Part 9

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.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

A REVANCHE.

About half an hour after the planter had taken his departure from the house, Pierre Robideau paid for the mending of his bridle; and having no other errand to detain him in the town, started homewards afoot as he had come.

The road to Jerry Rook's house still corresponded with that leading to Little Rock, only that the latter, now much travelled, no longer passed through the well-known glade--a better crossing of Caney Creek having caused it to diverge before it entered the natural clearing.

The old trace, however, was that taken by any one going to Rook's house, and to it Pierre Robideau was making his return from the town.

With the bridle lashed belt-like across his shoulders, he was walking unsuspectingly along, thinking how pleased Lena Rook would be at seeing him so soon back.

On entering the glade a change came over his spirit, indicated by a dark cloud suddenly overspreading his face. It was natural enough at sight of that too well-remembered tree, recalling not only his own agonies, but the foul murder there committed, for he knew that upon that same tree his unfortunate father, whom he could not think otherwise than innocent, had been sacrificed to the madness of a frantic mob.

There still was the branch extended towards him, as if mockingly to remind him of a vengeance still unsatisfied!

An impulse came over him he was unable to resist; and yielding to it, he stopped in his track, and stood gazing upon the tree--a strange lurid light shining in his eyes.

All at once he felt a shock in the left arm, accompanied by a stinging sensation, as if from the bite of an insect; but it was not this, for, almost at the same instant, he heard the "spang" of a rifle, and saw a puff of smoke flirting up over some bushes directly before him.

It was a shot that had been fired; and the blood spirting from his torn coat-sleeve left no doubt of it having been fired at himself.

Nor could there be as to the deadly intention, though the damage done was only a slight abrasion of the arm, scarce deeper than the thickness of the skin.

Pierre Robideau did not stay to reflect on this. The moment he saw the smoke he sprang forward, and ran on until he had reached the spot where the bushes were still enveloped in the low, scattering, sulphurous vapour.

He could see no one there; but this did not surprise him. It was not likely that such an assassin would stay to be discovered; but he must still be near, stealing off among the trees.

Suspending his breath Pierre stood to listen.

For a time he could hear nothing, not even the rustling of a leaf, and he was beginning to fear that he might again be made the mark of an unseen murderer's bullet, when the screech of a jay came sharply through the trees.

It gave him instant relief, for he knew by the compressed scolding of the bird that some one was intruding upon its haunts. It must be the retreating assassin!

Guided by the chattering of the jay, he recommenced the pursuit.

He had not gone twenty yards farther when he heard footsteps, and the "swish" of leaves, as if some one was making way through the underwood. Directed by these sounds he rushed rapidly after.

Ten seconds more and he was in sight of a saddled horse, standing tied to a tree, and a man in the act of untying him. The man was making all haste, hindered by a heavy rifle carried in his hand. It was the gun that had just been discharged, and Pierre Robideau had recognised the man who had made the attempt to murder him.

Alfred Brandon!

With a shout, such as only one Indian-born could give, he bounded forward, and, before the retreating assassin could climb into his saddle, he seized him by the throat and dashed him against the trunk of a tree. The horse, frightened by the fierce onslaught, gave a loud neigh, and galloped off.

"I thank you," cried Robideau, "and you alone, Mr Alf Brandon, for giving me this chance! I've got you exactly where I wanted you! For six years I've been longing for this hour, and now it has come as if I'd planned it myself."

Brandon, by this time recovered from the shock, threw down his gun, drew pistol, and was about to fire; but, before he could get his finger on the trigger, his antagonist seized him by the wrist, and, wrenching the weapon from his hand, dashed him a second time against the tree trunk.

Reeling and giddy, he saw the muzzle of his own pistol pointed at his head, and expected nothing else than the bullet through his brains.

The cry of the coward came from his lips as he writhed under the terrible anticipation.

To his astonishment the shot was not fired!

Pierre Robideau, flinging the pistol away, stood before him apparently unarmed!

"No, Mr Alf Brandon!" said he, "shooting is too good for such a dog as you; and a dog's death you shall have. Come away from here! Come on! I want to see which of us can _hang longest by the hand_. We tried it six years ago, but the trial wasn't a fair one. 'Tis your turn now. Come on!"

More than ever astonished, Brandon hesitated to comply. The calm yet determined air of his antagonist told him it was no jest, but that something terrible was intended. He glanced stealthily to the right and left, and seemed to calculate the chances of escape.

Robideau read his thoughts.

"Don't attempt it," said he, throwing back the lapel of his coat, and showing the butt of a pistol. "I have this, and will use it if you make any effort to get off. Come!"

Saying this, he seized the cowering ruffian by the wrist, and, half leading, half dragging, hurried him away from the spot.

In five minutes after they stood under a tree--the same upon which Pierre Robideau had endured all the horrors of hanging.

"What do you mean to do?" asked Brandon, in a faltering voice.

"I've told you. I am curious to see how long _you_ can stand it."

As he said this, he unloosed the bridle-reins from his body, and, taking out his knife, commenced cutting them free from the bit. It was a double rein, composed of two long pieces of closely-plaited hair taken from the tail of a horse.

Brandon stood pale and trembling. He could not fail to interpret the preparations that were being made. Once more he thought of flight, and once more Pierre Robideau read his thoughts.

"It is no use," he said sternly; "you are in my power. Attempt to get out of it, or resist, and I dash your brains out against that tree. Now, your wrist in this rope."

Feeble with fear, Brandon allowed his left hand to be seized, and his wrist drawn into a noose made of one of the bridle-reins. The other end of the cord was passed around his thigh, and then brought back and secured by a firm knot, so as to hold the arm helpless by his side. This done, the other rein, with a running loop, was adjusted round his neck, its loose end thrown over one of the large branches.

"Now," cried Robideau, "mount upon this log, and take hold, as you made me do. Quick, or I jerk you up by the neck!"

Bewildered, Brandon knew not what to do. Was his enemy in earnest, or was it only a grim jest? He would fain have believed it this; but the fierce, determined look of Robideau forbade him to hope for mercy. He remembered at this moment how little he was deserving of it.

He was left no time to reflect. He felt the noose tightening around his neck, and the cord stretching taut above him.

In another instant he was drawn from the ground and, mechanically throwing up his right arm, he caught hold of the branch. It was the only chance to save him from almost instant strangulation!

"Now," cried Robideau, who had sprung upon the log and made the rope fast to the upper limb, "now, Mr Alf Brandon, you're just as you left me six years ago. I hope you'll enjoy the situation. Good day to you!" And, with a scornful laugh, Pierre Robideau strode away from the spot.

All the agony that can be endured by a man who sees death before him, and sees no chance to escape it, was at that hour endured by Alfred Brandon.

In vain he shouted till he was hoarse, till his cries could have been no longer heard a hundred yards from the tree, soon to become his gallows. There was no response, save the echo of his own voice. No one to hear or to heed it! He had no expectation of being saved by the man who had just left him. That scornful laugh at parting precluded all hope: though in his agonised struggle he begged aloud for mercy, calling upon Pierre Robideau by name.

Pierre Robideau came not to his assistance; and, after a long struggle-- protracted to the utmost point of endurance--till the arm, half disjointed, could no longer sustain his body, he let go his hold, and dropped _to the ground_.

The peals of derisive laughter that rang in his ears as he lay exhausted upon the earth, were not pleasant--the less so that a female voice was heard taking part in it. But even this was endurable after the dread agony through which he had passed; and hurriedly springing to his feet, and releasing his neck from the rope, he sneaked off among the trees, without staying to cast a look at Pierre Robideau or Lena Rook, who, standing by the edge of the glade, had been witness to his unnecessary contortions.

Our tale is told, so far as it might interest the reader. What afterwards happened to the different character who have figured in it, were but events such as may occur in every-day life. There was nothing strange in a young man, with a taint of Indian blood in him, marrying the daughter of a backwoods-settler, and carrying her off to California; nothing strange, either, that the father of the girl should sell off his "improvement," and make the far-western migration along with them.

And this was the history of Jerry Rook, his daughter, and his daughter's husband; all three of whom, in less than twelve months after, might have been seen settled in their new home, on the far shore of the Pacific, and surrounded with every comfort required upon earth.

There Pierre Robideau had nothing further to fear from the hostility of early enemies, or the vengeance of jealous rivals; there Lena Rook, no longer exposed to social humiliation, had the opportunity of becoming that for which nature had intended her--an ornament of society; and there, too, her father found time to repent of the past, and prepare himself for that future which awaits alike the weary and the wicked.

Of his crimes, both committed and conceived, Jerry Rook died repentant.

The fate of Alfred Brandon was somewhat similar to that of his father. Drink brought him to a premature grave; though, unlike his father, he died without heir and almost without heritage, having spent the whole of his property in the low dissipation of the tavern and the gaming-table. His executors found scarce sufficient to pay for the hearse that carried him to the grave.

With Bill Buck it was different. His funeral, which occurred shortly after, was at the public expense--his grave being dug near the foot of the gallows on which he had perished for many crimes committed against society, the last and greatest being a cold-blooded murder, with robbery for its motive.

Spencer, Slaughter, Randall, and Grubbs, lived to take part in the late fratricidal war--all four, as might be expected, embracing the cause of secession, and all, it is believed, having perished in the strife, after the perpetration of many of those cruel atrocities in which the state of Arkansas was most conspicuously infamous.

Helena still stands on the banks of the mighty river, and there are many there who remember the tragedy of Dick Tarleton's death; but few, if any, who have ever heard the tale of "The Helpless Hand."

STORY TWO, CHAPTER ONE.

THE FALCON ROVER.

THE DISCOVERY.

A mystery! By heaven, I'll find it out. If a man may!--_The Maiden_.

Speed, Malise, speed!--_Lady of the Lake_.

One of the most lovely pictures in lowland scenery which I have ever looked upon is that around the mouth of a river which I have called the Clearwater (the English translation of its Indian name), and which flows between two of the southern counties of the western shore of Maryland.

From the northern shore of that stream, in this place wide and beautiful, stretches out a long, flat strip of white sand, which is covered here and there with patches of crab-grass, and of that kind of cactus commonly called the prickly pear. On the western side of this strip of sand is a deep and capacious harbour, much resorted to by bay-craft and sea-going vessels, while waiting for a fair wind up or down the bay. On its eastern side extends a gulf, or indentation of the coast, called by sailors, if I remember rightly, Patuxent Roads, and which expands towards, and mingles with, the broad and beautiful Chesapeake. Along the shores of this gulf are shoals, famous in the country round as resorts of the fish called drums, which circumstance has given the name of Drum Point to the beach extending, as described, between the Clearwater and Maryland's noble bay.

On the northern side of Drum Point harbour, and near to where the point begins to curve away from the mainland, stood, during the second decade of this century (and, indeed, for many years afterwards), a long, single-storey frame building. This building, though placed upon the sands, was still many yards away from the highest line reached by the water at high tide. Directly behind it the land rose with a rapid swell to a plateau, some thirty or forty feet above the shore of the harbour. This frame structure was what is called in the United States a store, and contained for sale such articles as are most in demand among seamen. It belonged to an individual whom, for many reasons, I will call by a fictitious name, Ashleigh, and who owned an estate of several hundred acres, embracing all the eastern line of the harbour shore, and extending some distance into the country behind it.

At the time of which I write, mysterious and very injurious stories, about the owner of this store, circulated in the neighbouring country on both sides of the Clearwater. It was said that he concealed smuggled goods, and even goods captured by pirates on the high seas, until an opportunity should occur for secretly conveying them to Baltimore for sale; and that he was implicated in some way in the trials for piracy held before one of the United States courts in Baltimore, in the early part of the present century.

At about half-past twelve o'clock, on a night towards the end of May, in the year 1817, three human figures stood upon the hill-side, overlooking Drum Point harbour. The principal form in the group was that of John Alvan Coe, a handsome young man of twenty-one or twenty-two years of age, tall, and well proportioned. When seen in the day-time, his clear blue eyes, Roman nose, and light chestnut hair, indicated a sanguine but gentle character, and one endowed with dauntless courage, controlled by a reflective mind. This young gentleman, the son of a planter in the neighbourhood, once wealthy, but now much reduced in worldly circumstances, was returning from his sport of night-fishing for drums, accompanied by two sturdy negro men, who bore between them, suspended upon a pole, the ends of which rested upon their shoulders, a large basket, heavily laden with the scaly trophies of their recent sport.

Young Coe, while passing on his way to the fishing, about sunset, along the hill-side on which he now stood, had noticed, among the two or three vessels in Drum Point harbour, a beautiful brig of about a hundred and twenty tons burden. She was remarkable among the other vessels for her graceful figure, and the neat and trim appearance of everything on board of her. On his return from the fishing, after leaving his boat hauled up on the beach of a small cove on the east side of Drum Point, his path lay across the low and sandy neck of land connecting the point with the mainland, and then in a gradual ascent along the green hill-side overlooking the harbour. While pursuing this path he had halted, with his companions, in a position from which he could view to the best advantage the fair and romantic scene which lay before him.