I stealed a
horse from him. Not only swore it, but war believed; an' got me--me,
Jim Borlasse--tied for twenty-four hours to a post, and whipped into the
bargain. Yes, boys, whipped! An' by a damned Mexikin nigger, under the
orders o' one o' their constables, they call algazeels. I've got the
mark o' them lashes on me now, and can show them, if any o' ye hev a
doubt about it. I ain't 'shamed to show 'em to _you_ fellows; as ye've
all got something o' the same, I guess. But I'm burnin' mad to think
that Charley Clancy's escaped clear o' the vengeance I'd sworn again
him. I know'd he was comin' back to Texas, him and his. That's what
took him out thar, when I met him at Nacogdoches. I've been waitin' and
watchin' till he shed stray this way. Now, it appears, somebody has
spoilt my plans--somebody o' the name Richard Darke. An', while I envy
this Dick Darke, I say damn him for doin' it!"

"Damn Dick Darke! Damn him for doin' it!" they shout, till the walls
re-echo their ribald blasphemy.

The drinking debauch is continued till a late hour, Quantrell paying
shot for the whole party. Maudlin as most of them have become, they
still wonder that a man so shabbily dressed can command so much cash and
coin. Some of them are not a little perplexed by it.

Borlasse is less so than any of his fellow-tipplers. He has noted
certain circumstances that give him a clue to the explanation; one,
especially, which seems to make everything clear. As the stranger,
calling himself Phil Quantrell, stands holding his glass in hand, his
handkerchief employed to wipe the wine from his lips, and carelessly
returned to his pocket, slips out, and fails upon the floor. Borlasse
stooping, picks it up, but without restoring it to its owner.

Instead, he retires to one side; and, unobserved, makes himself
acquainted with a name embroidered on its corner.

When, at a later hour, the two sit together, drinking a last good-night
draught, Borlasse places his lips close to the stranger's ear,
whispering as if it were Satan himself who spoke, "_Your name is not
Philip Quantrell: 'tis Richard Darke_!"

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

THE MURDERER UNMASKED.

A rattlesnake sounding its harsh "skirr" under the chair on which the
stranger is sitting could not cause him to start up more abruptly than
he does, when Borlasse says:--

"_Your name is not Philip Quantrell: 'tis Richard Darke_!"

He first half rises to his feet, then sits down agai