While the champagne is being freely quaffed, of course there is much conversation, and on many subjects. But one is special; seeming more than all others to engross the attention of the roysterers under the roof of the Choctaw Chief.

It is a murder that has been committed in the State of Mississippi, near the town of Natchez; an account of which has just appeared in the local journal of Natchitoches. The paper is lying on the bar-room table; and all of them, who can read, have already made themselves acquainted with the particulars of the crime. Those, whose scholarship does not extend so far, have learnt them at secondhand from their better-educated a.s.sociates.

The murdered man is called Clancy--Charles Clancy--while the murderer, or he under suspicion of being so, is named Richard Darke, the son of Ephraim Darke, a rich Mississippi planter.

The paper gives further details: that the body of the murdered man has not been found, before the time of its going to press; though the evidence collected leaves no doubt of a foul deed having been done; adding, that Darke, the man accused of it, after being arrested and lodged in the county jail, has managed to make his escape--this through connivance with his jailer, who has also disappeared from the place.

Just in time, pursues the report, to save the culprit's neck from a rope, made ready for him by the executioners of Justice Lynch, a party of whom had burst open the doors of the prison, only to find it untenanted. The paper likewise mentions the motive for the committal of the crime--at least as conjectured; giving the name of a young lady, Miss Helen Armstrong, and speaking of a letter, with her picture, found upon the suspected a.s.sa.s.sin. It winds up by saying, that no doubt both prisoner and jailer have G.T.T.--"Gone to Texas"--a phrase of frequent use in the Southern States, applied to fugitives from justice. Then follows the copy of a proclamation from the State authorities, offering a reward of two thousand dollars for the apprehension of Richard Darke, and five hundred for Joe Harkness--this being the name of the conniving prison-keeper.

While the murder is being canva.s.sed and discussed by the _bon-vivants_ in the bar-room of the Choctaw Chief--a subject that seems to have a strange fascination for them--Borla.s.se, who has become elevated with the alcohol, though usually a man of taciturn habit, breaks out with an a.s.severation, which causes surprise to all, even his intimate a.s.sociates.

"d.a.m.n the luck!" he vociferates, bringing his fist down upon the counter till the decanters dance at the concussion; "I'd 'a given a hundred dollars to 'a been in the place o' that fellow Darke, whoever he is!"

"Why?" interrogate several of his confreres, in tones that express the different degrees of their familiarity with him questioned, "Why, Jim?"

"Why, Mr Borla.s.se?"

"Why, Captain?"

"Why?" echoes the man of many t.i.tles, again striking the counter, and causing decanters and gla.s.ses to jingle. "Why? Because that Clancy-- that same Clancy--is the skunk that, before a packed jury, half o' them yellar-bellied Mexikins, in the town of Nacogdoches, swore I stealed a horse from him. Not only swore it, but war believed; an' got me--me, Jim Borla.s.se--tied for twenty-four hours to a post, and whipped into the bargain. Yes, boys, whipped! An' by a d.a.m.ned Mexikin n.i.g.g.e.r, under the orders o' one o' their constables, they call algazeels. I've got the mark o' them lashes on me now, and can show them, if any o' ye hev a doubt about it. I ain't 'shamed to show 'em to _you_ fellows; as ye've all got something o' the same, I guess. But I'm burnin' mad to think that Charley Clancy's escaped clear o' the vengeance I'd sworn again him. I know'd he was comin' back to Texas, him and his. That's what took him out thar, when I met him at Nacogdoches. I've been waitin' and watchin' till he shed stray this way. Now, it appears, somebody has spoilt my plans--somebody o' the name Richard Darke. An', while I envy this d.i.c.k Darke, I say d.a.m.n him for doin' it!"

"d.a.m.n d.i.c.k Darke! d.a.m.n him for doin' it!" they shout, till the walls re-echo their ribald blasphemy.

The drinking debauch is continued till a late hour, Quantrell paying shot for the whole party. Maudlin as most of them have become, they still wonder that a man so shabbily dressed can command so much cash and coin. Some of them are not a little perplexed by it.

Borla.s.se is less so than any of his fellow-tipplers. He has noted certain circ.u.mstances that give him a clue to the explanation; one, especially, which seems to make everything clear. As the stranger, calling himself Phil Quantrell, stands holding his gla.s.s in hand, his handkerchief employed to wipe the wine from his lips, and carelessly returned to his pocket, slips out, and fails upon the floor. Borla.s.se stooping, picks it up, but without restoring it to its owner.

Instead, he retires to one side; and, un.o.bserved, makes himself acquainted with a name embroidered on its corner.

When, at a later hour, the two sit together, drinking a last good-night draught, Borla.s.se places his lips close to the stranger's ear, whispering as if it were Satan himself who spoke, "_Your name is not Philip Quantrell: 'tis Richard Darke_!"

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

THE MURDERER UNMASKED.

A rattlesnake sounding its harsh "skirr" under the chair on which the stranger is sitting could not cause him to start up more abruptly than he does, when Borla.s.se says:--

"_Your name is not Philip Quantrell: 'tis Richard Darke_!"

He first half rises to his feet, then sits down again; all the while trembling in such fashion, that the wine goes over the edge of his gla.s.s, sprinkling the sanded floor.

Fortunately for him, all the others have retired to their beds, it being now a very late hour of the night--near midnight. The drinking "saloon"

of the Choctaw Chief is quite emptied of its guests. Even Johnny, the bar-keeper, has gone kitchen-wards to look after his supper.

Only Borla.s.se witnesses the effect of his own speech; which, though but whispered, has proved so impressive.

The speaker, on his side, shows no surprise. Throughout all the evening he has been taking the measure of his man, and has arrived at a clear comprehension of the case. He now knows he is in the company of Charles Clancy's a.s.sa.s.sin. The disguise which Darke has adopted--the mere shaving off moustaches and donning a dress of home-wove "cottonade"--the common wear of the Louisiana Creole--with slouch hat to correspond, is too flimsy to deceive Captain Jim Borla.s.se, himself accustomed to metamorphoses more ingenious, it is nothing new for him to meet a murderer fleeing from the scene of his crime--stealthily, disguisedly making way towards that boundary line, between the United States and Texas--the limit of executive justice.

"Come, Quantrell!" he says, raising his arm in a gesture of rea.s.surance, "don't waste the wine in that ridikelous fashion. You and me are alone, and I reckin we understand one another. If not, we soon will--the sooner by your puttin' on no nonsensical airs, but confessin' the clar and candid truth. First, then, answer me this questyun: Air you, or air you not, Richard Darke? If ye air, don't be afeerd to say so. No humb.u.g.g.e.ry! Thar's no need for't. An' it won't do for Jim Borla.s.se."

The stranger, trembling, hesitates to make reply.

Only for a moment. He sees it will be of no use denying his ident.i.ty.

The man who has questioned him--of giant size and formidable aspect-- notwithstanding the copious draughts he has swallowed, appears cool as a tombstone, and stern as an Inquisitor. The bloodshot eyes look upon him with a leer that seems to say: "Tell me a lie, and I'm your enemy."

At the same time those eyes speak of friendship; such as may exist between two scoundrels equally steeped in crime.

The murderer of Charles Clancy--now for many days and nights wandering the earth, a fugitive from foiled justice, taking untrodden paths, hiding in holes and corners, at length seeking shelter under the roof of the Choctaw Chief, because of its repute, sees he has reached a haven of safety.

The volunteered confessions of Borla.s.se--the tale of his hostility to Clancy, and its cause--inspire him with confidence about any revelations he may make in return. Beyond all doubt his new acquaintance stands in mud, deep as himself. Without further hesitation, he says--"I _am_ Richard Darke."

"All right!" is the rejoinder. "And now, Mr Darke, let me tell you, I like your manly way of answerin' the question I've put ye. Same time, I may as well remark, 'twould 'a been all one if ye'd sayed _no_! This child hain't been hidin' half o' his life, 'count o' some little mistakes made at the beginnin' of it, not to know when a man's got into a sim'lar fix. First day you showed your face inside the Choctaw Chief I seed thar war something amiss; tho', in course, I couldn't gie the thing a name, much less know 'thar that ugly word which begins with a M.

This evenin', I acknowledge, I war a bit put out--seein' you round thar by the planter's, spyin' after one of them Armstrong girls; which of them I needn't say."

Darke starts, saying mechanically, "You saw me?"

"In coorse I did--bein' there myself, on a like lay."

"Well?" interrogates the other, feigning coolness.

"Well; that, as I've said, some leetle bamboozled me. From your looks and ways since you first came hyar, I guessed that the something wrong must be different from a love-sc.r.a.pe. Sartint, a man stayin' at the Choctaw Chief, and sporting the cheap rig as you've got on, wan't likely to be aspirin' to sech dainty damsels as them. You'll give in, yourself, it looked a leetle queer; didn't it?"

"I don't know that it did," is the reply, p.r.o.nounced doggedly, and in an a.s.sumed tone of devil-may-care-ishness.

"You don't! Well, I thought so, up to the time o' gettin' back to the tavern hyar--not many minutes afore my meetin' and askin' you to jine us in drinks. If you've any curiosity to know what changed my mind, I'll tell ye."

"What?" asks Darke, scarcely reflecting on his words.

"That ere newspaper you war readin' when I gave you the invite. I read it _afore_ you did, and had ciphered out the whole thing. Puttin' six and six thegither, I could easy make the dozen. The same bein', that one of the young ladies stayin' at the hotel is the Miss Helen Armstrong spoke of in the paper; and the man I observed watchin' her is Richard Darke, who killed Charles Clancy--_yourself_!"

"I--I am--I won't--I don't deny it to you, Mr Borla.s.se. I am Richard Darke. I did kill Charles Clancy; though I protest against its being said I _murdered_ him."

"Never mind that. Between friends, as I suppose we can now call ourselves, there need be no nice distinguishin' of tarms. Murder or manslaughter, it's all the same, when a man has a motive sech as yourn.

An' when he's druv out o' the pale of what they call society, an' hunted from the settlements, he's not like to lose the respect of them who's been sarved the same way. Your bein' Richard Darke an' havin' killed Charles Clancy, in no ways makes you an enemy o' Jim Borla.s.se--except in your havin' robbed me of a revenge I'd sworn to take myself. Let that go now. I ain't angry, but only envious o' you, for havin' the satisfaction of sendin' the skunk to kingdom come, without givin' me the chance. An' now, Mister Darke, what do you intend doin'?"

The question comes upon the a.s.sa.s.sin with a sobering effect. His copious potations have hitherto kept him from reflecting.

Despite the thieve's confidence with which Borla.s.se has inspired him, this reference to his future brings up its darkness, with its dangers; and he pauses before making response.

Without waiting for it, his questioner continues:

"If you've got no fixed plan of action, and will listen to the advice of a friend, I'd advise you to become _one o' us_."

"One of you! What does that mean, Mr Borla.s.se?"

"Well, I can't tell you here," answers Borla.s.se, in a subdued tone.

"Desarted as this bar-room appear to be, it's got ears for all that. I see that curse, Johnny, sneakin' about, pretendin' to be lookin' after his supper. If he knew as much about you as I do, you'd be in limbo afore you ked get into your bed. I needn't tell you thar's a reward offered; for you seed that yourself in the newspaper. Two thousand dollars for you, an' five hundred dollars for the fellow as I've seed about along wi' you, and who I'd already figured up as bein' jailer Joe Harkness. Johnny, an' a good many more, would be glad to go halves with me, for tellin' them only half of what I now know. _I_ ain't goin' to betray you. I've my reasons for not. After what's been said I reckon you can trust me?"