Standing upright, his chin is only an inch or two above the surface of the ground. A portion of the loose earth is pushed in, and packed around him, the ruffians trampling it firm. What remains they kick and scatter aside; the monster, with horrible mockery, telling them to make a "neat job of it."

During all this time Brasfort has been making wild demonstrations, struggling to free himself, as if to rescue his master. For he is also bound, tied to the stirrup of one of the robber's horses. But the behaviour of the faithful animal, instead of stirring them to compa.s.sion, only adds to their fiendish mirth.

The interment complete, Borla.s.se makes a sign to the rest to retire; then, placing himself in front, with arms akimbo, stands looking Clancy straight in the face. No pen could paint that glance. It can only be likened to that of Lucifer.

For a while he speaks not, but in silence exults over his victim. Then, bending down and tossing back his plumed bonnet, he asks, "D'ye know me, Charley Clancy?"

Receiving no reply, he continues, "I'll lay a hundred dollars to one, ye will, after I've told ye a bit o' a story, the which relates to a circ.u.mstance as happened jest twelve months ago. The scene o' that affair was in the public square o' Nacodosh, whar a man was tied to a post an--"

"Whipped at it, as he deserved."

"Ha!" exclaims Borla.s.se, surprised, partly at being recognised, but as much by the daring avowal. "You do remember that little matter? And me too?"

"Perfectly; so you may spare yourself the narration. You are Jim Borla.s.se, the biggest brute and most thorough scoundrel in Texas."

"Curse you!" cries the ruffian enraged, poising his spear till its point almost touches Clancy's head, "I feel like driving this through your skull."

"Do so!" is the defiant and desperate rejoinder. It is what Clancy desires. He has no hope of life now. He wishes death to come at once, and relieve him from the long agony he will otherwise have to endure.

Quick catching this to be his reason, Borla.s.se restrains himself, and tosses up the spear, saying:--

"No, Mister; ye don't die that eesy way--not if I know it. You and yours kept me two days tied like a martyr to the stake, to say nothin'

of what came after. So to make up for't I'll give you a spell o'

confinement that'll last a leetle longer. You shall stay as ye are, till the buzzarts peck out your eyes, an' the wolves peel the skin from your skull--ay, till the worms go crawlin' through your flesh. How'll ye like that, Charley Clancy?"

"There's no wolf or vulture on the prairies of Texas ugly as yourself.

Dastardly dog!"

"Ah! you'd like to get me angry? But you can't. I'm cool as a cowk.u.mber--aint I? Your dander's up, I can see. Keep it down. No good your gettin' excited. I s'pose you'd like me to spit in your face.

Well, here goes to obleege ye."

At this he stoops down, and does as said. After perpetrating the outrage, he adds:--

"Why don't ye take out your handkercher an' wipe it off. It's a pity to see such a handsome fellow wi' his face in that fashion. Ha! ha! ha!"

His four confederates, standing apart, spectators of the scene, echo his fiendish laughter.

"Well, well, my proud gentleman;" he resumes, "to let a man spit in your face without resentin' it! I never expected to see you sunk so low.

Humiliated up to the neck--to the chin! Ha! ha! ha!"

Again rings out the brutal cachinnation, chorused by his four followers.

In like manner the monster continues to taunt his helpless victim; so long, one might fancy his spite would be spent, his vengeance sated.

But no--not yet. There is still another arrow in his quiver--a last shaft to be shot--which he knows will carry a sting keener than any yet sent.

When his men have remounted, and are ready to ride off, he returns to Clancy, and, stooping, hisses into his ear:--

"Like enough you'll be a goodish while alone here, an' tharfore left to your reflections. Afore partin' company, let me say somethin' that may comfort you. _d.i.c.k Darke's got your girl; 'bout this time has her in his arms_!"

CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE.

HELPLESS AND HOPELESS.

"O G.o.d!"

Charles Clancy thus calls upon his Maker. Hitherto sustained by indignation, now that the tormentor has left him, the horror of his situation, striking into his soul in all its dread reality, wrings from him the prayerful apostrophe.

A groan follows, as his glance goes searching over the plain. For there is nothing to gladden it. His view commands the half of a circle--a great circle such as surrounds you upon the sea; though not as seen from the deck of a ship, but by one lying along the thwarts of a boat, or afloat upon a raft.

The robbers have ridden out of sight, and he knows they will not return.

They have left him to die a lingering death, almost as if entombed alive. Perhaps better he were enclosed in a coffin; for then his sufferings would sooner end.

He has not the slightest hope of being succoured. There is no likelihood of human creature coming that way. It is a sterile waste, without game to tempt the hunter, and though a trail runs across it, Borla.s.se, with fiendish forethought, has placed him so far from this, that no one travelling along it could possibly see him. He can just descry the lone cottonwood afar off, outlined against the horizon like a ship at sea. It is the only tree in sight; elsewhere not even a bush to break the drear monotony of the desert.

He thinks of Simeon Woodley, Ned Heywood, and those who may pursue the plunderers of the settlement. But with hopes too faint to be worth entertaining. For he has been witness to the precautions taken by the robbers to blind their trail, and knows that the most skilled tracker cannot discover it. Chance alone could guide the pursuit in that direction, if pursuit there is to be. But even this is doubtful. For Colonel Armstrong having recovered his daughters, and only some silver stolen, the settlers may be loath to take after the thieves, or postpone following them to some future time. Clancy has no knowledge of the sanguinary drama that has been enacted at the Mission, else he would not reason thus. Ignorant of it, he can only be sure, that Sime Woodley and Ned Heywood will come in quest of, but without much likelihood of their finding them. No doubt they will search for days, weeks, months, if need be; and in time, but too late, discover--what? His head--

"Ha!"

His painful reflections are interrupted by that which but intensifies their painfulness: a shadow he sees flitting across the plain.

His eyes do not follow it, but, directed upward, go in search of the thing which is causing it. "A vulture!"

The foul bird is soaring aloft, its black body and broad expanded wings outlined against the azure sky. For this is again clear, the clouds and threatening storm having drifted off without bursting. And now, while with woe in his look he watches the swooping bird, well knowing the sinister significance of its flight, he sees another, and another, and yet another, till the firmament seems filled with them.

Again he groans out, "O G.o.d!"

A new agony threatens, a new horror is upon him. Vain the attempt to depict his feelings, as he regards the movements of the vultures. They are as those of one swimming in the sea amidst sharks. For, although the birds do not yet fly towards him, he knows they will soon be there.

He sees them sailing in spiral curves, descending at each gyration, slowly but surely stooping lower, and coming nearer. He can hear the swish of their wings, like the sough of an approaching storm, with now and then a raucous utterance from their throats--the signal of some leader directing the preliminaries of the attack, soon to take place.

At length they are so close, he can see the ruff around their naked necks, bristled up; the skin reddened as with rage, and their beaks, stained with b.l.o.o.d.y flesh of some other banquet, getting ready to feast upon his. Soon he will feel them striking against his skull, pecking out his eyes. O, heavens! can horror be felt further?

Not by him. It adds not to his, when he perceives that the birds threatening to a.s.sail him will be a.s.sisted by beasts. For he now sees this. Mingling with the shadows flitting over the earth, are things more substantial--the bodies of wolves. As with the vultures, at first only one; then two or three; their number at each instant increasing, till a whole pack of the predatory brutes have gathered upon the ground.

Less silent than their winged allies--their compet.i.tors, if it come to a repast. For the coyote is a noisy creature, and those now a.s.sembling around Clancy's head--a sight strange to them--give out their triple bark, with its prolonged whine, in sound so lugubrious, that, instead of preparing for attack, one might fancy them wailing a defeat.

Clancy has often heard that cry, and well comprehends its meaning. It seems his death-dirge. While listening to it no wonder he again calls upon G.o.d--invokes Heaven to help him!

CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR.

COYOTE CREEK.

A stream coursing through a canoned channel whose banks rise three hundred feet above its bed. They are twin cliffs that front one another, their _facades_ not half so far apart. Rough with projecting points of rock, and scarred by water erosion, they look like angry giants with grim visages frowning mutual defiance. In places they approach, almost to touching; then, diverging, sweep round the opposite sides of an ellipse; again closing like the curved handles of callipers.

Through the s.p.a.ces thus opened the water makes its way, now rushing in hoa.r.s.e torrent, anon gently meandering through meadows, whose vivid verdure, contrasting with the sombre colour of the enclosing cliffs, gives the semblance of landscape pictures set in rustic frame.