"Run off, if ye'd got the chance. Ye'd made a good beginning. Here, d.i.c.k Tracey! half-a-dozen turns of your trail-rope round him. Lend a hand, Shelton! d.a.m.ned queer-looking curse he is! Surely, gentlemen, this can't be the man we're in search of?"

"No, no! it isn't. Only his man John."

"Ho! hilloa, you round there at the back! Keep your eyes skinned. We havn't got him yet. Don't let as much as a cat creep past you. Now, sirree! who's inside?"

"Who's insoide? The cyabin div yez mane?"

"d.a.m.n ye! answer the question that's put to ye!" says Tracey, giving his prisoner a touch of the trail-rope. "Who's inside the shanty?"

"O Lard! Needs must whin the divvel dhrives. Wil, then, thare's the masther for wan--"

"Ho! what's this?" inquires Woodley Poindexter, at this moment, riding up, and seeing the spotted mare. "Why--it--it's Looey's mustang!"

"It is, uncle," answers Ca.s.sius Calhoun, who has ridden up along with him.

"I wonder who's brought the beast here?"

"Loo herself, I reckon."

"Nonsense! You're jesting, Cash?"

"No, uncle; I'm in earnest."

"You mean to say my daughter has been here?"

"Has been--still is, I take it."

"Impossible?"

"Look yonder, then!"

The door has just been opened. A female form is seen inside.

"Good G.o.d, it is my daughter!"

Poindexter drops from his saddle, and hastens up to the hut--close followed by Calhoun. Both go inside.

"Louises what means this? A wounded man! Is it he--Henry?"

Before an answer can be given, his eye falls upon a cloak and hat-- Henry's!

"It is; he's alive! Thank heaven!" He strides towards the couch.

The joy of an instant is in an instant gone. The pale face upon the pillow is not that of his son. The father staggers back with a groan.

Calhoun seems equally affected. But the cry from him is an exclamation of horror; after which he slinks cowed-like out of the cabin.

"Great G.o.d!" gasps the planter; "what is it? Can you explain, Louise?"

"I cannot, father. I've been here but a few minutes. I found him as you see. He is delirious."

"And--and--Henry?"

"They have told me nothing. Mr Gerald was alone when I entered. The man outside was absent, and has just returned. I have not had time to question him."

"But--but, how came _you_ to be here?"

"I could not stay at home. I could not endure the uncertainty any longer. It was terrible--alone, with no one at the house; and the thought that my poor brother--_Mon dieu_! _Mon dieu_!"

Poindexter regards his daughter with a perplexed, but still inquiring, look.

"I thought I might find Henry here."

"Here! But how did you know of this place? Who guided you? You are by yourself!"

"Oh, father! I knew the way. You remember the day of the hunt--when the mustang ran away with me. It was beyond this place I was carried.

On returning with Mr Gerald, he told me he lived here. I fancied I could find the way back."

Poindexter's look of perplexity does not leave him, though another expression becomes blended with it. His brow contracts; the shadow deepens upon it; though whatever the dark thought, he does not declare it.

"A strange thing for you to have done, my daughter. Imprudent--indeed dangerous. You have acted like a silly girl. Come--come away! This is no place for a lady--for you. Get to your horse, and ride home again.

Some one will go with you. There may be a scene here, you should not be present at. Come, come!" The father strides forth from the hut, the daughter following with reluctance scarce concealed; and, with like unwillingness, is conducted to her saddle.

The searchers, now dismounted, are upon the open ground in front.

They are all there. Calhoun has made known the condition of things inside; and there is no need for them to keep up their vigilance.

They stand in groups--some silent, some conversing. A larger crowd is around the Connemara man; who lies upon the gra.s.s, last tied in the trail-rope. His tongue is allowed liberty; and they question him, but without giving much credit to his answers.

On the re-appearance of the father and daughter, they face towards them, but stand silent. For all this, they are burning with eagerness to have an explanation of what is pa.s.sing. Their looks proclaim it.

Most of them know the young lady by sight--all by fame, or name. They feel surprise--almost wonder--at seeing her there. The sister of the murdered man under the roof of his murderer!

More than ever are they convinced that this is the state of the case.

Calhoun, coming forth from the hut, has spread fresh intelligence among them--facts that seem to confirm it. He has told them of the hat, the cloak--of the murderer himself, injured in the death-struggle!

But why is Louise Poindexter there--alone--unaccompanied by white or black, by relative or slave? A guest, too: for in this character does she appear! Her cousin does not explain it--perhaps he cannot. Her father--can he? Judging by his embarra.s.sed air, it is doubtful.

Whispers pa.s.s from lip to ear--from group to group. There are surmises--many, but none spoken aloud. Even the rude frontiersmen respect the feelings--filial as parental--and patiently await the _eclairciss.e.m.e.nt_.

"Mount, Louise! Mr Yancey will ride home with you." The young planter thus pledged was never more ready to redeem himself. He is the one who most envies the supposed happiness of Ca.s.sius Calhoun. In his soul he thanks Poindexter for the opportunity.

"But, father!" protests the young lady, "why should I no wait for you?

You are not going to stay here?" Yancey experiences a shock of apprehension. "It is my wish, daughter, that you do as I tell you. Let that be sufficient."

Yancey's confidence returns. Not quite. He knows enough of that proud spirit to be in doubt whether it may yield obedience--even to the parental command.

It gives way; but with an unwillingness ill disguised, even in the presence of that crowd of attentive spectators.