The Death Shot Part 43

"Sartin it's me," Hawkins. "What does it all mean?"

"Mean? That's more'n I can tell; or any o' us inside here; though there's big ends o' a dozen. We're shut up, locked in, as ye see.

Who's done it you ought to know, bein' outside. Han't you seen the Indians?"

"I've seen no Indians; but their work I take it. There's a ugly sight round t'other side."

"What sight, Oris? Never mind--don't stay to talk. Go back, and get something to break open the door of this room. Quick, comrade, quick!"

Without stayin' for further exchange of speech, the young hunter hurries back into the _patio_ as rapidly as he had quitted it; and laying hold of a heavy beam, brings it like a battering-ram, against the dining-room door.

Ma.s.sive as this is, and strongly hung upon its hinges, it yields to his strength.

When at length laid open, and those inside released, they look upon a spectacle that sends a thrill of horror through their hearts.

In the courtyard lie ten corpses, all told. True they are but the dead bodies of slaves--to some beholding them scarce accounted as human beings. Though pitied, they are pa.s.sed over without delay; the thoughts, as the glances, of their masters going beyond, in keen apprehension for the fate of those nearer and dearer.

Escaped from their imprisonment, they rush to and fro, like maniacs let out of a madhouse. Giving to the dead bodies only a pa.s.sing glance, then going on in fear of finding others by which they will surely stay; all the time talking, interrogating, wildly gesticulating, now questioning Oris Tucker, now one another; in the confusion of voices, some heard inquiring for their wives, some their sisters or sweethearts, all with like eagerness; hopefully believing their dear ones still alive, or despairingly thinking them dead; fearing they may find them with gashed throats and bleeding b.r.e.a.s.t.s, like those lying along the flagstones at their feet.

The spectacle before their eyes, appalling though it be, is nought to that conjured up in their apprehensions. What they see may be but a forecast, a faint symbol, of what ere long they may be compelled to look upon.

And amid the many voices shouting for wife, sister, or sweetheart, none so loud, or sad, as that of Colonel Armstrong calling for his daughters.

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR.

RIDING DOUBLE.

With Colonel Armstrong's voice in tone of heartrending anguish, goes up that of Dupre calling the names "Helen! Jessie!"

Neither gets response. They on whom they call cannot hear. They are too far off; though nearer, it would be all the same; for both are at the moment hooded like hawks. The serapes thrown over their heads are still on them, corded around their necks, so closely as to hinder hearing, almost stifle their breathing.

Since their seizure nearly an hour has elapsed, and they are scarce yet recovered from the first shock of surprise, so terrible as to have stupified them. No wonder! What they saw before being blinded, with the rough treatment received, were enough to deprive them of their senses.

From the chaos of thought, as from a dread dream, both are now gradually recovering. But, alas! only to reflect on new fears--on the dark future before them. Captive to such captors--red ruthless savages, whose naked arms, already around, have held them in brawny embrace--carried away from home, from all they hold dear, into a captivity seeming hopeless as horrid--to the western woman especially repulsive, by songs sung over her cradle, and tales told throughout her years of childhood--tales of Indian atrocity.

The memory of these now recurring, with the reality itself, not strange that for a time their thoughts, as their senses, are almost paralysed.

Slowly they awake to a consciousness of their situation. They remember what occurred at the moment of their being made captive; how in the clear moonlight they stood face to face with Fernand, listened to his impertinent speeches, saw the savages surrounding them; then, suddenly blinded and seeing no more, felt themselves seized, lifted from their feet, carried off, hoisted a little higher, set upon the backs of horses, and there tied, each to a man already mounted. All these incidents they remember, as one recalls the fleeting phantasmagoria of a dream. But that they were real, and not fanciful, they now too surely know; for the hoods are over their heads, the horses underneath; and the savages to whom they were strapped still there, their bodies in repulsive contact with their own!

That there are only two men, and as many horses, can be told by the hoof-strokes rebounding from the turf; the same sounds proclaiming it a forest path through thick timber, at intervals emerging into open ground, and again entering among trees.

For over an hour this continues; during all the while not a word being exchanged between the two hors.e.m.e.n, or if so, not heard by their captives.

Possibly they may communicate with one another by signs or whispers; as for most part the horses have been abreast, going in single file only where the path is narrow.

At length a halt; of such continuance, as to make the captives suppose they have arrived at some place where they are to pa.s.s the remainder of the night. Or it may be but an obstruction; this probable from their hearing a sound, easily understood--the ripple of running water. They have arrived upon the bank of a river.

The San Saba, of course; it cannot be any other. Whether or not, 'tis the same to them. On the banks of the San Saba they are now no safer, than if it were the remotest stream in all the territory of Texas.

Whatever be the river whose waters they can hear coursing past, their guards, now halted upon its bank, have drawn their horses' heads together, and carry on a conversation. It seems in a strange tongue; but of this the captives cannot be sure, for it is in low tone--almost a whisper--the words indistinguishable amid the rush of the river's current. If heard, it is not likely they would understand. The two men are Indians, and will talk in the Indian tongue. For this same reason they need have no fear of freely conversing with one another, since the savages will be equally unable to comprehend what they say.

To Helen this thought first presents itself; soon as it does, leading her to call, though timidly and in subdued tone, "Jess!"

She is answered in the same way, Jessie saying, "Helen, I hear you."

"I only wanted to say a word to cheer you. Have courage. Keep up your heart. It looks dark now; but something may may arise up to save us."

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE.

TIRED TRAVELLERS.

The lower crossing of the San Saba, so frequently referred to, calls for topographical description.

At this point the stream, several hundred yards wide, courses in smooth, tranquil current, between banks wooded to the water's edge. The trees are chiefly cottonwoods, with oak, elm, tulip, wild China, and pecan interspersed; also the _magnolia grandiflora_; in short, such a forest as may be seen in many parts of the Southern States. On both sides of the river, and for some distance up and down, this timbered tract is close and continuous, extending nearly a mile back from the banks; where its selvedge of thinner growth becomes broken into glades, some of them resembling flower gardens, others dense thickets of the _arundo gigantea_, in the language of the country, "cane-brakes." Beyond this, the bottom-land is open meadow, a sea of green waving gra.s.s--the _gramma_ of the Mexicans--which, without tree or bush, sweeps in to the base of the bluffs. On each side of the crossing the river is approached by a path, or rather an avenue-like opening in the timber, which shows signs of having been felled; doubtless, done by the former proprietors of the mission, or more like, the soldiers who served its garrison; a road made for military purposes, running between the _presidio_ itself and the town of San Antonio de Bejar. Though again partially overgrown, it is sufficiently clear to permit the pa.s.sage of wheeled vehicles, having been kept open by roving wild horses, with occasionally some that are tamed and ridden--by Indians on raid.

On its northern side the river is approached by two distinct trails, which unite before entering the wooded tract--their point of union being just at its edge. One is the main road coming from the Colorado; the other only an Indian trace, leading direct to the bluffs and the high land above them. It was by the former that Colonel Armstrong's train came up the valley, while the latter was the route taken by Hawkins and Tucker in their bootless excursion after buffalo.

On the same evening, when the hunters, returning from their unsuccessful search, repa.s.sed the ford, only at a later hour, a party of hors.e.m.e.n is seen approaching it--not by the transverse trace, but the main up-river road. In all there are five of them; four upon horseback, the fifth riding a mule. It is the same party we have seen crossing the Sabine-- Clancy and his comrades--the dog still attached to it, the ex-jailer added. They are travelling in haste--have been ever since entering the territory of Texas. Evidence of this in their steeds showing jaded, themselves fatigued. Further proof of it in the fact of their being now close to the San Saba ford, within less than a week after Armstrong's party pa.s.sing over, while more than two behind it at starting from the Sabine.

There has been nothing to delay them along the route--no difficulty in finding it. The wheels of the loaded waggons, denting deep in the turf, have left a trail, which Woodley for one could take up on the darkest hour of the darkest night that ever shadowed a Texan prairie. It is night now, about two hours after sundown, as coming up the river road they enter the timber, and approach the crossing place. When within about fifty yards of the ford at a spot where the path widens, they pull up, Woodley and Clancy riding a little apart from the others, as if to hold consultation whether they shall proceed across the stream, or stay where they are for the night.

Clancy wishes to go forward, but Woodley objects, urging fatigue, and saying:--

"It can't make much diff'rence now, whether we git up thar the night, or take it leezyurly in the cool o' the mornin'. Since you say ye don't intend showin' yourself 'bout the mission buildin', it'll be all the better makin' halt hyar. We kin steal nearer; an' seelect a campin'

place at the skreek o' day jest afore sun-up. Arter thet me an' Ned 'll enter the settlement, an' see how things stand."

"Perhaps you're right," responds Clancy, "If you think it better for us to halt here, I shan't object; though I've an idea we ought to go on.

It may appear very absurd to you, Sime, but there's something on my mind--a sort of foreboding."

"Forebodin' o' what?"

"In truth I can't tell what or why. Yet I can't get it out of my head that there's some danger hanging over--"

He interrupts himself, holding back the name--Helen Armstrong. For it is over her he fancies danger may be impending. No new fancy either; but one that has been afflicting him all along, and urging him so impatiently onward. Not that he has learnt anything new since leaving the Sabine. On its banks the ex-jailer discharged his conscience in full, by confessing all he could. At most not much; since his late a.s.sociates, seeing the foolish fellow he was, had never made him sharer in their greatest secret. Still he had heard and reported enough to give Clancy good reason for uneasiness.

"I kin guess who you're alludin' to," rejoins Woodley, without waiting for the other to finish, "an' ef so, yur forebodin', as ye call it, air only a foolish notion, an' nothin' more. Take Sime Woodley's word for it, ye'll find things up the river all right."

"I hope so."

"Ye may be sure o't. Kalklate, ye don't know Planter Armstrong 's well's I do, tho' I admit ye may hev a better knowledge o' one that bears the name. As for the ole kurnel hisself, this chile's kampayned wi' him in the Cherokee wars, an' kin say for sartin he aint a-goin' to sleep 'ithout keepin' one o' his peepers skinned. Beside, his party air too strong, an' the men composin' it too exparienced, to be tuk by surprise, or attacked by any enemy out on these purayras, whether red Injuns or white pirates. Ef thar air danger it'll come arter they've settled down, an' growed unsurspishus. Then thar mout be a chance o'

circ.u.mventin' them. But then we'll be thar to purvent it. No fear o'

our arrivin' too late. We'll get up to the ole mission long afore noon the morrow, whar ye'll find, what ye've been so long trackin' arter, soun' an' safe. Trust Sime Woodley for that."

The comforting words tranquillise Clancy's fears, at the same time checking his impatience. Still is he reluctant to stay, and shows it by his answer.