The Death Shot: A Story Retold. Reid Mayne

Darke.

      Notwithstanding ignorance of all these circumstances, the thoughts of her sympathising neighbours – those in council outside – dwell upon Dick Darke; while his name is continuously upon their tongues. His unaccountable conduct during the day – as also the strange behaviour of the hound – is now called up, and commented upon.

      Why should the dog have made such demonstration? Why bark at him above all the others – selecting him out of the crowd – so resolutely and angrily assailing him?

      His own explanation, given at the time, appeared lame and unsatisfactory.

      It looks lamer now, as they sit smoking their pipes, more coolly and closely considering it.

      While they are thus occupied, the wicket-gate, in front of the cottage, is heard turning upon its hinges, and two men are seen entering the enclosure.

      As these draw near to the porch, where a tallow dip dimly burns, its light is reflected from the features of Simeon Woodley and Edward Heywood.

      The hunters are both well-known to all upon the ground; and welcomed, as men likely to make a little less irksome that melancholy midnight watch.

      If the new-comers cannot contribute cheerfulness, they may something else, as predicted by the expression observed upon their faces, at stepping into the porch. Their demeanour shows them possessed of some knowledge pertinent to the subject under discussion, as also important.

      Going close to the candle, and summoning the rest around, Woodley draws from the ample pocket of his large, loose coat a bit of wood, bearing resemblance to a pine-apple, or turnip roughly peeled.

      Holding it to the light, he says: “Come hyar, fellurs! fix yar eyes on this.”

      All do as desired.

      “Kin any o’ ye tell what it air?” the hunter asks.

      “A bit of tree timber, I take it,” answers one.

      “Looks like a chunk carved out of a cypress knee,” adds a second.

      “It ought,” assents Sime, “since that’s jest what it air; an’ this child air he who curved it out. Ye kin see thar’s a hole in the skin-front; which any greenhorn may tell’s been made by a bullet: an’ he’d be still greener in the horn as kedn’t obsarve a tinge o’ red roun’ thet hole, the which air nothin’ more nor less than blood. Now, boys! the bullet’s yit inside the wud, for me an’ Heywood here tuk care not to extract it till the proper time shed come.”

      “It’s come now; let’s hev it out!” exclaims Heywood; the others endorsing the demand.

      “Thet ye shall. Now, fellurs; take partikler notice o’ what sort o’ egg hez been hatchin’ in this nest o’ cypress knee.”

      While speaking, Sime draws his large-bladed knife from its sheath; and, resting the piece of wood on the porch bench, splits it open. When cleft, it discloses a thing of rounded form and metallic lustre, dull leaden – a gun-bullet, as all expected.

      There is not any blood upon it, this having been brushed off in its passage through the fibrous texture of the wood. But it still preserves its spherical shape, perfect as when it issued from the barrel of the gun that discharged, or the mould that made it.

      Soon as seeing it they all cry out, “A bullet!” several adding, “The ball of a smooth-bore.”

      Then one asks, suggestingly:

      “Who is there in this neighbourhood that’s got a shooting-iron of such sort?”

      The question is instantly answered by another, though not satisfactorily.

      “Plenty of smooth-bores about, though nobody as I knows of hunts with them.”

      A third speaks more to the point, saying: —

      “Yes; there’s one does.”

      “Name him!” is the demand of many voices.

      “Dick Darke!”

      The statement is confirmed by several others, in succession repeating it.

      After this succeeds silence – a pause in the proceedings – a lull ominous, not of further speech but, action.

      Daring its continuance, Woodley replaces the piece of lead in the wood, just as it was before; then laying the two cleft pieces together, and tying them with a string, he returns the chunk to his pocket.

      This done, he makes a sign to the chiefs of the conclave to follow him as if for further communication.

      Which they do, drawing off out of the porch, and taking stand upon grass plot below at some paces distant from the dwelling.

      With heads close together, they converse for a while, sotto voce.

      Not so low, but that a title, the terror of all malefactors, can be heard repeatedly pronounced.

      And also a name; the same, which, throughout all the evening has been upon their lips, bandied about, spoken of with gritting teeth and brows contracted.

      Not all of those, who watch with the widow are admitted to this muttering council. Simon Woodley, who presides over it, has his reasons for excluding some. Only men take part in it who can be relied on for an emergency, such as that the hunter has before him.

      Their conference closed, four of them, as if by agreement with the others, separate from the group, glide out through the wicket-gate, and on to their horses left tied to the roadside rail fence.

      “Unhitching” these, they climb silently into their saddles, and as silently slip away; only some muttered words passing between them, as they ride along the road.

      Among these may be heard the name of a man, conjoined to a speech, under the circumstances significant: —

      “Let’s straight to the Sheriff!”

      Chapter Nineteen.

      The “Belle of Natchez.”

      While search is still being made for the body of the murdered man, and he suspected of the crime is threatened with a prison cell, she, the innocent cause of it, is being borne far away from the scene of its committal.

      The steamboat, carrying Colonel Armstrong and his belongings, having left port punctually at the hour advertised, has forsaken the “Father of Waters,” entered the Red River of Louisiana, and now, on the second day after, is cleaving the current of this ochre-tinted stream, some fifty miles from its mouth.

      The boat is the “Belle of Natchez.” Singular coincidence of name; since one aboard bears also the distinctive sobriquet.

      Oft have the young “bloods” of the “City of the Bluffs,” while quaffing their sherry cobblers, or champagne, toasted Helen Armstrong, with this appellation added.

      Taking quality into account, she has a better right to it than the boat. For this, notwithstanding the proud title bestowed upon it, is but a sorry craft; a little “stern-wheel” steamer, such as, in those early days, were oft seen ploughing the bosom of the mighty Mississippi, more often threading the intricate and shallower channels of its tributaries. A single set of paddles, placed where the rudder acts in other vessels, and looking very much like an old-fashioned mill-wheel, supplies the impulsive power – at best giving but poor speed.

      Nevertheless, a sort of craft with correct excuse, and fair raison d’être; as all know, who navigate narrow rivers, and their still narrower reaches, with trees from each side outstretching, as is the case with many of the streams of Louisiana.

      Not that the noble Red River can be thus classified; nor in any sense spoken of as a narrow stream. Broad, and deep enough, for the biggest boats to navigate to Natchitoches – the butt of Colonel Armstrong’s journey by water.

      Why the broken planter has taken passage on the little “stern-wheeler” is due to two distinct causes. It suited him as to time, and also expense.

      On the Mississippi, and its tributaries, a passage in “crack” boats is costly, in proportion to their character for “crackness.” The “Belle