Redlaw, the Half-Breed by Jos. E. Badger, Jr. - HTML preview

CHAPTER XIII.
DEATH AMID JOY.

When we raise the curtain once more upon our characters, it is after the lapse of three months. A quarter of a year, that has not been uneventful to those in whom we are interested; but we can not linger upon them. A brief glance at the leading episodes is all.

The unfortunate death of James Meagreson changed the entire plans of the outlawed couple—father and son. But first of all James Duaber announced to his followers his intention of leaving them, and for the future leading an honest life.

Some of them murmured, but their chief was too highly esteemed and respected, for them to raise any serious opposition. Some few of their number joined him in his resolve, but the majority determined to continue on; the wild free life having charms they could not resist. But it was agreed to leave the neighborhood, and ply their calling elsewhere.

So their attention was only turned to the vindication of Henry Duaber's honor, as the father was totally unknown to the settlers, and the charges brought against him had long since passed into oblivion. Their first move was to secretly abduct Frank Dalton, and when he was confronted with Wesley Sprowl, and found that his perjury had been discovered, he promised to make restitution as far as lay in his power, at any time he was called upon.

Thus prepared, Henry Duaber boldly returned to the settlement, where he was once more arrested by the excited vigilance committee. His trial came off in good time, and thanks to the candor of his witnesses, he was triumphantly acquitted.

None were more cordial and sincere in their congratulations, than Neil McGuire and "Honest Jim" Henderson, who declared his bar was free to everybody, upon the joyous occasion; and never before, in the memory of "the oldest inhabitants," had there been so many "exhilarated" men to be seen, at one time, as upon that afternoon.

There was some talk about giving the perjured witnesses a taste of "birch law," but thanks to the firm opposition of Henry and others, it was not carried into effect. There was one familiar face missing among the crowd, but none regretted this fact. Polk Redlaw was not in the best of odor among his quondam associates, and did not make his appearance.

The "big house" was reopened, and old aunt Eunice in her glory once more, never tiring of dwelling upon the prominent part she had played in the late events. Henry met with no further opposition from the father of Nora, and matters progressed finely between the young couple, and at the same time no less rapidly.

Henry was an ardent suitor, and pleaded his case so well that the "fatal day" was set; and when we reopen our chronicle it had arrived. Great preparations had been made, and although the weather was somewhat cool, it was decided to have a grand barbecue and dance by moonlight in the open air.

Upon the summit of a little knoll was a sort of pavilion, erected for the dancing. The floor was composed of puncheons, the flat side uppermost, rudely dressed with an ax. Seats of the same were ranged around the sides, each end resting upon a block of wood. At one extremity, projecting beyond the platform, a stand was erected for the musicians, of whom there were three, already present.

Busy preparations were going on a little distance from the pavilion, for the "barbecue"; in full view, but far enough away to avoid inconvenience from the smoke, deer and hogs were being prepared for the spit—cattle were by far too valuable for that purpose—while turkey, ducks, prairie-chickens and smaller game were being roasted at the house. These minor items were to be furnished by the guests, who were each expected to "bring something."

It was early yet, but "out West" that is the fashion, and several parties had already arrived, although too few to begin dancing. Then the guests began to drop in more frequently, singly, in couples, or small parties of several; the ladies hastening to the cabin to make any little arrangement of their finery, while their cavaliers unsaddled the horses, securing them to the surrounding trees, placing fodder before them, and then joining the company already gathered at the pavilion.

It was really amusing to watch the actions of some gawky overgrown youth as he fidgeted about uneasily in his oppressive "bestermost" suit, now and then stealing a furtive glance at the opposite end of the stand, to learn if the eyes of his "bright, particular star" were upon him. If so, to note the studied attitude of would-be grace and nonchalant ease that he would assume, which was flatly contradicted by his fiery blushes.

To note the envious looks of the more backward, as they watched with longing eyes the free and easy demeanor of some more courageous swain, as he mingled with the blushing and whispering damsels, who appeared little more at ease than the former. There were many beautiful forms and faces to be seen among them, that would fill the breasts of many of our city belles with envy, despite their outré dress.

Presently the scraping and tuning of violins broke the spell, and seemed to dissipate the restraint that surrounded all parties. The groups began to mingle and converse more freely; the tap of some dainty foot to be heard as it kept unconscious time to the music; the confused request and murmured consent to dance; then the order, "Choose your pardners, boys!"; the sets were formed, and Henry, with Nora, led off.

The fun waxed fast and furious, the din increased, and the sets appeared mixed in inextricable confusion, the clatter of heavy-soled, horse-hide boots, the lighter fall of a more dainty foot, the rustle of dresses and shuffle of moccasins, with now and then a gay burst of laughter at some unlucky wight who makes a ludicrous blunder; or a stentorian shout from some half-wild borderer as he grows excited; mixed and intermingled with the music, more loud than melodious, while above all soars the clear voice of the "caller-off."

The picture is homely, we grant you, but it is pleasant, nevertheless, and it would be hard indeed to find a fashionable gathering that contains so little alloy of envy, pain and hypocrisy as this little congregation of rude, unpolished, but kind and open-hearted people. Rough and unlettered they may be, but their hospitality shames that of many a more pretentious class; while it would indeed be hard to find a truer or a more generous heart than those that beat under a deer-skin hunting-shirt, or homespun dress of linsey-woolsey.

Occasionally during the figure "promenade all," the toe of some clumsy swain, or perchance that of his rosy lassie, would catch fast in some crevice or protuberance between the rudely-joined puncheons, that cast them with violence to the floor. The next couple being too close and under great headway, would follow suit, and a mass of writhing, struggling humanity form a prostrate heap upon the floor.

Oh, what a burst of laughter would then ascend from hearty lungs, echoing through the woods from grove to grove, arousing the feathered songsters from their nests, causing them to chirp and twitter, no doubt wondering what possessed the people at that unseasonable hour.

Then Jack Fyffe—who did not dance—caused a renewed burst of merriment by seating himself upon one end of an unusually refractory slab, to hold it in its proper place, as he said. And there he sat, as solemn as a judge, smoking his pipe complacently, as though a crowd of the gay dancers were not whirling all about him, until the gathering broke up for supper.

And such a supper! More fit to be likened to a bounteous dinner, served up for a regiment of half-famished, war-worn soldiers. The long tables, manufactured from slabs of rudely-hewn wood, and supported by stakes probably furnished from the limbs of the same tree, were piled almost to overflowing with game and pastry.

Such saddles and haunches of venison; delicious buffalo-humps and pickled tongues—the proceeds of an extended hunt, for this especial occasion—the wild turkey, lusciously brown and tempting, almost bursting with the rich dressing; the prairie-chicken and pheasant, quail and snipe; even down to the huge "black-bird pot-pie."

Then the appetizing pastry and preserves, the results of that same season's "berry-hunting"; the honey, from that as clear and limpid as amber, to the dark and strong-flavored "bee-bread"—the vari-colored comb piled in great stacks.

And the strong, fragrant coffee, sweetened with honey and tempered with the thick, golden cream; the highly-prized tiny cups of "real boughten tea," mingled with stronger draughts for those so inclined, of "corn-whisky" and crab-apple cider.

All this, to say nothing of the barbecued game, which is in great demand from the very novelty of its cooking—I could not tell you one tithe of the good things that were there; the very sight of such abundance seeming enough to banish one's appetite for a fortnight to come.

Henry and Nora were the gayest of the gay, even among that happy crowd, and kept those surrounding them in the highest glee with their witticisms and repartee. But they left the table among the first, and strolled back toward the pavilion.

Jack Fyffe fidgeted around for a few moments, and then hastily followed after, announcing his approach with a sonorous cough, that startled the young couple into turning around.

"Beg pardin, square," apologetically began the borderer, "but p'r'aps you'd better be on y'ur guard, like."

"Why so, Josh?—what do you mean?" asked Henry.

"Jest take a squint over yander, an' mebbe you'll see."

Duaber glanced in the direction indicated, and a hot flush passed over his face as he noticed the tall, dark form of Polk Redlaw leaning against a tree, apparently deeply absorbed in thought. But had they been a little closer, a snakelike look would have been seen from beneath the slouched hat, fixed vindictively upon them, while one of the hands that rested across his bosom fiercely gripped the haft of a long, keen knife, hidden within his shirt. "He here!"

"Never mind, Henry, let him go," nervously whispered Nora, "he can't hurt you now."

"If he keeps his distance I will not molest him," answered Henry. "Besides, I do not believe he is armed. Do you see any, Jack?"

"No, but that don't signify," grunted that worthy. "A snake don't show its teeth tell it goes to strike, an' he's a copperhead, he is."

"Well, I'll watch him," and the young couple turned away, while Jack, his mind relieved by delivering the warning, repaired to the table to indulge in another meal.

But in five minutes more Henry had totally forgotten the warning, and had thoughts only for Nora. Fortunately, she was not so oblivious, and hearing a slight noise behind them turned suddenly, just in time to behold the crouching form of the mongrel, as he uplifted his heavy knife.

Her shriek startled Duaber, and he quickly turned, in the nick of time, to nimbly avoid his enemy's rush, adroitly tripping him with one foot, while he delivered a lightning-like blow with his right fist, full upon the dastard's neck, that hurled him headlong to the ground as if he had been shot. Before the affray could go any further, the combatants were surrounded and Redlaw disarmed, being rather roughly handled by Jack Fyffe, who finally ended by kicking him from the grounds.

In a short time the incident was forgotten by the majority, and the dancing once more resumed. But Jack did not occupy his old position, and when he again appeared he was fully armed, a rifle in hand and revolver at his waist.

Neither did he enter the pavilion, but stationed himself at a little distance, beside a tree, where his form was so blended with the shadows that at a score yards distant it was not visible. So another hour passed away, and he obstinately retained his post, heedless of fatigue.

Suddenly he uttered a low grunt, and crouched forward, half-raising his rifle, while the faint click told of its being cocked. A dim, shadow-like form had caught his roving glance, and upon it his every attention was now centered. Twice the long barrel rose to his cheek, and as often was it lowered, while his head craned forward as if in doubt.

Just then the music ceased, at the words, "promenade all—to your seats!" and the dancers separated. Jack Fyffe gave vent to a startling yell, and quickly raising his rifle, discharged it with an instantaneous aim.

The wild cry that followed told how true had been his aim; but it was duplicated. Quick as had been his motion, another flash had streamed out upon the darkness, from the spot at which he had aimed, and two cries were mingled with the reverberating echoes, and then came a dull, heavy fall upon the floor of the pavilion.

Jack did not glance toward the latter, but with an angry howl, more like that of a famished wild beast than a man, leaped forward toward the spot from whence had come the secret shot. A dark form lay there, motionless and silent, but he heeded not that. One by one the chambers of his revolver were emptied, and then he spurned from him with his foot the dead and mangled form of the mongrel assassin, Polk Redlaw.

In the pavilion a pale and horrified group were gathered, some bending over the bleeding, senseless form of Henry Duaber, while others attended to the fainting girl who was so soon to have become his bride. Heads were gravely shaken in answer to inquiring looks; their decision was that the young man would never speak again.

He breathed faintly, but each respiration seemed as if it would be his last. The blood slowly oozed from a ghastly wound upon his head, and they said that his brain had been pierced.

But we are happy to be enabled to state that they were greatly mistaken; had it been true, it would have made too sorrowful an ending to our story—one that the reader might well grumble at; for there had been no marriage as yet, and what is a novel without that?

In fact, he recovered his senses long before Nora did, and when his wound was washed, it was found that the bullet had only cut a deep gash upon his head, merely stunning him for the time being. When he had once convinced Nora that he was really unharmed, he declared he only had a slight headache, and made the assertion good by carrying out the original programme, and heroically passing the trying ordeal of changing the young lady into Mrs. Nora Duaber, that same night.

The dance was broken up by this catastrophe, and while no one expressed pity for the dead man, he was reverently buried, before another sun shone. Nora knew nothing of this at the time, and her joy was unclouded, for more reasons than one.

And now we must leave them, with only a few parting words.

The young couple duly entered the "big house," where, with aunt Eunice for a housekeeper, they led a peaceful, happy life. A few years since, James Duaber died, loved and respected by all who knew him; the fact of his old reckless life having never transpired, the secret being safe between the three.

Wesley Sprowl still lives, and is in moderately comfortable circumstances, thanks to the generosity with which Henry Duaber fulfilled his promise. He is not rich, and never will be; his disposition prevents that. But his sad and long-suffering wife has greatly changed for the better, we are glad to state.

And worthy Jack Fyffe, although now well along in years, is still hale and hearty; can handle his heavy rifle with sufficient precision to keep the larder well supplied with small game, and takes great delight in teaching the little Duabers how to shoot, swim and ride. He and "Honest Jim" Henderson are great cronies, often sitting for hours over their glasses and pipes, vying with each other in their stories of "when I was young." To listen for a while, one would be strongly tempted to believe that "Sinbad the Sailor," Robinson Crusoe, or the worthy Baron Munchausen had returned to life, and inhabited the shapes of "the venerable story-tellers.”

THE END.