The Death Shot: A Story Retold

Worse than death! Is it to be torture?

During all this time Borlasse has not declared himself, or given token of having recognised his prisoner. But Clancy can tell he has done so. He saw it in the Satanic glance of his eye as they first came face to face. Since, the robber has studiously kept away from him, riding at the head of the line, the prisoners having place in its centre.

On arrival at the underwood, all dismount; but only to slake their thirst, as that of their horses. The spring is unapproachable by the animals; and leathern buckets are called into requisition. With these, and other marching apparatus, the freebooters are provided. While one by one the horses are being watered, Borlasse draws off to some distance, beckoning Chisholm to follow him; and for a time the two seem engaged in earnest dialogue, as if in discussion. The chief promised his followers a spectacle, – a “bit of sport,” as he facetiously termed it. Clancy has been forecasting torture, but in his worst fear of it could not conceive any so terrible as that in store for him. It is in truth a cruelty inconceivable, worthy a savage, or Satan himself. Made known to Chisholm, though hardened this outlaw’s heart, he at first shrinks from assisting in its execution – even venturing to remonstrate.

But Borlasse is inexorable. He has no feelings of compassion for the man who was once the cause of his being made to wince under the whip. His vengeance is implacable; and will only be satisfied by seeing Clancy suffer all that flesh can. By devilish ingenuity he has contrived a scheme to this intent, and will carry it out regardless of consequences.

So says he, in answer to the somewhat mild remonstrance of his subordinate.

“Well, cap,” rejoins the latter, yielding, “if you’re determined to have it that way, why, have it. But let it be a leetle privater than you’ve spoke o’. By makin’ it a public spectacle, an’ lettin’ all our fellars into your feelins, some o’ ’em mightn’t be so much amused. An some might get to blabbin’ about it afterwards, in such a way as to breed trouble. The originality an’ curiousness o’ the thing would be sure to ’tract attention, an’ the report o’t would run through all Texas, like a prairie on fire. ’Twould never sleep as long’s there’s a soger left in the land; and sure as shootin’ we’d have the Rangers and Regulators hot after us. Tharfore, if you insist on the bit o’ interment, take my advice, and let the ceremony be confined to a few friends as can be trusted wi’ a secret.”

For some seconds Borlasse is silent, pondering upon what Chisholm has said. Then responds: —

“Guess you’re about right, Luke. I’ll do as you suggest. Best way will be to send the boys on ahead. There’s three can stay with us we can trust – Watts, Stocker, and Driscoll. They’ll be enough to do the grave-digging. The rest can go on to the rendezvous. Comrades!” he adds, moving back towards his men, who have just finished watering their horses, “I spoke o’ some sport I intended givin’ you here. On second thinkin’ it’ll be better defarred till we get to head-quarters. So into your saddles and ride on thar – takin’ the yeller fellow along wi’ ye. The other I’ll look after myself. You, Luke Chisholm, stay; with Watts, Stocker, and Driscoll. I’ve got a reason for remaining here a little longer. We’ll soon be after, like enough overtake ye ’fore you can reach the creek. If not, keep on to camp without us. An’, boys; once more I warn ye about openin’ them boxes. I know what’s in them to a dollar. Fernand! you’ll see to that.”

The half-blood, of taciturn habit, nods assent, Borlasse adding: —

“Now, you damned rascals! jump into your saddles and be off. Take the nigger along. Leave the white gentleman in better company, as befits him.”

With a yell of laughter at the coarse sally, the freebooters spring upon their horses. Then, separating Clancy from Jupe, they ride off, taking the latter. On the ground are left only the chief, Chisholm, and the trio chosen to assist at some ceremony, mysteriously spoken of as an “interment.”

After all it is not to be there. On reflection, Borlasse deems the place not befitting. The grave he is about to dig must not be disturbed, nor the body he intends burying disinterred.

Though white traveller never passes that solitary tree, red ones sometimes seek relaxation under its shade. Just possible a party of Comanches may come along; and though savages, their hearts might still be humane enough to frustrate the nefarious scheme of a white man more savage than they. To guard against such contingency Borlasse has bethought him of some change in his programme, which he makes known to Chisholm, saying: —

“I won’t bury him here, Luke. Some strayin’ redskin might come along, and help him to resurrection. By God! he shan’t have that, till he hears Gabriel’s trumpet. To make sure we must plant him in a safer place.”

“Can we find safer, cap?”

“Certainly we can.”

“But whar?”

“Anywhare out o’ sight of here. We shall take him to some distance off, so’s they can’t see him from the spring. Up yonder’ll do.”

He points to a part of the plain northward, adding: —

“It’s all alike which way, so long’s we go far enough.”

“All right!” rejoins Chisholm, who has surrendered his scruples about the cruelty of what they intend doing, and only thinks of its being done without danger.

“Boys!” shouts Borlasse to the men in charge of Clancy, “bring on your prisoner! We’re going to make a leetle deflection from the course – a bit o’ a pleasure trip – only a short un.”

So saying, he starts off in a northerly direction, nearly at right angles to that they have been hitherto travelling.

After proceeding about a mile, the brigand chief, still riding with Chisholm in the advance, comes to a halt, calling back to the others to do the same – also directing them to dismount their prisoner.

Clancy is unceremoniously jerked out of his saddle; and, after having his arms pinioned, and limbs lashed together, laid prostrate along the earth. This leaves them free for the infernal task, they are now instructed to perform. One only, Watts, stays with the prisoner; the other two, at the chiefs command, coming on to where he and Chisholm have halted. Then all four cluster around a spot he points out, giving directions what they are to do.

With the point of his spear Borlasse traces a circle upon the turf, some twenty inches in diameter; then tells them to dig inside it.

Stocker and Driscoll draw their tomahawks, and commence hacking at the ground; which, though hard, yields to the harder steel of hatchets manufactured for the cutting of skulls. As they make mould, it is removed by Chisholm with the broad blade of his Comanche spear.

As all prairie men are accustomed to making caches, they are expert at this; and soon sink a shaft that would do credit to the “crowing” of a South African Bosjesman. It is a cylinder full five feet in depth, with a diameter of less than two. Up to this time its purpose has not been declared to either Stocker, or Driscoll, though both have their conjectures. They guess it to be the grave of him who is lying along the earth – his living tomb!

At length, deeming it deep enough, Borlasse commands them to leave off work, adding, as he points to the prisoner: “Now, plant your saplin’! If it don’t grow there it ought to.”

The cold-blooded jest extorts a smile from the others, as they proceed to execute the diabolical order.

And they do it without show of hesitation – rather with alacrity. Not one of the five has a spark of compassion in his breast – not one whose soul is unstained with blood.

Clancy is dragged forward, and plunged feet foremost into the cavity. Standing upright, his chin is only an inch or two above the surface of the ground. A portion of the loose earth is pushed in, and packed around him, the ruffians trampling it firm. What remains they kick and scatter aside; the monster, with horrible mockery, telling them to make a “neat job of it.”

During all this time Brasfort has been making wild demonstrations, struggling to free himself, as if to rescue his master. For he is also bound, tied to the stirrup of one of the robber’s horses. But the behaviour of the faithful animal, instead of stirring them to compassion, only adds to their fiendish mirth.

The interment complete, Borlasse makes a sign to the rest to retire; then, placing himself in front, with arms akimbo, stands looking Clancy straight in the face. No pen could paint that glance. It can only be likened to that of Lucifer.

For a while he speaks not, but in silence exults over his victim. Then, bending down and tossing back his plumed bonnet, he asks, “D’ye know me, Charley Clancy?”

Receiving no reply, he continues, “I’ll lay a hundred dollars to one, ye will, after I’ve told ye a bit o’ a story, the which relates to a circumstance as happened jest twelve months ago. The scene o’ that affair was in the public square o’ Nacodosh, whar a man was tied to a post an – ”

“Whipped at it, as he deserved.”

“Ha!” exclaims Borlasse, surprised, partly at being recognised, but as much by the daring avowal. “You do remember that little matter? And me too?”

“Perfectly; so you may spare yourself the narration. You are Jim Borlasse, the biggest brute and most thorough scoundrel in Texas.”

“Curse you!” cries the ruffian enraged, poising his spear till its point almost touches Clancy’s head, “I feel like driving this through your skull.”

“Do so!” is the defiant and desperate rejoinder. It is what Clancy desires. He has no hope of life now. He wishes death to come at once, and relieve him from the long agony he will otherwise have to endure.

Quick catching this to be his reason, Borlasse restrains himself, and tosses up the spear, saying: —

“No, Mister; ye don’t die that eesy way – not if I know it. You and yours kept me two days tied like a martyr to the stake, to say nothin’ of what came after. So to make up for’t I’ll give you a spell o’ confinement that’ll last a leetle longer. You shall stay as ye are, till the buzzarts peck out your eyes, an’ the wolves peel the skin from your skull – ay, till the worms go crawlin’ through your flesh. How’ll ye like that, Charley Clancy?”

“There’s no wolf or vulture on the prairies of Texas ugly as yourself. Dastardly dog!”

“Ah! you’d like to get me angry? But you can’t. I’m cool as a cowkumber – aint I? Your dander’s up, I can see. Keep it down. No good your gettin’ excited. I s’pose you’d like me to spit in your face. Well, here goes to obleege ye.”

At this he stoops down, and does as said. After perpetrating the outrage, he adds: —

“Why don’t ye take out your handkercher an’ wipe it off. It’s a pity to see such a handsome fellow wi’ his face in that fashion. Ha! ha! ha!”

His four confederates, standing apart, spectators of the scene, echo his fiendish laughter.

“Well, well, my proud gentleman;” he resumes, “to let a man spit in your face without resentin’ it! I never expected to see you sunk so low. Humiliated up to the neck – to the chin! Ha! ha! ha!”

Again rings out the brutal cachinnation, chorused by his four followers.