A COMPANION.

For some seconds Jerry Rook stood in the shadow without saying a word, but thinking intensely.

His thoughts were black and bitter. The return of Pierre Robideau would be nothing less than ruin to him, depriving him of the support upon which for years he had been living. Once Buck, Brandon, and Co. should ascertain that he they supposed dead was still living, not only would the payment be stopped, but they might demand to be recouped the sums of which he had so cunningly mulcted them.

He had not much fear of this last.

If they had not actually committed murder, they would still be indictable for the attempt; and though, under the circ.u.mstances, they might not fear any severe punishment, they would yet shrink from the exposure.

It was not the old score that Jerry Rook was troubled about, but the prospect now before him. No more black mail; no money from any source; and Alf Brandon his creditor, now released from the bondage in which he had hitherto been held, spited by the rejection of yesterday, would lose no time in coming down upon him for the debt.

The quondam squatter saw before him only a feature of gloom and darkness--ejection from his ill-gotten home and clearing--a return to his lowly life--to toil and poverty--along with a dishonoured old age.

Mingling with these black thoughts, there was one blacker--a regret that he had not pulled the trigger in time!

Had he shot Pierre Robideau inside the tree all would have been well.

No one would have known that he had killed him; and to his own daughter he could have pleaded ignorance that there was any one inside. Much as she might have lamented the act, she could scarcely have believed it wilful, and would have said nothing about it.

It was too late now. To kill the young man as he stood, in the darkness--it might still have been done--or even at a later time, would be the same as to murder him under the eyes of his daughter. From what she now knew the hand of the a.s.sa.s.sin could not be concealed.

These thoughts occupied Jerry Rook scarce any time. They came and pa.s.sed like lightning that flashes deadly through dark clouds.

This prolonged silence was due to other thoughts. He was reflecting on what course he would take with the man, whose unexpected appearance had placed him in such a dilemma.

Turning to the latter, he at length spoke--

"How long 've ye been back, Pierre?"

The tone of pretended kindness did not deceive the returned gold-seeker.

"I came into the neighbourhood yesterday," he replied, coldly.

"Have ye seed any one that know'd ye?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"Ye'll excuse me for bein' a leetle rough wi' ye. I war a bit flurried 'beout the gurl bein' out, not knowin' who she wur with. There's a lot o' fellars arter her, an' it's but right I shed be careful."

Pierre could not object to this.

"Of course," pursued Jerry, after another pause of reflection, "ye heerd all that pa.s.sed atween me an' that lot o' diggers?"

"Every word of it."

"An' I suppose you know who they war?"

"Yes; I have good reason."

"Yu're right thar. Ye'll be knowin' then why this chile ain't livin'

any more in the ole shanty, but in a good, comftable frame-house, wi' a clarin' roun' it?"

"Yes, Jerry Rook, I think I understand that matter."

"Yur won't wonder, then, why I tuk so much pains, six years ago, to send yur out o' the way? No doubt yur did wonder at that?"

"I did; I don't now. It is all clear enough!"

"An' I reck'n it'll be equally clar to ye, thet yur comin' back ain't a gwine to do _me_ any good. Jest ruinates me, that's all."

"I don't see that, Jerry Rook."

"Ye don't! But this chile do. The minute any o' them six sets eyes on yur my game's up, an' thar's nothin' more left but clear out o' this, an' take to the trees agin. At my time o' life that ere'll be pleasant."

"You mean that by my showing myself you would lose the six hundred dollars per annum I've heard you make mention of."

"Not only thet, but--I reckin I may as well tell yer--I am in debt to Alf Brandon, an' it war only by his believin' in your death I hev been able to stave it off. Now, Pierre Robideau!"

In his turn the gold-seeker stood reflecting.

"Well, Jerry Rook," he rejoined, after a time, "as to the black mail you've been levying on these six scoundrels, I have no particular wish to see them relieved of it. It is but a just punishment for what they did to me, and to tell you the truth, it has, to some extent, taken the sting out of my vengeance, for I had come back determined upon a terrible satisfaction. While serving yourself you've been doing some service to me!"

"May be," suggested the old pirate, pleased at the turn matters appeared to be taking, "maybe Pierre, ye'd like things to go on as they air, an'

let me gi'e you more o' the same sort o' satisfackshun? Thar's a way o'

doin' it, without any harm to yurself. It's only for you _to keep out o' sight_."

Pierre was again silent, as if reflecting on the answer.

He at length gave it.

"You speak truth, Jerry Rook. There is a way, as you've said; but it must be coupled with a condition."

"What condishun?"

"Your daughter."

"What o' her?"

"I must have her for my wife."

Rook recoiled at the proposal. He was thinking of Alf Brandon and the plantation, the grand estate he had so long coveted, and set his heart upon having.

On the other side were the six hundred dollars a-year. But what was this in comparison? And coupled with a young man for his son-in-law, who was not even a full-blooded white--poor, perhaps penniless. No doubt he had come back without a dollar in his pocket.

Was this certain? He had been to California, the country of gold. From what could be seen of him in the dim light, he appeared well dressed, and his speech proclaimed him well instructed. He had certainly changed much from the time of his departure. He may not have returned either so fortuneless or friendless.

These conjectures kept Jerry Rook from making any immediate answer.

Taking advantage of his silence, the young man continued--