Thars no time to be squandered away. By this, Dick hes got ter the town. Thars no tellin how long he may stay thar, an they must intrap him on his way back. They kin be a waitin an riddy, in that bit o clearin. The very place for the purpis, considerin its been tried arready.
No, thar arnt a minnit to be lost. I must inter the shanty, an scrape off the letter.
Bent upon his devilish design, he hastens inside the house; as he enters, calling upon his daughter to come into the kitchen.
Hyar gurl. Yeve got some paper ye rite yur lessons upon. Fetch me a sheet ot, along wi a pen an ink. Be quick bout it.
The young girl wonders what he can want with things so rarely used by him, but she is not accustomed to question him, and without saying a word, complies with the requisition.
The pen, inkstand, and paper, are placed on the rude slab table, and Jerry Rook sits down before it, taking the pen between his fingers.
After a few moments spent in silent cogitation, reflecting on the form of his epistle, it is produced.
Badly spelt, and rudely scrawled, but short and simple, it runs thus:
To Planter Brandin, Esquare.
Sir, I guess as how ye recollex a man, by name, Dick Tarleton; an maybe ye mout be desireous o seein him. Ef ye be, ye kin gratify yur desire. He air now, at this present moment, in the town o Helena, tho what part o it I dont know. But I know whar he will be afore mornin. That air upon the road leadin from the town tward the settlements on White River. He arnt a gwine fur out, as hes travellin afoot, and hes sartin to keep the trace through the bit o clearin not fur from Caney Crik. Ef you or anybody else wants ter see him, that wud be as good a place as thar is on the road.
Yurs at command,
A Strenger but a Fren.
Jerry Rook has no fear of his handwriting beings
recognised. So long since he has seen it, he would scarce know it himself.
Folding up the sheet, and sealing it with some drops of resin, melted in the dull flame of the dip, he directs it as inside To Planter Brandin, Esquare.
Then handing it to his daughter, and instructing the young girl how to deliver it incog , he despatches her upon her errand.
Lena, with her cloak folded closely around her fairy form, and hooded over her head, proceeds along the path leading to the Brandon plantation. Poor, simple child, herself innocent as the forest fawn, she knows not that she is carrying in her hand the death-warrant of one, who, although but little known, should yet be dear to her Dick Tarleton, the father of Pierre Robideau.
She succeeds in delivering the letter, though failing to preserve her incognito. The hooded head proved but a poor disguise. The domestic who takes the epistle out of her hand recognises, by the white out-stretched arm and slender symmetrical fingers, the daughter of old Rook, de hunter dat live pon Caney Crik. So reports he to his master, when questioned about the messenger who brought the anonymous epistle.
Known or unknown, the name is of slight significance; the withholding of it does not affect the action intended by the writer, nor frustrate the cruel scheme. As the morning sun strikes into the bit o clearing described in Jerry Rooks letter, it throws light upon a terrible tableau the body of a man suspended from the branch of a tree. It is upon the same branch where late hung the young hunter Robideau. It is the body of his father .
There is no one near no sign of life, save the buzzards still lingering around the bones of the bear, and the quaint, grey wolf that has shared with them their repast. But there are footmarks of many men long scores across the turf, that tell of violent struggling, and a patch of grass more smoothly trampled down beneath the gallows tree. There stood Judge Lynch, surrounded by his jury and staff of executioners, while above him swung the victim of their vengeance.
Once more had the travestie of a trial been enacted; once more condemnation pronounced; and that tragedy, long postponed, was now played to the closing scene, the dénouement of death!
Story 1-Chapter XIII. Six Years After
And yet it was but little remembered. In a land, where every-day life chronicles some lawless deed, the mere murder of a man is but a slight circumstance, scarce extending to the proverbial nine days wonder.
Richard Tarleton was but a sportsman, a gambler, if not more; and, as to the mode of his execution, several others of the same fraternity were treated in like fashion not long after, having been hanged in the streets of Vicksburg, the most respectable citizens of the place acting as their executioners!
Amidst these, and other like reminiscences, the circumstance of Dick Tarletons death soon ceased to be talked about, or even thought of, except, perhaps, by certain individuals who had played a part in the illegal execution.
But some of these were dead, some gone away from the neighbourhood; while the influx of colonising strangers, creating a thicker population in the place, had caused those changes that tend to destroy the souvenirs of earlier times, and obliterate the memories of many a local legend.