CHAPTER XII.
POYNTER FINDS SOMETHING.
It was in the afternoon of the same day which Fyffe had so signalized by his turkey-hunt. The prisoner, James Meagreson, was occupying the same position in which Sprowl had done penance some hours before. He had been left here by his captors to ponder upon his situation and reflect as to which should be his future course, whether to persist in his denials or acknowledge defeat and submit to his triumphant enemies with such grace as he could muster.
That his meditations were far from being the most pleasant imaginable, one glance at his sullen, stern features would evidence, and there was a fiery, vindictive glow in his small black eyes that boded ill for Poynter's hopes—a look that had proclaimed a determination to "die game," and to hold them in defiance while breath lasted. Only at intervals a softening tinge would appear, as if his heart failed him, or a desire to remedy the wrongs that he had committed, so far as lay in his power, had assailed his mind.
But these moments were few and far-between, and then, as if the tightly-drawn cords began to pain him yet more intensely, the scowl deepened, and he gritted his teeth in the excess of his fury. The moment had passed, and the deadly hate now raged without alloy.
In the mean time the three friends were gathered together, smoking or conversing idly, or buried deep in thought. Presently Jack Fyffe lay back, dropped his pipe, and then his stertorous breathing announced that he was in a deep, sound slumber.
The remainder of the band had either long since done the same, or went off upon business of their own; the scouts sent out having reported that all was quiet among the vigilantes, those worthies having disbanded and returned to their daily occupations, no doubt highly edified by their midnight wild-goose chase.
Save the regular sentinels, none appeared to be upon the alert excepting Poynter and Crees. The latter was covertly but intently regarding his younger companion with a strange, far-away look in his deep black eyes, while an unconscious sigh would now and then heave up from his massive chest, as if engendered by some painful memory of bygone days.
Poynter suddenly aroused himself, and glancing hastily around, uttered:
"Why, where's Sprowl?"
"Yonder," returned Crees, pointing to the ragged form of the man inquired after, lying under a bush, sleeping. "Poor devil, his last night was a hard one."
"True, but he had no one to thank for it save himself. However, I have some hopes of him yet. He is not all bad, and for the sake of his family I am willing to lend him a helping hand. His wife, poor thing, has seen hard times of late years. The entire support of the family, and of this shiftless, lazy brute into the bargain, has fallen upon her. And she is a perfect lady, too, for all she's uneducated. It's strange what choices women will make sometimes!" exclaimed Poynter.
The outlaw leader only grunted, "Just so."
"But that isn't what I wanted to talk to you about just now. You have several times promised to tell me your story, and why not fulfill it now? 'Tis as well as to wait longer."
"You are right, and I will do so; although I had intended to wait until after Meagreson had acknowledged his guilt. But what Sprowl has said is enough," slowly replied Crees, passing a hand across his brow, as if to chase away some painful reflection.
"But I have not heard him mention your name!" cried Poynter, in surprise.
"Yes, you have heard him tell my whole story, or nearly so. Henry Duaber, my son, have you no greeting for your father?"
"Son—father!" faltered the young man, gazing in bewilderment upon the outlaw leader, at this strange appeal.
"Your father, Henry," continued the elder man, in a choked tone; "can you not believe me?"
"But my father was—is dead!"
"No, not dead—only in name; he escaped with life. I am your father. By your dead mother—by my sainted wife, boy, I swear it!" solemnly said Crees.
"Is it—can it be true? I will believe it—father!" brokenly exclaimed the young man, bending forward to meet the proffered embrace.
It was a holy scene, this strange meeting of long-parted kindred; and their tears were mingled together, tears such as strong men need not be ashamed to shed. They were deeply affected, as well they might be, and when the first gush of emotion had passed, they sat beside each other, hand clasped in hand, gazing kindly and affectionately at each other.
"It is strange—passing strange!" at length uttered Henry, (as we must now call him, Clay Poynter no longer). "More like a romance than any thing in real everyday life. I have mourned you as dead since my childhood, and now find you my kindest friend, while I still thought you a stranger. How long since you first recognized me?"
"Not until to-day, although your story awoke strange fancies, it was so like mine; but I, too, thought you were dead. I had heard so, and saw what purported to be your grave."
"My grave!"
"Yes. They told me you had died at nearly the same time with your mother. Why, I know not. It could not have been from malice, for they knew me not. I was a stranger in my native home."
"But you—how were we deceived, and why did you not tell us of your escape, and our dear one might still have been alive?"
"Listen, and I will tell you all," replied James Duaber, in broken tones. "It is a sad, sad story of cruel wrong and sorrow; but I was the victim—I and mine! You know the first, or sufficiently well as to render a résumé unnecessary. But it was James Meagreson—the wretch yonder—who caused it all for revenge, because your mother chose me in preference to him.
"A man named Frank Soutar was confined in the same apartment with me, upon a charge identical with the one for which I was to suffer; but as he acknowledged to me, deeming me of the same gang, he was guilty. The mob knew nothing of his having been changed to my cell, as it had only been done that same day; and when they broke open the doors in the dead of night, he was seized for me in the confusion and darkness, while I hid beneath the pallet.
"And the error was never discovered by the mob; they hung him, thinking they were doing as they had been bribed by Meagreson, who took that way to insure my death, fearing lest I should eventually escape his revenge, if he left the law to decide. He was hung, but I took advantage of the open door to flee, and during the excitement, managed to effect my escape unmolested.
"A staunch friend of mine, Jack Fyffe, yonder—who was also under the ban, and in hiding, managed to secure his two horses, and upon them we rapidly fled the country. He had joined the mob with the hope of assisting me to escape, and he alone discovered the error, in time to return and assist me.
"We rode hard all that night, and lay hid at day, for we feared that the error would be discovered in the morning, at least, and then the hounds would be hot upon our trail. We traveled in this way until out of the State, and far into the wilds of Arkansas. But even then we did not feel secure, and thought it best to lie concealed until the storm had blown over.
"Still, I wrote, and managed to post two letters to my wife, telling of my safety, and that I would soon return to remove her and you to our new refuge. Besides this, I counted upon her knowing of my escape, else I would have dared all to have seen her.
"So, I waited for six months, and then was upon my way back, when I met a man who had just come through there. He did not know us, and I questioned him closely. Then it was that I learned of her death, and that you, too, had died. I did not doubt its entire truth, and in my wretchedness, I plunged into crimes and dissipation to drown reflection.
"For years this went, on, until a time came when I felt driven to return to the graves of my dead. No one knew me; I was a stranger in my native home, I had changed so, and saw where my wife lay, and what they said was your last resting-place. Then I went back again to the old life and lived it until I met with you.
"Although I knew you not—you had changed your name, and I did not recognize the little boy in the stalwart, handsome man—I felt drawn toward you. And now that you know how sinful I have been, will you still take me by the hand, and say, father? It is blackened, but there is no blood upon it."
"Father!" cried Henry, once more embracing the outlaw leader. "What matters it now? You leave this life, and we will be all in all to each other, from now henceforth!"
"Thunder 'n' lightnin'! jest look at Snakey!" yelled out Jack Fyffe, as he sprung to his feet before them, and wildly pointed up the hill.
And there was good cause for his excitement.
During the respite afforded by his captors, Meagreson had not been idle, after the first few minutes. His was not a mind to despair for any length of time, and although greatly astounded at the unexpected meeting, with a man whom he had thought long since numbered with the dead, his mind speedily resumed its wonted activity, and he thought but of escape.
Minute after minute he toiled and twisted at the thongs that secured him to the tree, until they rolled up into hours. The skin and flesh were terribly abraded, yet he did not heed the pain. Every instant he expected the return of his enemies, to receive the decision he might have arrived at, when in all probability the progress he had already made would be discovered.
Little by little he worked the cords loose, until one of his hands slipped from the noose. It was with the greatest difficulty that he restrained the shout of exultation that arose to his lips; but he did so, and then his other hand was free.
Owing to the size of the tree, his arms had been secured only at the wrist, after being extended at full length. Another cord was passed around his waist, while his feet were likewise secured, forming toils that his captors deemed it impossible to effect an escape from.
With his hands once free, it was but the work of a minute for the captive to release the rest of his body; and he stepped from the tree, a free man once more. His keen eyes glanced hurriedly around, and in the one look, took in every chance, both for and against his escape.
If he started to flee upon foot, he would, to an almost dead certainty, be discovered and overtaken, as his frame was stiff and weary. Besides, under cover of the one little clump in which he now stood, the entire hillside was fully exposed to the view of the three men below.
But his eye glittered, and the old cold gray look settled upon his face, as his gaze fell upon the form of a horse, all ready equipped for the road, standing carelessly hitched to a pendent bough. If he could once reach that, he felt that escape was assured. But could it be done?
To do so, he must either make a considerable detour, most of the time in full view of the trio of his enemies, or else, making a bold dash, pass within a score yards of them, trusting to the surprise to succeed in his hair brained project. And this latter course he decided upon.
Gathering all his faculties and straining every nerve, Meagreson made a wild bound from his covert and dashed swiftly down the hillside toward the horse. And had it not been for the watchful eyes of Jack Fyffe, no doubt he would have succeeded, perfectly. But the borderer's shout brought both father and son to their feet, pistol in hand.
"After him, Jack—Henry!" yelled the outlaw leader, "don't shoot—take him alive," but as he spoke, the revolvers of his companions were discharged.
Discharged, but the only perceptible result was a quicker and longer bound upon the fugitive's part.
"Take him, boys; for God's sake don't let him get free! You men on guard—stop that horse!" screamed the chief, as the trio bounded forward with headlong speed.
The fugitive gained the rearing horse in safety, tearing the bridle-reins loose, leaped into the saddle, and with a wild yell, darted away, waving his hand in defiance. And to the great chagrin of his enemies, he disappeared in triumph among the trees.
But their speed was suddenly checked, and for a moment they paused, glancing at each other. Their ears had caught a clear challenge to halt, closely followed by a single whip-like crack; then a wild shriek as of a human being in mortal agony, the quick trampling of hoofs, and then all was still.
As they once more pressed forward in painful suspense, a hollow, unearthly groan sounded from the spot whence the shot had come. Bursting through the bushes, the quartette—for Sprowl had also joined them—beheld a terrible sight.
A man—one of the outlaw guards—was coolly recharging his rifle, with his gaze bent upon a bleeding form before him. There, pale and ghastly, lay the form of James Meagreson; not dead, but apparently dying. The lower portion of his body lay still and motionless, but his head and shoulders writhed to and fro, while his arms were tossed wildly about, in the intensity of his agony.
Wild cries and bitter blasphemy poured from his lips, and he bitterly cursed those surrounding him. The fatal missile had entered his stomach, and passing through, had broken his back.
The men did not attempt to remove him or to bandage his wound; they saw that such a course would only be inflicting useless torment upon him, that his time had come; his life slowly ebbing away with the fast-fleeting moments. Two of them knelt beside his head, and kept him from hastening his end by the useless struggles.
James Duaber spoke to him kindly, imploring him to confess before he died, but his only answer was bitter revilings and curses; the fearful words, coming as they did from lips fast chilling in the embrace of death, caused even those strong men to turn aside with a shudder.
And thus he died, still reckless and defiant; a fitting end for his long and sinful life. There were grave faces that surrounded him, as breath went out, but no tears, no grief at his tragic end. Their injuries had been far too deep.
By this time the majority of the troop had collected, alarmed by the disturbance, and a number of them were detailed by their chief, to prepare a grave for the dead man. It was soon completed, and the corpse was quietly lowered into the bark-lined pit; then the damp mold covered him forever from mortal ken. There was no whispered prayer, no murmured blessing over the unhallowed grave; and nothing but the long narrow mound remained to show where the unfortunate being had been laid, for his last long sleeping-place.
Unloved he had lived, and unloved he had died. Poor James Meagreson!