Story 1-Chapter XII.
A Traitor’s Epistle

As already chronicled, Dick Tarleton has started along the forest path, leaving Jerry Rook under the cottonwood tree.

For some time he remains there, motionless as the trunk beside him.

The exclamation of chagrin that escaped him, as the other passed beyond earshot, is followed by words of a more definite shape and meaning. It was Dick Tarleton who drew from him the former. It is to him the latter are addressed, though without the intention of their being heard.

“Ye durned fool! ye’d speil my plan, wud ye? An’ I ’spose all the same if I war to tell ye o’t? But I ain’t gwine to do that, nor to hev it speiled neyther by sich a obs’nate eedyut as you. Six hundred dollars pre annul air too much o’ a good pull to be let go agin slack as that. An’ doggoned if I do let it go, cost what it may to keep holt o’t. Yes, cost what it may!”

The phrase repeated with increased emphasis, along with a sudden change in the attitude of the speaker, shows some sinister determination.

“Dick,” he continued, forsaking the apostrophic form, “air a fool in this bizness; a dod-rotted, pursumptuous saphead. He git satisfakshun out o’ that lot, eyther by the law or otherways! They’d swing him up as soon as seed; an’ he’d be seed afore he ked harm ’ere a one o’ them. Then tha don’t go ’beout ’ithout toatin’ thar knives and pistols ’long wi’ them, any more’n he. An’ they’ll be jest as riddy to use ’em. Ef’t kim to thet, what then? In coorse the hole thing ’ud leak out, an’ whar’d this chile be ’beout his six hundred dollars?” Durn Dick Tarleton! Jest for the sake o’ a silly revenge he’d be a speiln’ all, leavin’ me as I’ve been all my life, poor as he’s turkey gobbler.

“It must be preevented, it must!

“How air the thing to be done? Le’s see.

“Thar’s one way I knows o’, that appear to be eezy enuf.

“Dick has goed to the town, an’s boun’ to kum back agin from the town. That’s no reeson why he shed kum back hyar. Thar’s nobody to miss him! The gurl won’t know he ain’t gone for good. He’s boun’ to kum back afore mornin’, an’ afore thar’s sunlight showin’ among the trees. He’ll be sartin’ to kum along the trace, knowing thar’s not much danger o’ meetin’ anybody, or bein’ reco’nised in the dark. Why shedn’t I meet him?”

With this interrogatory, a fiendish expression, though unseen by human eye, passes over the face of the old hunter. A fiendish thought has sprung up in his heart.

“Why shedn’t I?” he pursues, reiterating the reflection. “What air Dick Tarleton to me? I haint no particklar spite agin him, thet is ef he’ll do what I’ve devised him to do. But ef he won’t, ef he won’t —

“An’ he won’t. He’s sed so, he’s swore it.

“What, then! Am I to lose six hundred dollars pre-annum, jess for the satisfakshun o’ his spite? Durned ef I do, cost what it may.

“The thing’d be as eezy es tumbling off o’ a log. A half-an-hour’s squatting among the bushes beside that ere gleed, the pull in’ o’ a trigger, an’ it air done. That mout be a leetle bit o’ haulin’ an’ hidin’, but I kin eezy do the fust, and the Crik ’ll do the last. I know a pool close by, thet’s just the very place for sech a kinceelmint.

“Who’d iver sispect? Thar’s nobody to know; neery soul but myself, an’ I reck’n that ere secret ’ud be safe enuf in this coon’s keepin’.”

For some time the old hunter stands silent, as if further reflecting on the dark scheme, and calculating the chances of success or discovery.

All at once an exclamation escapes him that betokens a change of mind. Not that he has repented of his hellish design, only that some other plan promises better for its execution.

“Jerry Rook, Jerry Rook!” he mutters in apostrophe to himself, “what the stewpid hae ye been thinking o’. Ye’ve never yit spilt hewmin blood, an’ mustn’t begin thet game now. It mout lie like a log upon yur soul, and besides, it’s jest possible that somebody mout get to hear o’t. The crack o’ a rifle air a sespishous soun’ at any time, but more espeeshully i’ the dead o’ night, if thar should chance to be the howl of a wounded man comin’ arter it. Sposin he, that air Dick, warn’t shot dead at fust go. Durned ef I’d like to foller it up; neery bit o’t. As things stan’ thar need be no sech chances, eyther o’ fearin’ or failin’. A word to Planter Brandon ’ll be as good as six shots out o’ the surest rifle. It’s only to let him know Dick Tarleton’s hyar, an’ a direckshun beouts whar he kin be foun’. He’ll soon summons the other to ’sist him in thet same bizness they left unfinished, now, God knows how miny yeer ago. They’ll make short work wi’ him. No danger ov thar givin’ him time to palaver beout thet or anythin’ else, I reckin; an’ no danger to me. A hint’ll be enuf, ’ithout my appearin’ among ’em. The very plan, by the Etarnal!”

“How’s best for the hint ter be konvayed to ’em? Ha! I kin rite. Fort’nit I got skoolin’ enuf for thet. I’ll write to Planter Brandon. The gurl kin take it over to the plantation. She needn’t be know’d eyther. She kin rop up in hur cloke, and gi’e it ter sum o’ the niggers, as’ll sure ter be ’beout the place outside. Thar’s no need for a answer. I know what Brandon’ll do arter gittin’ it.

“Thar’s no time to be squandered away. By this, Dick hes got ter the town. Thar’s no tellin’ how long he may stay thar, an’ they must intrap him on his way back. They kin be a waitin’ an’ riddy, in that bit o’ clearin’. The very place for the purpis, considerin’ it’s been tried arready.

“No, thar arn’t a minnit to be lost. I must inter the shanty, an’ scrape off the letter.”

Bent upon his devilish design, he hastens inside the house; as he enters, calling upon his daughter to come into the kitchen.

“Hyar gurl. Ye’ve got some paper ye rite yur lessons upon. Fetch me a sheet o’t, along wi’ a pen an’ ink. Be quick ’bout it.”

The young girl wonders what he can want with things so rarely used by him, but she is not accustomed to question him, and without saying a word, complies with the requisition.

The pen, inkstand, and paper, are placed on the rude slab table, and Jerry Rook sits down before it, taking the pen between his fingers.

After a few moments spent in silent cogitation, reflecting on the form of his epistle, it is produced.

Badly spelt, and rudely scrawled, but short and simple, it runs thus: —

“To Planter Brandin, Esquare.

“Sir, – I guess as how ye recollex a man, by name, Dick Tarleton; an’ maybe ye mout be desireous o’ seein’ him. Ef ye be, ye kin gratify yur desire. He air now, at this present moment, in the town o’ Helena, tho’ what part o’ it I don’t know. But I know whar he will be afore mornin’. That air upon the road leadin’ from the town t’ward the settlements on White River. He arn’t a gwine fur out, as he’s travellin’ afoot, and he’s sartin to keep the trace through the bit o’ clearin’ not fur from Caney Crik. Ef you or anybody else wants ter see him, that wud be as good a place as thar is on the road.

“Y’urs at command,

“A Strenger but a Fren’.”

Jerry Rook has no fear of his handwriting beings recognised. So long since he has seen it, he would scarce know it himself.

Folding up the sheet, and sealing it with some drops of resin, melted in the dull flame of the dip, he directs it as inside – “To Planter Brandin, Esquare.”

Then handing it to his daughter, and instructing the young girl how to deliver it incog, he despatches her upon her errand.

Lena, with her cloak folded closely around her fairy form, and hooded over her head, proceeds along the path leading to the Brandon plantation. Poor, simple child, herself innocent as the forest fawn, she knows not that she is carrying in her hand the death-warrant of one, – who, although but little known, should yet be dear to her – Dick Tarleton, the father of Pierre Robideau.

She succeeds in delivering the letter, though failing to preserve her incognito. The hooded head proved but a poor disguise. The domestic who takes the epistle out of her hand recognises, by the white out-stretched arm and slender symmetrical fingers, the daughter of “old Rook, de hunter dat live ’pon Caney Crik.” So reports he to his master, when questioned about the messenger who brought the anonymous epistle.

Known or unknown, the name is of slight significance; the withholding of it does not affect the action intended by the writer, nor frustrate the cruel scheme. As the morning sun strikes into the “bit o’ clearing” described in Jerry Rook’s letter, it throws light upon a terrible tableau – the body of a man suspended from the branch of a tree. It is upon the same branch where late hung the young hunter Robideau. It is the body of his father.

There is no one near – no sign of life, save the buzzards still lingering around the bones of the bear, and the quaint, grey wolf that has shared with them their repast. But there are footmarks of many men – long scores across the turf, that tell of violent struggling, and a patch of grass more smoothly trampled down beneath the gallows tree. There stood Judge Lynch, surrounded by his jury and staff of executioners, while above him swung the victim of their vengeance.

Once more had the travestie of a trial been enacted; once more condemnation pronounced; and that tragedy, long postponed, was now played to the closing scene, the dénouement of death!

Story 1-Chapter XIII.
Six Years After

Six years have elapsed since the lynching of Dick Tarleton. Six years, by the statute of limitations, will wipe cut a pecuniary debt, and make dim many a reminiscence. But there are remembrances not so easily effaced; and one of these was the tragedy enacted in the clearing, near the Caney Creek.

And yet it was but little remembered. In a land, where every-day life chronicles some lawless deed, the mere murder of a man is but a slight circumstance, scarce extending to the proverbial “nine days’ wonder.”

Richard Tarleton was but a “sportsman,” a gambler, if not more; and, as to the mode of his execution, several others of the same fraternity were treated in like fashion not long after, having been hanged in the streets of Vicksburg, the most respectable citizens of the place acting as their executioners!

Amidst these, and other like reminiscences, the circumstance of Dick Tarleton’s death soon ceased to be talked about, or even thought of, except, perhaps, by certain individuals who had played a part in the illegal execution.

But some of these were dead, some gone away from the neighbourhood; while the influx of colonising strangers, creating a thicker population in the place, had caused those changes that tend to destroy the souvenirs of earlier times, and obliterate the memories of many a local legend.

There was one memory that remained fresh – one souvenir that never slept in the minds of certain individuals who still lived in Helena or its neighbourhood. It was of another tragic occurrence that had taken place in the clearing near Caney Creek, on the day before that on which the condemned gambler had been dispatched into eternity.

The knowledge of this second tragedy had been confided only to a few; and beyond this few it had not extended. The disappearance of young Robideau, sudden as it had been, excited scarce any curiosity – less on account of the other and better known event that for the time occupied the attention of all.

The boy, as if feeling the taint of his Indian blood, and conscious of a distinction that in some way humiliated him, had never mixed much with the youth of the surrounding settlement, and for this reason his absence scarce elicited remark.

Those who chanced to make the inquiry were told that Jerry Rook had sent him back to his mother’s people, who were half-breed Choctaw Indians, located beyond the western border of Arkansas territory, on lands lately assigned to them by a decree of the Congress.

The explanation was of course satisfactory; and to most people in Helena and its neighbourhood the boy Robideau was as if he had never been.

There were some, however, who had better reason to remember him, as also to disbelieve this suspicious tale of Jerry Rook, though careful never to contradict it. These were the six youths, now grown to be men, the heroes of that wild, wicked frolic already recorded.

In their minds the remembrance of that fatal frolic was as vivid as ever, having been periodically refreshed by an annual disbursement of a hundred dollars each.

With the exacting spirit of a Shylock, Jerry Rook had continued to hold them to their contract; and if at any time remonstrance was made, it was soon silenced, by his pointing to an oblong mound of earth, rudely resembling a grave, under that tree where he had held his last conversation with his friend, Dick Tarleton.

The inference was that the remains of Pierre Robideau were deposited beneath that sod, and could at any time be disinterred to give damning evidence of his death.

Remonstrance was rarely made. Most of the contributors to Jerry Rook’s income had become masters of their own substance. Still, the compulsory payment of a hundred dollars each was like the annual drawing of a tooth; all the more painful from the reflection of what it was for, and the knowledge as long as their creditor lived there was no chance of escaping it.

Painful as it was, however, they continued to pay it more punctually than they would have done had it been a debt recoverable by court, or an obligation of honour.

They were not all equally patient under the screw thus periodically put upon them. There were two more especially inclined to kick out of the terrible traces that chafed them. These were Bill Buck, the son of the horse-dealer, and Slaughter, who kept the “Helena Tavern,” his father being defunct.

Neither had greatly prospered in the world, and to both the sum of a hundred dollars a-year was a tax worth considering.

In their conversations with one another, they had discussed this question, and more than once had been heard to hint at some dark design by which the impost might be removed.

These hints were only made in presence of their partners in the secret compact, and never within earshot of Jerry Rook.

It is true they were discouraged by the others less harassed by the tax, and, therefore, Jess tempted to take any sinister step towards removing it. They had enough to torment them already.

Both Buck and Slaughter were capable of committing crimes even deeper than that already on their conscience. Six years had not changed them for the better. On the contrary, they had become worse, both being distinguished as among the most dissolute members of the community.

A similar account might be given of the other four; though these, figuring in positions of greater respectability, kept their characters a little better disguised.

Two of their fathers were also dead – Randall, the judge, and Spence, the Episcopalian clergyman, while their sons, less respected than they, were not likely to succeed to their places.

Brandon’s father still lived, though drink was fast carrying him to the grave, and his son was congratulating himself on the proximity of an event that would make him sole master of himself as also of a cotton plantation.

The store-keeper, Grubbs, had gone, no one knew whither – not even the sheriff, loth to let him depart – leaving his son to build up a new fortune extracted out of the pockets of the Mississippi boatmen. The horse-dealer still stuck to his old courses – coping, swopping, swearing – likely to outlive them all.

Among the many changes observable in the settlements around Helena there was none more remarkable than that which had taken place in the fortunes of Jerry Rook. It was a complete transformation, alike mysterious, for no one could tell how it came, or whence the power that had produced it. It appeared not only in the person of Jerry himself, but in everything that appertained to him – his house, his grounds, his dogs, and his daughter; in short, all his belongings.

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