The Death Shot Part 42

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.

A HORRID SPECTACLE.

On a log outside the tent sits Cris Tucker, with the fire before him, kindled for cooking the turkey. The bird is upon a spit suspended above the blaze. A fat young "gobbler," it runs grease at every pore, causing the fire to flare up. Literally is it being broiled by its own grease, and is now well-nigh done brown.

Perceiving this, Tucker runs his eyes inquiringly along the path leading towards the mission, at the same time setting his ears to listen. What can be keeping his comrade, who promised so soon to be back?

"Promises are like pie-crust," says Cris in soliloquy; "Old Hawk aint keeping his, and I guess aint goin' to. I heard they war to have a big dine up there the night. So I suppose the colonel's axed him in for a gla.s.s o' his whiskey punch. Hawk's jest the one to take it--a dozen, if they insist. Well, there's no reason I should wait supper any longer.

I'm 'most famished as it is. Besides, that bird's gettin' burnt."

Rising up from the log, he takes the turkey off the spit, and carries it inside the tent. Then dis.h.i.+ng, he sets it upon the table; the dish a large platter of split wood rudely whittled into oblong oval shape, the table a stump with top horizontally hewn, over which the tent has been erected.

Placing a "pone" of corn-bread, and some salt alongside, he sits down; though not yet to commence eating. As certainly his comrade should now soon be back, he will give him ten minutes' grace.

The position is agreeable, at the same time having its drawbacks. The odour pervading the tent is delicious; still there is the sense of taste to be satisfied, and that of smell but provokes it. The savoury aroma of the roast turkey is keenly appetising, and Cris can't hold out much longer.

Time pa.s.ses, and no sign of Hawkins returning. Tucker's position becomes intolerable; the bird is getting cold, its juices drying up, the repast will be spoilt.

Besides, his comrade has not kept faith with him. In all probability he has eaten supper at the house, and at that moment is enjoying a jorum of whisky punch, quite forgetful of him. Tucker. Cris can stand it no longer; and, drawing out his knife, he takes the turkey by the leg, and cuts a large slice from its breast.

This eaten, another slice of breast is severed and swallowed. Then a wing is carved off, and lastly a leg, which he polishes to the smoothness of a drumstick.--

The young hunter, now no longer ravenous, proceeds more leisurely, and completes his repast by tranquilly chewing up the gizzard, and after it the liver--the last a t.i.t-bit upon the prairies, as in a Strasburg _pate_.

Was.h.i.+ng all down with a gourd of whisky and water, he lights his pipe; and, seated by the mangled remains of the gobbler, commences smoking.

For a time the inhaled nicotine holds him tranquil; though not without wondering why his comrade is so long in patting in an appearance.

When over two hours have elapsed, his wonder becomes changed to anxiety.

Not strange it should, recalling the reason why he has been left alone.

This increasing to keen apprehension, he can no longer stay within the tent. He will go up to the house, and find out what is detaining Hawkins.

Donning his skin cap, and stepping out into the open air, he starts off towards the mission-building.

Less than ten minutes' walking brings him to its walls, by their main front entrance.

There he pauses, surprised at the stillness surrounding the place. It is profound, unnatural.

For some moments he remains in front of the ma.s.sive pile, looking at it, and listening. Still no sound, within or without.

True, it is time for the inmates to be a-bed.

But if so, where is Hawkins? He may be drinking, but surely not sleeping within!

In any case, Cris deems it his duty to look him up; and with this intent determines to enter.

He is not on terms of social equality with those who occupy the mission; still, under the circ.u.mstances, he cannot be considered intruding.

He sees that the great door is closed, but the wicket is ajar; presumptive proof of Hawkins being inside. There are no lights in the front windows, but, as Cris knows, those of the dining-room open backward.

Hesitating no longer, he steps under the arched portal, pa.s.ses on through the _saguan_, and once more emerges into moonlight within the _patio_.

There, suddenly stopping, he stands aghast. For he beholds a sight that almost causes his hair to crisp up, and raise the cap from his head.

Down into the hollow quadrangle--enclosed on every side, except that towards heaven--the moonbeams are falling in full effulgence. By their light he sees forms lying along the pavement in every possible position.

They are human bodies--men and boys, among them some whose drapery declares them to be women. They are black, brown, or yellow; but all spotted and spattered with red--with blood! Fresh, but fast freezing in the chill night air, it is already darkened, almost to the hue of ink.

The hunter turns faint, sick, as he contemplates this hecatomb of corpses. A spectacle far more fearful than any ever witnessed upon battle-field. There men lie in death from wounds given, as received under the grand, if delusive, idea of glory. Those Cris Tucker sees must have been struck down by the hand of the a.s.sa.s.sin!

For a time he stands gazing upon them, scarce knowing what to do.

His first impulse is to turn back, rush out of the courtyard, and away altogether from the place.

But a thought--a loyal thought or instinct, stays him. Where is Hawkins? His body may be among the rest--Cris is almost sure it will be found there--and affection for his friend prompts him to seek for it.

There may still be breath in it--a spark of departing life, capable of being called back.

With this hope, however faint, he commences searching among the corpses.

The spectacle, that has sickened, makes his step feeble. He staggers as he pa.s.ses among the prostrate forms, at times compelled to stride over them.

He examines one after another, bending low down to each--lower where they lie in shadow, and it is more difficult to distinguish their features.

Going the round of the courtyard, he completes the scrutiny of all.

Living or dead, Hawkins is not among them.

Nor is there the body of any white man, or woman. The stricken victims are of every age, and both s.e.xes. But all, male as female, are negroes or mulattoes--the slaves of the establishment. Many of them he recognises; knows them to be the house-servants.

Where are their masters? Where everybody? What terrible tragedy has occurred to leave such traces behind? The traces of murder--of wholesale slaughter!

Who have been the murderers, and where are they now? Where is Hawkins?

To the young hunter these self-asked interrogatories occur in quick succession; along with the last a sound reaching his ears which causes him to start, and stand listening acutely for its repet.i.tion. It seemed a human voice, as of a man in mortal agony shouting for succour. Faint, as if far off, away at the back of the building.

Continuing to listen, Tucker hears it again, this time recognising the voice of Hawkins.

He does not stay to conjecture why his comrade should be calling in accents of appeal. That they are so is enough for him to hasten to his aid. Clearly the cry comes from outside; and, soon as a.s.sured of this, Tucker turns that way, leaps lightly over the dead bodies, glides on along the saguan, and through the open wicket.

Outside he stops, and again listens, waiting for the voice to direct him, which it does.

As before he hears it, shouting for help, now sure it is Hawkins who calls. And sure, also, that the cries come from the eastern side of the building.

Towards this Tucker rushes, around the angle of the wall, breaking through the bushes like a chased bear.

Nor does he again stop till he is under a window, from which the shouts appear to proceed.

Looking up he sees a face, with cheeks pressing distractedly against the bars; at the same time hearing himself hailed in a familiar voice.

"Is't you, Cris Tucker? Thank the Almighty it is!"