter her, an’ it’s but right I shed be careful.”
Pierre could not object to this.
“Of course,” pursued Jerry, after another pause of reflection, “ye heerd all that passed atween me an’ that lot o’ diggers?”
“Every word of it.”
“An’ I suppose you know who they war?”
“Yes; I have good reason.”
“Yu’re right thar. Ye’ll be knowin’ then why this chile ain’t livin’ any more in the ole shanty, but in a good, comftable frame-house, wi’ a clarin’ roun’ it?”
“Yes, Jerry Rook, I think I understand that matter.”
“Yur won’t wonder, then, why I tuk so much pains, six years ago, to send yur out o’ the way? No doubt yur did wonder at that?”
“I did; I don’t now. It is all clear enough!”
“An’ I reck’n it’ll be equally clar to ye, thet yur comin’ back ain’t a gwine to do me any good. Jest ruinates me, that’s all.”
“I don’t see that, Jerry Rook.”
“Ye don’t! But this chile do. The minute any o’ them six sets eyes on yur my game’s up, an’ thar’s nothin’ more left but clear out o’ this, an’ take to the trees agin. At my time o’ life that ere’ll be pleasant.”
“You mean that by my showing myself you would lose the six hundred dollars per annum I’ve heard you make mention of.”
“Not only thet, but – I reckin I may as well tell yer – I am in debt to Alf Brandon, an’ it war only by his believin’ in your death I hev been able to stave it off. Now, Pierre Robideau!”
In his turn the gold-seeker stood reflecting.
“Well, Jerry Rook,” he rejoined, after a time, “as to the black mail you’ve been levying on these six scoundrels, I have no particular wish to see them relieved of it. It is but a just punishment for what they did to me, and to tell you the truth, it has, to some extent, taken the sting out of my vengeance, for I had come back determined upon a terrible satisfaction. While serving yourself you’ve been doing some service to me!”
“May be,” suggested the old pirate, pleased at the turn matters appeared to be taking, “maybe Pierre, ye’d like things to go on as they air, an’ let me gi’e you more o’ the same sort o’ satisfackshun? Thar’s a way o’ doin’ it, without any harm to yurself. It’s only for you to keep out o’ sight.”
Pierre was again silent, as if reflecting on the answer.
He at length gave it.
“You speak truth, Jerry Rook. There is a way, as you’ve said; but it must be coupled with a condition.”
“What condishun?”
“Your daughter.”
“What o’ her?”
“I must have her for my wife.”
Rook recoiled at the proposal. He was thinking of Alf Brandon and the plantation, the grand estate he had so long coveted, and set his heart upon having.
On the other side were the six hundred dollars a-year. But what was this in comparison? And coupled with a young man for his son-in-law, who was not even a full-blooded white – poor, perhaps penniless. No doubt he had come back without a dollar in his pocket.
Was this certain? He had been to California, the country of gold. From what could be seen of him in the dim light, he appeared well dressed, and his speech proclaimed him well instructed. He had certainly changed much from the time of his departure. He may not have returned either so fortuneless or friendless.
These conjectures kept Jerry Rook from making any immediate answer.
Taking advantage of his silence, the young man continued —
“I know, Jerry Rook, you will be wanting for your son-in-law some one with means; at least, enough to support your daughter in a decent position in society. I am fortunate enough to have this, obtained by hard toil, in the gold placers of California. If you wish satisfaction on this head, I can refer to the Pacific Banking Company of San Francisco, where, three years ago, I deposited my three year’s gatherings – in all, I believe, about fifty thousand dollars.”
“Fifty thousand dollars! D’ye mean that, Pierre Robideau?”
“I mean it. If I had a light here, I could show you the proof of the deposit.”
“Come into the house, Pierre. I don’t mean for a light. Ye’ll stay all night? Thar’s a spare bed; and Lena’ll see to your heving some supper. Come along in.”
The lucky gold-seeker made no opposition to the proffered hospitality; and in five minutes after he was seated by the fireside of the man who, but five minutes before, had been chafing at having lost the opportunity of spilling his blood!
Story 1-Chapter XXIV.
Another Eavesdropper
Jerry Rook and his guest had scarce closed the door behind them, when a man, who had been skulking behind the cottonwood, came out into the front, and paused upon the spot they had abandoned.
He had been on the other side of the tree, from the time they had commenced their conversation, and heard it all.
The man was Alfred Brandon!
What had brought Alfred Brandon back to the cottonwood?
The explanation is easy enough.
The six resurrectionists did not go to Helena, as Jerry Rook had hinted they might do.
On getting out of Jerry’s clearing, only five of them turned towards the town, Brandon going off towards his own home, which was not far off, in the opposite direction.
The planter, on parting with the others, instead of continuing homewards, sat down upon a stump by the side of the path, and taking out a cigar, commenced smoking it.
He had no particular reason for thus stopping on his way, only that after such a disappointment he knew he could not sleep, and the cigar might do something to compose his exasperated spirit.
The night was a lovely one, and he could pass a half-hour upon the stump with reflections not more wretched than those that awaited him in his sleeping-chamber.
He was still within earshot of Jerry Rook’s house, and he had scarce ignited his cigar, when a sound reached his ear from that direction.
It was the yelp of a hound, close followed by the animal’s howling.
Soon after was heard the voice of a man speaking in harsh accents, and soon after this another voice – a woman’s.
On the still silent night they were borne to Brandon’s ears with sufficient distinctness for him to recognise them as the voices of Jerry Rook and his daughter. It did not need either the angry accent of the one, nor the affecting tone of the other, to draw Alf Brandon to the spot.
Starting up from the stump, and flinging himself over the fence, he proceeded towards the place where the voices were still heard in excited and earnest conversation.
Had Brandon not feared discovering himself to the speakers, he might have been up in time to see Pierre Robideau step forth from the cavity of the tree, and Lena Rook protecting him from the wrath of her father.
But the necessity of approaching unobserved, by skulking along the creek and keeping under cover of the canes, delayed him, and he only arrived behind the cottonwood as the young lady was being ordered into the house.
For Alfred Brandon, there was surprise enough without that. The presence of Pierre Robideau, whose name he had heard distinctly pronounced, with the sight of a tall form, dimly shaded under the tree, which he knew must be that of the murdered man, was sufficient to astonish him to his heart’s content.
It had this effect; and he stood behind the cottonwood, whose shelter he had reached, in speechless wonder, trembling from the crown to the toes.
Though his fear soon forsook him, his wonder was scarce diminished, when the dialogue between Jerry Rook and Pierre Robideau furnished him with a key to the mysterious re-appearance of the latter upon the banks of Caney Creek.
“God a mercy!” gasped he, stepping from behind the huge tree trunk, and looking after them as they were entering the house. “Here’s news for Messrs Buck, Slaughter, Grubbs, Spence, and Randall! Glad they’ll be to hear it, and at last get relief from their debts. This I reckon’ll cancel it.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, adding a fearful oath; “it’s all very well for them, but what matters the money to me? I’d pay it ten times over and all my life to have that girl; and hang me if I don’t have her yet for a wife or for worse. Choc still alive and kicking! Cut down then before he got choked outright! Darned if I didn’t more than half suspect it from the way old Rook talked about the burying of the body. The precious old pirate; hasn’t he bilked us nicely?
“Mr Pierre Robideau! yes that was the name, and this is the very fellow. I remember his voice, as if it were but yesterday. Missing for six years! Been to California! and picked up fifty thousand worth of yellow gravel! Lodged it in a bank, too, at San Francisco. No doubt going there again, and will be wanting to take Lena Rook along with him.”
At this thought another fierce oath leaped from his lips, and the light of the fire-flies as they flitted past his face showed an expression upon it that might have done credit to the stage of a suburban theatre.
“Never!” he ejaculated. “Never shall she go, if I can find means to prevent it.”
He stood for a time reflecting.
“There’s a way,” he again broke forth, “a sure way. Buck would be the man to lend a hand in it. He’s crazed about the girl himself, and when he knows there’s no chance for him, and thinks it’s this fellow stands in the way; besides, he wants money, and wouldn’t mind risking something to get it. Buck’s the man!”
“If he don’t I’ll do it myself. I will, by the Etarnal! I’d rather die upon the scaffold than this Indian should have her – he or any one else. I’ve been wild about her for six years. Her refusing has only made me worse.
“There can’t be much danger if one only gets the chance. He’s been away once, and nobody missed him. He can go gold gathering again – this time never to return. He shall do it.”
An oath again clinched the ambiguous threat.
Apparently relieved by having expressed his dark determination, he proceeded in a calmer strain.
“Won’t they be glad to hear of this resurrection! I wonder if they’re still at Slaughter’s. They went there – sure to be there yet. I’ll go. It’ll make their hearts happier than all the liquor in the tavern. Good night, Jerry Rook! Take care of your guest. Next time he goes off it won’t be by your sending of him.”
After this sham apostrophe he struck off across the field, and, once more clambering over the fence, he took the road leading to Helena.
Story 1-Chapter XXV.
The Stranger Guest
The fifth instalment of “hush-money,” that had been paid to Jerry Rook, proved to be the last.
On meeting the contracting parties, and applying for the sixth, he found to his great surprise, as well as chagrin, that the grand secret was gone out of his keeping, and his power over them at an end!
They were not only prepared to repudiate, but talked of his refunding, and even threatened to lynch him upon the spot.
So far from making his claim, he was but too glad to get out of their company.
It is probable they would have insisted upon the repayment, or put lynching in practice, but for fear of the scandal that either must necessarily create in the community. To this was Jerry indebted for his escape from their vengeful indignation.
“Who could have told them that Pierre Robideau still lived?”
This was the question put by Jerry Rook to himself, as he rode back to his house, filled with mortification. He asked it a score of times, amid oaths and angry ejaculations.
It could not have been Pierre himself, who was now his welcome guest, and had been so ever since the night of that strange rencontre under the cottonwood? Though the returned gold-seeker had strolled about the clearing, with Lena for a companion, he had never once gone beyond its boundaries, and could scarce have been seen by any outsider. No one – neighbour or stranger – had been near the house. The half-dozen negroes who belonged to Jerry Rook, had no previous acquaintance with Pierre Robideau’s person; and, even had it been otherwise, they would scarce have recognised him now. It was not through them the information had reached Alfred Brandon and his associates. Who, then, could have been the informer?
For the life of him Jerry Rook could not guess; and Pierre himself, when told of it, was equally puzzled upon the point.
The only conjecture at all probable, was, that some one had seen and identified him – one of the gang themselves; or it might have been some individual totally uninterested, who, by chance, had seen and recognised him, soon after his arrival at the stand.
Now that his being alive was known to them, there was no longer any object in his keeping concealed; and he went about the settlements as of yore, at times visiting the town of Helena, for the purchase of such commodities as he required.
He had taken up his stay at the house of his former host, and was so often seen in the company of his host’s daughter, that it soon became talked of in the neighbourhood. Those who took any interest in the affairs of Jerry Rook’s family were satisfied that his daughter, so long resisting, had at length yielded her heart to the dark-skinned, but handsome stranger, who was staying at her father’s house.
There were few accustomed to have communication with either the quondam squatter or his people. It was a time when there were many new comers among the surrounding settlements, and a stranger, of whatever kind, attracted but slight attention. Under these circumstances Pierre Robideau escaped much notice, and many remarks that might otherwise have been made about him.
There were more than one, however, keenly sensible of his existence – his success with Lena Rook – who saw with black bitterness that the smiles of that young lady were being bestowed upon him.
Bill Buck was among the number of these disappointed aspirants; but the chief sufferer was Alfred Brandon. With heart on fire, and bosom brimful of jealous rage, he heard all the talk about Jerry Rook’s daughter and her stranger sweetheart.
It in no way tranquilised his spirits when Jerry Rook returned him his loan of stores and dollars, and promptly on the first demand. It but farther embittered it; for he could not help knowing whence the money had come. He saw that his wealth would no longer avail him. There would be no chance now of reducing the parent to that penury that would give him power over the child. His scheme had fallen through? and he set himself to the concoction of some new plan that would help him either to Lena Rook or revenge.
He spent nearly the whole of his time in reflecting upon his atrocious purpose – brooding over it until he had come to the determination of committing murder!
Several times he had thought of this, but on each occasion had recoiled at the thought, less from horror of the crime itself, than through fear of the consequences.
He had half resolved to make common cause with Bill Buck, and induce him to become a confederate in the foul deed. But the doubtful character of the horse-dealer’s son, each day getting darker, had scared him from entering into such a perilous partnership; and he still kept his designs locked up within his own troubled bosom.
Strange enough, Buck was at the same time entertaining in his own mind a scheme of assassination, and with the same victim in view.
Without suspecting it, Pierre Robideau was in double danger.
It was about ten days after the returned gold-seeker had taken up his residence at the house of Jerry Rook, when an errand called him to the town of Helena. It was the mending of his bridle-bit, which had been broken by accident, and required to be half an hour in the hands of a blacksmith.
It was the bridle he had brought with him from the Choctaw country – an Indian article with reins of plaited horsehair – and as he had no other, it necessitated his going afoot.
In this way he started from Jerry Rook’s house, leaving Jerry Rook’s daughter at the door, looking lovingly after and calling him to come soon back.
The distance was not great; and in less than an hour after he was standing in the blacksmith’s shop, a tranquil spectator to the welding of his broken bit.
There was one who saw him there, whose spirit was less composed – one who had seen him entering the town, and had sauntered after at a distance, careless like, but closely watching him. This was not a citizen of the place; but a man in planter costume, who, by the spurs on his heels, had evidently ridden in from the country. In his hand he carried a rifle, as was common at the time to all going abroad, no matter to what distance, on horseback.
The man thus armed and accoutred was Alfred Brandon.
There were plenty of other people in the streets, and but few took note of him as he walked carelessly along. No one noticed the lurid light in his eye, nor the tight contraction of his lips that spoke of some dangerous design.
Much less were these indications observed by the man who was calling them forth. Standing beside the blacksmith’s forge, quietly watching the work, Pierre Robideau had no thought of the eyes that were upon him, nor did he even know that Brandon was in the town.
Little dreamt he at that moment how near was a treacherous enemy thirsting for his blood.
Brandon’s design was to pick a quarrel with the stranger, and before the latter could draw in his defence, shoot him down in his track. In this there would be nothing strange for the streets of Helena, nor anything very reprehensible. Pierre was armed with knife and pistol, but both were carried unseen.
All at once the planter appeared to recoil from his purpose, and looking askant, he spent some time in surveying his intended victim, and as if calculating the chances of a rencontre. Perhaps the stalwart frame and strong vigorous arms of the ci-devant gold-seeker rendered him apprehensive about the issue, and caused him to change his resolution. The protruding breast of Pierre Robideau’s coat told of pistol or other weapon, and should the first fire fail, his own life, and not that of his unsuspecting adversary, might be the forfeit in the affray.
While thus communing with his own mind, a still fouler thought came into it, kindling in his eye with more sinister lights.
Suddenly turning away, as if from some change of design, he patrolled back along the street, entered the stable where he had left his horse, and, mounting inside the stable-yard, rode hastily out of the town.
