nor freak of fancy. Clancy is still alive; or if
dead he, Darke, is looking upon his wraith!

To his unfinished speech he receives instant rejoinder:--

"You don't know who I am? Learn then! I'm the man you tried to
assassinate in a Mississippian forest--Charles Clancy--who means to kill
you, fairer fashion, here on this Texan plain. Dick Darke! if you have
a prayer to say, say it soon; for sure as you stand behind that rock, I
intend taking your life."

The threat is spoken in a calm, determined tone, as if surely to be
kept. All the more terrible to Richard Darke, who cannot yet realise
the fact of Clancy's being alive. But that stern summons must have come
from mortal lips, and the form before him is no spirit, but living flesh
and blood.

Terror-stricken, appalled, shaking as with an ague, the gun almost drops
from his grasp. But with a last desperate resolve, and effort
mechanical, scarce knowing what he does, he raises the piece to his
shoulder, and fires.

Clancy sees the flash, the jet, the white smoke puffing skyward; then
hears the crack. He has no fear, knowing himself at a safe distance.
For at this has he halted.

He does not attempt to return the fire, nor rashly rush on. Darke
carries a double-barrelled gun, and has still a bullet left. Besides,
he has the advantage of position, the protecting rampart, the moon
behind his back, and in the eyes of his assailant, everything in favour
of the assailed.

Though chafing in angry impatience, with the thirst of vengeance
unappeased, Clancy restrains himself, measuring the ground with his
eyes, and planning how he may dislodge his skulking antagonist. Must he
lay siege to him, and stay there till--

A low yelp interrupts his cogitations. Looking down he sees Brasfort by
his side. In the long trial of speed between the two horses, the hound
had dropped behind. The halt has enabled it to get up, just in time to
be of service to its master, who has suddenly conceived a plan for
employing it.

Leaping from his saddle, he lays holds of the muzzle strap, quickly
unbuckling it. As though divining the reason, the dog dashes on for the
rock; soon as its jaws are released, giving out a fierce angry growl.

Darke sees it approaching in the clear moonlight, can distinguish its
markings, remembers them. Clancy's stag-hound! Surely Nemesis, with
all hell's hosts, are let loose on him!

He recalls how the animal once set upon him.

Its hostility