The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover

He had not gone twenty yards farther when he heard footsteps, and the “swish” of leaves, as if some one was making way through the underwood. Directed by these sounds he rushed rapidly after.

Ten seconds more and he was in sight of a saddled horse, standing tied to a tree, and a man in the act of untying him. The man was making all haste, hindered by a heavy rifle carried in his hand. It was the gun that had just been discharged, and Pierre Robideau had recognised the man who had made the attempt to murder him.

Alfred Brandon!

With a shout, such as only one Indian-born could give, he bounded forward, and, before the retreating assassin could climb into his saddle, he seized him by the throat and dashed him against the trunk of a tree. The horse, frightened by the fierce onslaught, gave a loud neigh, and galloped off.

“I thank you,” cried Robideau, “and you alone, Mr Alf Brandon, for giving me this chance! I’ve got you exactly where I wanted you! For six years I’ve been longing for this hour, and now it has come as if I’d planned it myself.”

Brandon, by this time recovered from the shock, threw down his gun, drew pistol, and was about to fire; but, before he could get his finger on the trigger, his antagonist seized him by the wrist, and, wrenching the weapon from his hand, dashed him a second time against the tree trunk.

Reeling and giddy, he saw the muzzle of his own pistol pointed at his head, and expected nothing else than the bullet through his brains.

The cry of the coward came from his lips as he writhed under the terrible anticipation.

To his astonishment the shot was not fired!

Pierre Robideau, flinging the pistol away, stood before him apparently unarmed!

“No, Mr Alf Brandon!” said he, “shooting is too good for such a dog as you; and a dog’s death you shall have. Come away from here! Come on! I want to see which of us can hang longest by the hand. We tried it six years ago, but the trial wasn’t a fair one. ’Tis your turn now. Come on!”

More than ever astonished, Brandon hesitated to comply. The calm yet determined air of his antagonist told him it was no jest, but that something terrible was intended. He glanced stealthily to the right and left, and seemed to calculate the chances of escape.

Robideau read his thoughts.

“Don’t attempt it,” said he, throwing back the lapel of his coat, and showing the butt of a pistol. “I have this, and will use it if you make any effort to get off. Come!”

Saying this, he seized the cowering ruffian by the wrist, and, half leading, half dragging, hurried him away from the spot.

In five minutes after they stood under a tree – the same upon which Pierre Robideau had endured all the horrors of hanging.

“What do you mean to do?” asked Brandon, in a faltering voice.

“I’ve told you. I am curious to see how long you can stand it.”

As he said this, he unloosed the bridle-reins from his body, and, taking out his knife, commenced cutting them free from the bit. It was a double rein, composed of two long pieces of closely-plaited hair taken from the tail of a horse.

Brandon stood pale and trembling. He could not fail to interpret the preparations that were being made. Once more he thought of flight, and once more Pierre Robideau read his thoughts.

“It is no use,” he said sternly; “you are in my power. Attempt to get out of it, or resist, and I dash your brains out against that tree. Now, your wrist in this rope.”

Feeble with fear, Brandon allowed his left hand to be seized, and his wrist drawn into a noose made of one of the bridle-reins. The other end of the cord was passed around his thigh, and then brought back and secured by a firm knot, so as to hold the arm helpless by his side. This done, the other rein, with a running loop, was adjusted round his neck, its loose end thrown over one of the large branches.

“Now,” cried Robideau, “mount upon this log, and take hold, as you made me do. Quick, or I jerk you up by the neck!”

Bewildered, Brandon knew not what to do. Was his enemy in earnest, or was it only a grim jest? He would fain have believed it this; but the fierce, determined look of Robideau forbade him to hope for mercy. He remembered at this moment how little he was deserving of it.

He was left no time to reflect. He felt the noose tightening around his neck, and the cord stretching taut above him.

In another instant he was drawn from the ground and, mechanically throwing up his right arm, he caught hold of the branch. It was the only chance to save him from almost instant strangulation!

“Now,” cried Robideau, who had sprung upon the log and made the rope fast to the upper limb, “now, Mr Alf Brandon, you’re just as you left me six years ago. I hope you’ll enjoy the situation. Good day to you!” And, with a scornful laugh, Pierre Robideau strode away from the spot.

All the agony that can be endured by a man who sees death before him, and sees no chance to escape it, was at that hour endured by Alfred Brandon.

In vain he shouted till he was hoarse, till his cries could have been no longer heard a hundred yards from the tree, soon to become his gallows. There was no response, save the echo of his own voice. No one to hear or to heed it! He had no expectation of being saved by the man who had just left him. That scornful laugh at parting precluded all hope: though in his agonised struggle he begged aloud for mercy, calling upon Pierre Robideau by name.

Pierre Robideau came not to his assistance; and, after a long struggle – protracted to the utmost point of endurance – till the arm, half disjointed, could no longer sustain his body, he let go his hold, and dropped to the ground.

The peals of derisive laughter that rang in his ears as he lay exhausted upon the earth, were not pleasant – the less so that a female voice was heard taking part in it. But even this was endurable after the dread agony through which he had passed; and hurriedly springing to his feet, and releasing his neck from the rope, he sneaked off among the trees, without staying to cast a look at Pierre Robideau or Lena Rook, who, standing by the edge of the glade, had been witness to his unnecessary contortions.

Our tale is told, so far as it might interest the reader. What afterwards happened to the different character who have figured in it, were but events such as may occur in every-day life. There was nothing strange in a young man, with a taint of Indian blood in him, marrying the daughter of a backwoods-settler, and carrying her off to California; nothing strange, either, that the father of the girl should sell off his “improvement,” and make the far-western migration along with them.

And this was the history of Jerry Rook, his daughter, and his daughter’s husband; all three of whom, in less than twelve months after, might have been seen settled in their new home, on the far shore of the Pacific, and surrounded with every comfort required upon earth.

There Pierre Robideau had nothing further to fear from the hostility of early enemies, or the vengeance of jealous rivals; there Lena Rook, no longer exposed to social humiliation, had the opportunity of becoming that for which nature had intended her – an ornament of society; and there, too, her father found time to repent of the past, and prepare himself for that future which awaits alike the weary and the wicked.

Of his crimes, both committed and conceived, Jerry Rook died repentant.

The fate of Alfred Brandon was somewhat similar to that of his father. Drink brought him to a premature grave; though, unlike his father, he died without heir and almost without heritage, having spent the whole of his property in the low dissipation of the tavern and the gaming-table. His executors found scarce sufficient to pay for the hearse that carried him to the grave.

With Bill Buck it was different. His funeral, which occurred shortly after, was at the public expense – his grave being dug near the foot of the gallows on which he had perished for many crimes committed against society, the last and greatest being a cold-blooded murder, with robbery for its motive.

Spencer, Slaughter, Randall, and Grubbs, lived to take part in the late fratricidal war – all four, as might be expected, embracing the cause of secession, and all, it is believed, having perished in the strife, after the perpetration of many of those cruel atrocities in which the state of Arkansas was most conspicuously infamous.

Helena still stands on the banks of the mighty river, and there are many there who remember the tragedy of Dick Tarleton’s death; but few, if any, who have ever heard the tale of “The Helpless Hand.”

Story 2-Chapter I.

The Falcon Rover. The Discovery

A mystery! By heaven, I’ll find it out.

If a man may!

    – The Maiden.

Speed, Malise, speed!

    – Lady of the Lake.

One of the most lovely pictures in lowland scenery which I have ever looked upon is that around the mouth of a river which I have called the Clearwater (the English translation of its Indian name), and which flows between two of the southern counties of the western shore of Maryland.

From the northern shore of that stream, in this place wide and beautiful, stretches out a long, flat strip of white sand, which is covered here and there with patches of crab-grass, and of that kind of cactus commonly called the prickly pear. On the western side of this strip of sand is a deep and capacious harbour, much resorted to by bay-craft and sea-going vessels, while waiting for a fair wind up or down the bay. On its eastern side extends a gulf, or indentation of the coast, called by sailors, if I remember rightly, Patuxent Roads, and which expands towards, and mingles with, the broad and beautiful Chesapeake. Along the shores of this gulf are shoals, famous in the country round as resorts of the fish called drums, which circumstance has given the name of Drum Point to the beach extending, as described, between the Clearwater and Maryland’s noble bay.

On the northern side of Drum Point harbour, and near to where the point begins to curve away from the mainland, stood, during the second decade of this century (and, indeed, for many years afterwards), a long, single-storey frame building. This building, though placed upon the sands, was still many yards away from the highest line reached by the water at high tide. Directly behind it the land rose with a rapid swell to a plateau, some thirty or forty feet above the shore of the harbour. This frame structure was what is called in the United States a store, and contained for sale such articles as are most in demand among seamen. It belonged to an individual whom, for many reasons, I will call by a fictitious name, Ashleigh, and who owned an estate of several hundred acres, embracing all the eastern line of the harbour shore, and extending some distance into the country behind it.

At the time of which I write, mysterious and very injurious stories, about the owner of this store, circulated in the neighbouring country on both sides of the Clearwater. It was said that he concealed smuggled goods, and even goods captured by pirates on the high seas, until an opportunity should occur for secretly conveying them to Baltimore for sale; and that he was implicated in some way in the trials for piracy held before one of the United States courts in Baltimore, in the early part of the present century.