"Charles Clancy!"

Half a score voices p.r.o.nounce the name, all in a similar tone--that of surprise. One interrogates,--

"Was that letter dropped by d.i.c.k Darke?"

"It was," responds Woodley, to whom the question is addressed.

"Have patience, boys!" puts in the planter, who represents Justice Lynch; "don't interrupt till we hear what's in it."

They take the hint, and remain silent.

But when the envelope is laid open, and a photograph drawn out, showing the portrait of a young lady, recognised by all as a likeness of Helen Armstrong, there is a fresh outburst of exclamations which betoken increased surprise; this stronger still, after Spence reads out the inscript upon the picture:

"Helen Armstrong--for him she loves."

The letter is addressed to Charles Clancy; to him the photograph must have been sent. A love-affair between Miss Armstrong and the man who has been murdered! A new revelation to all--startling, as pertinent to the case.--

"Go on, Spence! Give us the contents of the letter!" demands an impatient voice.

"Yes, give them!" adds another. "I reckon we're on the right track now."

The epistle is taken out of the envelope. The schoolmaster, unfolding it, reads aloud:--

"Dear Charles,--

"When we last met under the magnolia, you asked me a question. I told you I would answer it in writing. I now keep my promise, and you will find the answer underneath my own very imperfect image, which I herewith send in closed. Papa has finally fixed the day of our departure from the old home. On Tuesday next we are to set out in search of a new one.

Will it ever be as dear as that we are leaving behind? The answer will depend upon--need I say whom? After reading what I have written upon the _carte_, surely you can guess. There, I have confessed all--all woman can, could, or should. In six little words I have made over to you my heart. Accept them as its surrender!

"And now, Charles, to speak of things prosaic, as in this hard world we are too oft constrained to do. On Tuesday morning--at a very early hour, I believe--a boat will leave Natchez, bound up the Red River.

Upon it we travel, as far as Natchitoches. There to remain for some time, while papa is completing preparations for our farther transport into Texas, I am not certain what part of the 'Lone Star' State he will select for our future home. He speaks of a place upon some branch of the Colorado River, said to be a beautiful country; which, you, having been out there, will know all about. In any case, we are to remain for a time, a month or more, in Nachitoches; and there, _Carlos mio_, I need not tell you, there is a post-office for receiving letters, as also for delivering them. Mind, I say for _delivering_ them! Before we leave for the far frontier, where there may be neither post-office nor post, I shall write you full particulars about our intended 'location'--with directions how to reach it. Need I be very minute? Or can I promise myself, that your wonderful skill as a 'tracker,' of which we've heard, will enable you to discover it? They say Love is blind. I hope, yours will not be so: else you may fail in finding the way to your sweetheart in the wilderness.

"How I go on talking, or rather writing, things I intended to say to you at our next meeting tinder the magnolia--our magnolia! Sad thought this, tagged to a pleasant expectation: for it must be our last interview under the dear old tree. Our last anywhere, until we come together again in Texas--perhaps on some prairie where there are no trees. Well; we shall then meet, I hope, never more to part; and in the open daylight, with no need either of night, or tree-shadows to conceal us. I'm sure father, humbled as he now is, will no longer object. Dear Charles, I don't think he would have done so at any time, but for his reverses. They made him think of--never mind what. I shall tell you all under the magnolia.

"And now, master mine--this makes you so--be punctual! Monday night, and ten o'clock--the old hour. Remember that the morning after? I shall be gone--long before the wild-wood songsters are singing their '_reveille_' to awake you. Jule will drop this into our tree post-office this evening--Sat.u.r.day. As you've told me you go there every day, you'll be sure of getting it in time; and once more I may listen to your flattery, as when you quoted the words of the old song, making me promise to come, saying you would 'show the night flowers their queen.'

"Ah! Charles, how easy to keep that promise! How sweet the flattery was, is, and ever will be, to yours,--

"Helen Armstrong."

"And that letter was found on d.i.c.k Darke?" questions a voice, as soon as the reading has come to an end.

"It war dropped by him," answers Woodley; "and tharfor ye may say it war found on him."

"You're sure of that, Simeon Woodley?"

"Wal, a man can't be sure o' a thing unless he sees it. I didn't see it myself wi' my own eyes. For all that, I've had proof clar enough to convince me; an' I'm reddy to stan' at the back o' it."

"d.a.m.n the letter!" exclaims one of the impatient ones, who has already spoken in similar strain; "the picture, too! Don't mistake me, boys. I ain't referrin' eyther to the young lady as wrote it, nor him she wrote to. I only mean that neither letter nor picture are needed to prove what we're all wantin' to know, an' do know. They arn't nor warn't reequired. To my mind, from the fust go off, nothin' ked be clarer than that Charley Clancy has been killed, cepting as to who killed him-- murdered him, if ye will; for that's what's been done. Is there a man on the ground who can't call out the murderer?"

The interrogatory is answered by a unanimous negative, followed by the name, "d.i.c.k Darke."

And along with the answer commences a movement throughout the crowd. A scattering with threats heard--some muttered, some spoken aloud--while men are observed looking to their guns, and striding towards their horses; as they do so, saying sternly,--

"To the jail!"

In ten minutes after both men and horses are in motion moving along the road between Clancy's cottage and the county town. They form a phalanx, if not regular in line of march, terribly imposing in aspect.

Could Richard Darke, from inside the cell where he is confined, but see that approaching cavalcade, hear the conversation of those who compose it, and witness their angry gesticulations, he would shake in his shoes, with trembling worse than any ague that ever followed fever.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

A SCHEME OF COLONISATION.

About two hundred miles from the mouth of Red River--the Red of Louisiana--stands the town of Natchitoches. The name is Indian, and p.r.o.nounced as if written "Nak-e-tosh." Though never a populous place, it is one of peculiar interest, historically and ethnologically. Dating from the earliest days of French and Spanish colonisation, on the Lower Mississippi, it has at different periods been in possession of both these nations; finally falling to the United States, at the transfer of the Louisiana territory by Napoleon Bonaparte. Hence, around its history is woven much of romantic interest; while from the same cause its population, composed of many various nationalities, with their distinctive physical types and idiosyncracies of custom, offers to the eye of the stranger a picturesqueness unknown to northern towns. Placed on a projecting bluff of the river's bank, its painted wooden houses, of French Creole fashion, with "piazzas" and high-pitched roofs, its trottoirs brick-paved, and shaded by trees of sub-tropical foliage-- among them the odoriferous magnolia, and _melia azedarach_, or "Pride of China,"--these, in places, completely arcading the street--Natchitoches has the orthodox aspect of a _rus in urbe_, or _urbs in rure_, whichever way you wish it.

Its porticoes, entwined with parasites, here and there show stretches of trellis, along which meander the cord-like tendrils of bignonias, aristolochias, and orchids, the flowers of which, drooping over windows and doorways, shut out the too garish sunlight, while filling the air with fragrance. Among these whirr tiny humming birds, buzz humble bees almost as big, while b.u.t.terflies bigger than either lazily flout and flap about on soft, silent wing.

Such sights greet you at every turning as you make promenade through the streets of Natchitoches.

And there are others equally gratifying. Within these same trellised verandahs, you may observe young girls of graceful mien, elegantly apparelled, lounging on cane rocking-chairs, or perhaps peering coyly through the half-closed jalousies, their eyes invariably dark brown or coal black, the marble forehead above surmounted with a chevelure in hue resembling the plumage of the raven. For most of these demoiselles are descended from the old colonists of the two Latinic races; not a few with some admixture of African, or Indian. The flaxen hair, blue eyes, and blonde complexion of the Northland are only exceptional appearances in the town of Natchitoches.

Meet these same young ladies in the street, it is the custom, and _comme il faut_, to take off your hat, and make a bow. Every man who claims to be a gentleman does this deference; while every woman, with a white skin, expects it. On whichever side the privilege may be supposed to lie, it is certainly denied to none. The humblest shop clerk or artisan--even the dray-driver--may thus make obeisance to the proudest and daintiest damsel who treads the trottoirs of Natchitoches. It gives no right of converse, nor the slightest claim to acquaintanceship. A mere formality of politeness; and to presume carrying it further would not only be deemed a rudeness, but instantly, perhaps very seriously, resented.

Such is the polished town to which the Belle of Natchez has brought Colonel Armstrong, with his belongings, and from which he intends taking final departure for Texas. The "Lone Star State" lies a little beyond-- the Sabine River forming the boundary line. But from earliest time of Texan settlement on the north-eastern side, Natchitoches has been the place of ultimate outfit and departure.

Here the ex-Mississippian planter has made halt, and purposes to remain for a much longer time than originally intended. For a far grander scheme of migration, than that he started out with, is now in his mind.

Born upon the Belle of Natchez, it has been gradually developing itself during the remainder of the voyage, and is now complete--at least as to general design.

It has not originated with Archibald Armstrong himself, but one, whom he is soon to call son-in-law. The young Creole, Dupre, entranced with love, has nevertheless not permitted its delirium to destroy all ideas of other kind. Rather has it re-inspired him with one already conceived, but which, for some time, has been in abeyance. He, too, has been casting thoughts towards Texas, with a view to migrating thither.

Of late travelling in Europe--more particularly in France--with some of whose n.o.blest families he holds relationship, he has there been smitten with a grand idea, dictated by a spirit of ambition. In Louisiana he is only a planter among planters and though a rich one, is still not satisfied, either with the number of his negroes, or the area of his acres. In Texas, where land is comparatively low priced, he has conceived a project of colonisation, on an extended scale--in short, the founding a sort of Transatlantic _seigneurie_. For some months has this ambitious dream been brooding in his brain; and now, meeting the Mississippian planter aboard the boat and learning the latter's intentions, this, and the more tender _liens_ late established between, them, have determined Louis Dupre to make his dream a reality, and become one of the migrating party. He will sell his Louisiana houses and lands, but not his slaves. These can be taken to Texas.

Scarce necessary to say, that, on thus declaring himself, he becomes the real chief of the proposed settlement. Whether showing conspicuously in front, or remaining obscurely in the rear, the capitalist controls all; and Dupre is this.

Still, though virtually the controlling spirit, apparently the power remains in the hands of Colonel Armstrong. The young Creole wishes it to appear so. He has no jealousy of him, who is soon to be his second father. Besides, there is another and substantial reason why Colonel Armstrong should a.s.sume the chieftainship of the purposed expedition.

Though reduced in circ.u.mstances, the ex-Mississippian planter is held in high respect. His character commands it; while his name, known throughout all the South-west, will be sure to draw around, and rally under his standard, some of those strong stalwart men of the backwoods, equally apt with axe and rifle, without whom no settlement on the far frontier of Texas would stand a chance of either security, or success.

For it is to the far frontier they purpose going, where land can be got at government prices, and where they intend to purchase it not by the acre, but in square miles--in leagues.

Such is Dupre's design, easy of execution with the capital he can command after disposing of his Red River plantation.

And within a week after his arrival in Natchitoches, he has disposed of it; signed the deed of delivery, and received the money. An immense sum, notwithstanding the sacrifice of a sale requiring quick despatch.

On the transfer being completed, the Creole holds in hand a cash capital of $200,000; in those days sufficient not only for the purchase of a large tract of territory, but enough to make the dream of a seignorial estate appear a possible reality.

Not much of the future is he reflecting upon now. If, at times, he cast a chance thought towards it, it may be to picture to himself how his blonde beauty will look as lady _suzeraine_--_chatelaine_ of the castle to be erected in Texas.

In his fancy, no doubt, he figures her as the handsomest creature that ever carried keys at her belt.