Clancy--Charles Clancy--while the murderer,
or he under suspicion of being so, is named Richard Darke, the son of
Ephraim Darke, a rich Mississippi planter.

The paper gives further details: that the body of the murdered man has
not been found, before the time of its going to press; though the
evidence collected leaves no doubt of a foul deed having been done;
adding, that Darke, the man accused of it, after being arrested and
lodged in the county jail, has managed to make his escape--this through
connivance with his jailer, who has also disappeared from the place.
Just in time, pursues the report, to save the culprit's neck from a
rope, made ready for him by the executioners of Justice Lynch, a party
of whom had burst open the doors of the prison, only to find it
untenanted. The paper likewise mentions the motive for the committal of
the crime--at least as conjectured; giving the name of a young lady,
Miss Helen Armstrong, and speaking of a letter, with her picture, found
upon the suspected assassin. It winds up by saying, that no doubt both
prisoner and jailer have G.T.T.--"Gone to Texas"--a phrase of frequent
use in the Southern States, applied to fugitives from justice. Then
follows the copy of a proclamation from the State authorities, offering
a reward of two thousand dollars for the apprehension of Richard Darke,
and five hundred for Joe Harkness--this being the name of the conniving
prison-keeper.

While the murder is being canvassed and discussed by the _bon-vivants_
in the bar-room of the Choctaw Chief--a subject that seems to have a
strange fascination for them--Borlasse, who has become elevated with the
alcohol, though usually a man of taciturn habit, breaks out with an
asseveration, which causes surprise to all, even his intimate
associates.

"Damn the luck!" he vociferates, bringing his fist down upon the counter
till the decanters dance at the concussion; "I'd 'a given a hundred
dollars to 'a been in the place o' that fellow Darke, whoever he is!"

"Why?" interrogate several of his confreres, in tones that express the
different degrees of their familiarity with him questioned, "Why, Jim?"

"Why, Mr Borlasse?"

"Why, Captain?"

"Why?" echoes the man of many titles, again striking the counter, and
causing decanters and glasses to jingle. "Why? Because that Clancy--
that same Clancy--is the skunk that, before a packed jury, half o' them
yellar-bellied Mexikins, in the town of Nacogdoches, swore