Blending their unearthly notes into one grand chorus they close around, finally resolved to a.s.sault it.
And, again, Clancy calls upon G.o.d--upon Heaven, to help him.
His prayer is heard; for what he sees seems an answer to it. The moon is low down, her disc directly before his face, and upon the plain between a shadow is projected, reaching to his chin. At the same time, he sees what is making it--a man upon horseback! Simultaneously, he hears a sound--the trampling of hoofs upon the hard turf.
The coyotes catching it, too, are scared, changing from their att.i.tude of attack, and dropping tails to the ground. As the shadow darkening over them tells that the horseman is drawing nigh, they scatter off in retreat.
Clancy utters an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of joy. He is about to hail the approaching Norseman, when a doubt restrains him.
"Who can it be?" he asks himself with mingled hope and apprehension.
"Woodley would not be coming in that way, alone? If not some of the settlers, at least Heywood would be along with him? Besides, there is scarce time for them to have reached the Mission and returned. It cannot be either. Jupiter? Has he escaped from the custody of the outlawed crew?"
Clancy is accustomed to seeing the mulatto upon a mule. This man rides a horse, and otherwise looks not like Jupiter. It is not he. Who, then?
During all this time the horseman is drawing nearer, though slowly.
When first heard, the tramp told him to be going at a gallop; but he has slackened speed, and now makes approach, apparently with caution, as if reconnoitring. He has descried the jackals, and comes to see what they are gathered about. These having retreated, Clancy can perceive that the eyes of the stranger are fixed upon his own head, and that he is evidently puzzled to make out what it is.
For a moment the man makes stop, then moves on, coming closer and closer. With the moon behind his back, his face is in shadow, and cannot be seen by Clancy. But it is not needed for his identification.
The dress and figure are sufficient. Cut sharply against the sky is the figure of a plumed savage; a sham one Clancy knows, with a thrill of fresh despair, recognising Richard Darke.
It will soon be all over with him now; in another instant his hopes, doubts, fears, will be alike ended, with his life. He has no thought but that Darke, since last seen, has been in communication with Borla.s.se; and from him learning all, has, returned for the life he failed to take before.
Meanwhile the plumed horseman continues to approach, till within less than a length of his horse. Then drawing bridle with a jerk, suddenly comes to a stop. Clancy can see, that he is struck with astonishment-- his features, now near enough to be distinguished, wearing a bewildered look. Then hears his own name called out, a shriek succeeding; the horse wheeled round, and away, as if Satan had hold of his tail!
For a long time is heard the tramp of the retreating horse going in full fast gallop--gradually less distinct--at length dying away in the distance.
CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE.
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.
To Clancy there is nothing strange in Darke"s sudden and terrified departure. With the quickness of thought itself, he comprehends its cause. In their encounter under the live-oak, in shadow and silence, his old rival has not recognised him. Nor can he since have seen Borla.s.se, or any of the band. Why he is behind them, Clancy cannot surmise; though he has a suspicion of the truth. Certainly Darke came not there by any design, but only chance-conducted. Had it been otherwise, he would not have gone off in such wild affright.
All this Clancy intuitively perceives, on the instant of his turning to retreat. And partly to make this more sure, though also stirred by indignation he cannot restrain, he eends forth that shout, causing the scared wretch to flee faster and farther.
Now that he is gone, Clancy is again left to his reflections, but little less gloomy than before. From only one does he derive satisfaction.
The robber chief must have lied. Helen Armstrong has not been in the arms of Richard Darke.--He may hope she has reached her home in safety.
All else is as ever, and soon likely to be worse. For he feels as one who has only had a respite, believing it will be but short. Darke will soon recover from his scare. For he will now go to the rendezvous, and there, getting an explanation of what has caused it, come back to glut his delayed vengeance, more terrible from long acc.u.mulation.
Will the wolves wait for him?
"Ha! there they are again!"
So exclaims the wretched man, as he sees them once more making approach.
And now they draw nigh with increased audacity, their ravenous instincts but strengthened by the check. The enemy late dreaded has not molested them, but gone off, leaving their prey unprotected. They are again free to a.s.sail, and this time will surely devour it.
Once more their melancholy whine breaks the stillness of the night, as they come loping up one after another. Soon all are re-a.s.sembled round the strange thing, which through their fears has long defied them. More familiar, they fear it less now.
Renewing their hostile demonstration, they circle about it, gliding from side to side in _cha.s.sez-croissez_, as through the mazes of a cotillon.
With forms magnified under the moonlight, they look like werewolves dancing around a "Death"s Head,"--their long-drawn lugubrious wails making appropriate music to the measure!
Horror for him who hears, hearing it without hope. Of this not a ray left now, its last lingering spark extinguished, and before him but the darkness of death in all its dread certainty--a death horrible, appalling!
Putting forth all his moral strength, exerting it to the utmost, he tries to resign himself to the inevitable.
In vain. Life is too sweet to be so surrendered. He cannot calmly resign it, and again instinctively makes an effort to fright off his hideous a.s.sailants. His eyes rolling, scintillating in their sockets-- his lips moving--his cries sent from between them--are all to no purpose now. The coyotes come nearer and nearer. They are within three feet of his face. He can see their wolfish eyes, the white serrature of their teeth, the red panting tongues; can feel their fetid breath blown against his brow. Their jaws are agape. Each instant he expects them to close around his skull!
Why did he shout, sending Darke away? He regrets having done it.
Better his head to have been crushed or cleft by a tomahawk, killing him at once, than torn while still alive, gnawed, mumbled over, by those frightful fangs threatening so near! The thought stifles reflection.
It is of itself excruciating torture. He cannot bear it much longer.
No man could, however strong, however firm his faith in the Almighty.
Even yet he has not lost this. The teachings of early life, the precepts inculcated by a pious mother, stand him in stead now. And though sure he must die, and wants death to come quickly, he nevertheless tries to meet it resignedly, mentally exclaiming:--
"Mother! Father! I come. Soon shall I join you. Helen, my love! Oh, how I have wronged you in thus throwing my life away! G.o.d forgive--"
His regrets are interrupted, as if by G.o.d Himself. He has been heard by the All-Merciful, the Omnipotent; for seemingly no other hand could now succour him. While the prayerful thoughts are still pa.s.sing through his mind, the wolves suddenly cease their attack, and he sees them retiring with closed jaws and fallen tails! Not hastily, but slow and skulkingly; ceding the ground inch by inch, as though reluctant to leave it.
What can it mean?
Casting his eyes outward, he sees nothing to explain the behaviour of the brutes, nor account for their changed demeanour.
He listens, all ears, expecting to hear the hoof-stroke of a horse--the same he late saw reined up in front of him, with Richard Darke upon his back. The ruffian is returning sooner than antic.i.p.ated.
There is no such sound. Instead, one softer, which, but for the hollow cretaceous rock underlying the plain and acting as a conductor, would not be conveyed to his ears. It is a pattering as of some animal"s paws, going in rapid gait. He cannot imagine what sort of creature it may be; in truth he has no time to think, before hearing the sound close behind his head, the animal approaching from that direction. Soon after he feels a hot breath strike against his brow, with something still warmer touching his cheek. It is the tongue of a dog!
"Brasfort!"
Brasfort it is, cowering before his face, filling his ears with a soft whimpering, sweet as any speech ever heard. For he has seen the jackals retreat, and knows they will not return. His strong stag-hound is more than a match for the whole pack of cowardly creatures. As easily as it has scattered, can it destroy them.
Clancy"s first feeling is one of mingled pleasure and surprise. For he fancies himself succoured, released from his earth-bound prison, so near to have been his grave.
The glad emotion is alas! short-lived; departing as he perceives it to be only a fancy, and his perilous situation, but little changed or improved. For what can the dog do for him? True he may keep off the coyotes, but that will not save his life. Death must come all the same.
A little later, and in less horrid shape, but it must come. Hunger, thirst, one or both will bring it, surely if slowly.
"My brave Brasfort! faithful fellow!" he says apostrophising the hound; "You cannot protect me from them. But how have you got here?"
The question is succeeded by a train of conjecture, as follows:--
"They took the dog with them. I saw one lead him away. They"ve let him loose, and he has scented back on the trail? That"s it. Oh! if Jupiter were but with him! No fear of their letting him off--no."
During all this time Brasfort has continued his caresses, fondling his master"s head, affectionately as a mother her child.
Again Clancy speaks, apostrophising the animal.
"Dear old dog! you"re but come to see me die. Well; it"s something to have you here--like a friend beside the death-bed. And you"ll stay with me long as life holds out, and protect me from those skulking creatures?