Читать книгу The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover - Reid Mayne - Страница 6

Lena Rook knew the father of Pierre, and curtsied as she came in.

It was six years since she had seen him; but she still remembered the man who had stayed some days at her father’s house, and left behind him a boy, who had afterwards proved such a pleasant playmate.

“Whar’s Pierre?” asked her father. “Didn’t he kum back from Helena along wi’ ye?”

The guest simultaneously asked a similar question, for both had noticed a slight shadow on the countenance of the girl.

“He did,” answered she, “as far as the clearing in the cane-brake, just over the creek.”

“He stopped thar. What for?”

“There was a party of hunters – boys.”

“Who mout they be?”

“There was Alf Brandon, and Bill Buck, and young Master Randall, the judge’s son, and there was Jeff Grubbs, the son of Mr Grubbs, that keeps the store, and Slaughter’s son, and another boy I don’t remember ever seeing before.”

“A preecious pack o’ young scamp-graces, every mother’s son o’ ’em, ’ceptin the one you didn’t know, an’ he can’t be much different, seein’ the kumpany he air in. What war they a doin’?”

“They had hounds and horses. They had killed a bear.”

“Killed a bar! Then that’s the lot that went scurryin’ up the crik, while ago. Durn ’em! they never killed the bar. The houn’s dud it for ’em. Ye see how it air, Dick? Who the Etarnal ked make his bread out o’ huntin’ hyar, when sech green goslins as them goes screamin’ through the woods wi’ a hul pack o’ houn’s to drive the game hillward! How d’ye know, gurl, thet they killed a bar?”

“I saw it lying on the ground, and the skin hanging to a tree.”

“Skinned it, too, did they?”

“Yes. They had a fire, and they had been roasting and eating some of it. I think they had been drinking too. They looked as if they had, and I could smell whiskey about the place.”

“But what kept Pierre among ’em?”

“They were trying who could hang longest to the branch of a tree. As Pierre was coming past, Alf Brandon stopped him, and challenged him to try too; then offered to make a bet – their rifles, I think – and Pierre consented, and I came away.”

“Pierre should have kum along wi’ ye, an’ left them to theirselves. I know Alf Brandon don’t owe the boy any goodwill, nor Bill Buck neyther, nor any o’ that hul lot. I reckon they must a riled him, and rousted his speerit a bit.”

As the old hunter said this, he stepped over the threshold of the door, and stood outside, as if looking out for the coming of Dick Tarleton’s son.

Seeing that he was listening, the other two, to avoid making a noise, conversed in a low tone.

“I kin hear the houn’s,” remarked Rook, speaking back into the cabin. “Thar’s a growl! Durn me, ef they hain’t started suthin’. Thar they go, an’ the curs yellin’ arter ’em as ef hell war let loose. Wonder what it kin mean? Some varmint must a crawled right inter thar camp. Wal, Pierre ain’t like to a gone along wi’ ’em, seein’ as he’s got no hoss. I reck’n we’ll soon see him hyar, an’ maybe Alf Brandon’s rifle along wi’ him. Ef it’s bin who kin hang longest to the branch of a tree, I’d back him agin the toughest-tailed possum in all these parts. Ef that be the tarms o’ the wager, he’ll git the gun.”

The old hunter returned chuckling into the cabin.

Some conversation passed between him and his daughter, about getting dinner for their guest; and then, thinking that the expected Pierre was a long time in showing himself, he went out again, and stood listening as before.

He had not been many moments in this attitude, when he was seen to start, and then listen more eagerly with an uneasy look.

Tarleton, looking from the inside, saw this, and so too the girl.

“What is it, Jerry?” inquired the former, moving hastily towards the door.

“Durned if I know. I heerd a shriek as ef some’dy war in trouble. Yes, thar ’tis agin! By the Etarnal, it’s Pierre’s voice!”

“It is father,” said Lena, who had glided out, and stood listening by his side. “It is his voice; I could tell it anywhere. I fear they have been doing something. I’m sure those boys don’t like him, and I know they were drinking.”

“No, Dick! don’t you go. Some of them young fellurs might know you. I’ll go myself, and Lena kin kum along wi’ me. My gun, gurl! An’ you may turn, too, ole Sneezer; you’d be more’n a match for the hul pack o’ thar curs. I tell ye, you shan’t go, Dick! Git inside the shanty, and stay thar till we kum back. Maybe, ’tain’t much; some lark o’ them young scamp-graces. Anyhow, this chile’ll soon see it all straight. Now, Lena! arter yur ole dad.”

At the termination of this chapter of instructions, the hunter, long rifle in hand, hound and daughter close following upon his heels, strode off at the double-quick in the direction in which he had heard the cries.

For some moments their guest stood outside the door, apparently unresolved as to whether he should stay behind or follow his host. But, a shadow passing over his face, showed that some sentiment – perhaps fear – stronger than affection for his son, was holding him in check; and, yielding to this, he turned, and stepped back into the shanty.

A remarkable-looking man was this old acquaintance of Jerry Rook; as unlike the hunter as Hyperion to the Satyr. He was still under forty years of age, while Jerry had outlived the frosts of full sixty winters. But the difference between their ages was nothing compared with that existing in other respects. While Jerry, crooked in limb and corrugated in skin, was the beau ideal of an old borderer, with a spice of the pirate in him to boot, Richard Tarleton stood straight as a lance, and had been handsome as Apollo.

Jerry, clad in his half-Indian costume of skin cap and buck-leather, looked like the wild woods around him, while his guest in white linen shirt and shining broadcloth, seemed better suited for the streets of that city from which his conversation showed him to have lately come.

What strange chance has brought two such men together? And what stranger episode had kept them bound in a confidence neither seemed desirous of divulging?

It must have been a dark deed on the side of Dick Tarleton – a strong fear that could hinder a father from rushing to the rescue of his son!