LITMIR.BIZ

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we better ride back?” suggests Spence.

      “Thar’s no use goin’ now,” answers the son of the horse-dealer. “That is, for the savin’ of him. If nobody else has been thar since we left, why then the nigger’s dead – dead as pale Caesar.”

      “Do you think any one might have come along in time to save him?”

      This question is asked with an eagerness in which all are sharers. They would be rejoiced to think it could be answered in the affirmative.

      “There might,” replies Randall, catching at the slight straw of hope. “The trace runs through the glade, right past the spot. A good many people go that way. Some one might have come along in time. At all events, we should go back and see. It can’t make things any worse.”

      “Yes; we had better go back,” assents the son of the planter; and then to strengthen the purpose, “we’d better go for another purpose.”

      “What, Alf?” ask several.

      “That’s easily answered. If the Indian’s hung himself, we can’t help it.”

      “You’ll make it appear suicide? You forget that we tied his left arm. It would never look like it. He couldn’t have done that himself!”

      “I don’t mean that,” continues Brandon.

      “What, then?”

      “If he’s hanged, he’s hanged and dead before this. We didn’t hang him, or didn’t intend it. That’s clear.”

      “I don’t think the law can touch us,” suggests the son of the judge.

      “But it may give us trouble, and that must be avoided.”

      “How do you propose to do, Alf?”

      “It’s an old story that dead men tell no tales, and buried ones less.”

      “Thar’s a good grist o’ truth in that,” interpolates Buck.

      “The suicide wouldn’t stand. Not likely to. The cord might be cut away from the wrist; but then there’s Rook’s daughter. She saw him stop with us, and to find him swinging by the neck only half-an-hour after would be but poor proof of his having committed self-murder. No, boys, he must be put clean out of sight.”

      “That’s right; that’s the only safe way,” cried all the others.

      “Come on, then. We musn’t lose a minute about it. The girl may come back to see what’s keeping him, or old Rook, himself, may be straying that way, or somebody else travelling along the trace. Come on.”

      “Stay,” exclaimed Randall. “There’s something yet – something that should be done before any chance separates us.”

      “What is it?”

      “We’re all alike in this ugly business – in the same boat. It don’t matter who contrived it, or who fixed the rope. We all agreed to it. Is that not so?”

      “Yes, all. I for one acknowledge it.”

      “And I!”

      “And I!”

      All six give their assent, showing at least loyalty to one another.

      “Well, then,” continues Randall, “we must be true to each other. We must swear it, and now, before going further. I propose we all take an oath.”

      “We’ll do that. You, Randall, you repeat it over, and we’ll follow you.”

      “Head your horses round, then, face to face.”

      The horses are drawn into a circle, their heads together, with muzzles almost touching.

      Randall proceeds, the rest repeating after him.

      “We swear, each and every one of us, never to make known by act, word, or deed, the way in which the half-breed Indian, called Choc, came by his death, and we mutually promise never to divulge the circumstances connected with that affair, even if called upon in a court of law; and, finally, we swear to be true to each other in keeping this promise until death.”

      “Now,” says Brandon, as soon as the six young scoundrels have shaken hands over their abominable compact, “let us on, and put the Indian out of sight. I know a pool close by, deep enough to drown him. If he do get discovered, that will look better than hanging.”

      There is no reply to this astute proposal; and though it helps to allay their apprehensions, they advance in solemn silence towards the scene of their deserted bivouac.

      There is not one of them who does not dread to go back in that glade, so lately gay with their rude roystering; not one who would not give the horse he is riding and the gun he carries in his hand, never to have entered it.

      But the dark deed has been done, and another must needs be accomplished to conceal it.

      Story 1-Chapter IX.

      A Compulsory Compact

      Heavy with apprehension, rather than remorse for their crime, the six hunters ride on towards the clearing.

      They avoid the travelled track, lest they may meet some one upon it, and approach through the thick timber.

      Guiding their horses, so as to make the least noise, and keeping the hounds in check, they advance slowly and with caution.

      Some of the less courageous are reluctant to proceed, fearing the spectacle that is before them.

      Even the loud-talking Slaughter would gladly give up the newly-conceived design, but for the manifest danger of leaving it undone.

      Near the edge of the opening, still screened from their view by the interposing trunks and cane-culms, they again halt, and hold council – this time speaking in whispers.

      “We should not all go forward,” suggests the son of the tavern-keeper. “Better only one or two at first, to see how the land lies.”

      “That would be better,” chimes in Spence.

      “Who’ll go, then?”

      Buck and Brandon are pointed out by the eyes of the others resting upon them. These two have been leaders throughout the whole affair. Without showing poltroon, they cannot hang back now.

      They volunteer for the duty, but not without show of reluctance. It is anything but agreeable.

      “Let’s leave our horses. We’ll be better without them. If there’s any one on the ground, we can steal back without being seen.”

      It is the young planter’s proposition, and Buck consents to it.

      They slip out of their saddles, pass the bridles to two of those who stay behind, and then, like a couple of cougars stealing upon the unsuspicious fawn, silently make their way through the underwood.

      The clearing is soon under their eyes, with all it contains.

      There is the carcase of the bear, black with buzzards, and the skin still hanging from the tree.

      But the object of horror they expected to see hanging upon another tree is not there. That sight is spared them.

      There is no body on the branch, no corpse underneath it. Living or dead, the Indian is gone.

      His absence is far from re-assuring them; the more so as, on scanning the branch, they perceive, still suspended from it, a piece of the rope they had so adroitly set to ensnare him.

      Even across the glade they can see that it has been severed with the clean cut of a knife, instead of, as they could have wished, given way under its weight.

      Who could have cut the rope? Himself? Impossible! Where was the hand to have done it? He had none to spare for such a purpose. Happy for them to have thought that he had.

      They skulk around the glade to get nearer, still going by stealth, and in silence. The buzzards perceive them, and though dull birds, reluctant to leave their foul feast, they fly up with a fright. Something in the air of the two stalkers seemed to startle them, as if they too knew

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