n; all the while
trembling in such fashion, that the wine goes over the edge of his
glass, sprinkling the sanded floor.

Fortunately for him, all the others have retired to their beds, it being
now a very late hour of the night--near midnight. The drinking "saloon"
of the Choctaw Chief is quite emptied of its guests. Even Johnny, the
bar-keeper, has gone kitchen-wards to look after his supper.

Only Borlasse witnesses the effect of his own speech; which, though but
whispered, has proved so impressive.

The speaker, on his side, shows no surprise. Throughout all the evening
he has been taking the measure of his man, and has arrived at a clear
comprehension of the case. He now knows he is in the company of Charles
Clancy's assassin. The disguise which Darke has adopted--the mere
shaving off moustaches and donning a dress of home-wove "cottonade"--the
common wear of the Louisiana Creole--with slouch hat to correspond, is
too flimsy to deceive Captain Jim Borlasse, himself accustomed to
metamorphoses more ingenious, it is nothing new for him to meet a
murderer fleeing from the scene of his crime--stealthily, disguisedly
making way towards that boundary line, between the United States and
Texas--the limit of executive justice.

"Come, Quantrell!" he says, raising his arm in a gesture of reassurance,
"don't waste the wine in that ridikelous fashion. You and me are alone,
and I reckin we understand one another. If not, we soon will--the
sooner by your puttin' on no nonsensical airs, but confessin' the clar
and candid truth. First, then, answer me this questyun: Air you, or air
you not, Richard Darke? If ye air, don't be afeerd to say so. No
humbuggery! Thar's no need for't. An' it won't do for Jim Borlasse."

The stranger, trembling, hesitates to make reply.

Only for a moment. He sees it will be of no use denying his identity.
The man who has questioned him--of giant size and formidable aspect--
notwithstanding the copious draughts he has swallowed, appears cool as a
tombstone, and stern as an Inquisitor. The bloodshot eyes look upon him
with a leer that seems to say: "Tell me a lie, and I'm your enemy."

At the same time those eyes speak of friendship; such as may exist
between two scoundrels equally steeped in crime.

The murderer of Charles Clancy--now for many days and nights wandering
the earth, a fugitive from foiled justice, taking untrodden paths,
hiding in holes and corners, at length seeking sh