Rope's End Page #2

"Rope's End" by Rex Ellingwood Beach is a gripping adventure novel set in the rugged landscape of the American West. The story follows the life of a resourceful and determined protagonist as he navigates the challenges of survival and the complexities of human relationships amidst the backdrop of a harsh and unforgiving environment. With themes of resilience, loyalty, and the quest for identity, Beach's vivid prose brings to life the struggles and triumphs of those who inhabit this wild frontier. The novel captures the spirit of adventure and the human condition, making it a compelling read for fans of classic Western literature.

• Short story

								

lighter in color even than Floréal. A little scar just below her left
eye stood out, dull brown, upon her yellow cheek.

Laguerre now saw her plainly for the first time, and shook off his
indolence. He swung his legs from the hammock and sat up. Something in
the intensity of his regard brought her gaze away from the figure of
Papa Rameau. She saw a large, thick-necked, full-bodied black, of bold
and brutal feature, whose determined eyes had become bloodshot from
staring through dust and sun. He wore a mustache, and a little pointed
woolly patch beneath his lower lip. Involuntarily the girl recoiled.

"Um-m! So!" The barefoot colonel rose and, stepping forward, took her
face in his harsh palm, turning it up for scrutiny. His roving glance
appraised her fully. "Your name is--"

"Pierrine!"

"To be sure. Well then, my little Pierrine, you will tell me about this,
eh?"

"I know nothing," she stammered. "Floréal speaks the truth, monsieur.
What does it mean--all this? We are good people; we harm nobody. Every
one here was happy until the--blacks rose. Then there was fighting
and--this morning you came. It was terrible! Mamma Cleomélie is
dead--the soldiers shot her. Why do you hang Papa Julien?"

Floréal broke in, hysterically: "Yes, monsieur, he is an old man. Punish
me if you will, but my father--he is old. See! He is barely alive. These
riches you speak about are imaginary. We have fields, cattle, a
schooner; take them for the Republic, but, monsieur, my father has
injured no one."

Petithomme Laguerre reseated himself in the hammock and swung himself
idly, his bare soles scuffing the hard earthen floor; he continued to
eye Pierrine.

Now that young Rameau had brought himself to beg, he fell to his knees
and went on: "I swear to you that we are not traitors. Never have we
spoken against the government. We are 'colored,' yes, but the black
people love us. They loved Cleomélie, my mother, whom the soldiers shot.
That was murder. Monsieur--she would have harmed nobody. She was only
frightened." The suppliant's shoulders were heaving, his voice was
choked by emotion. "She is unburied. I appeal to your kind heart to let
us go and bury her. We will be your servants for life. You wish money.
Good! We will find it for you. I will work, I will steal, I will kill
for this money you wish--I swear it. But old Julien, he is dying there
on the rope--"

Floréal raised his tortured eyes to the black face above him, then his
babbling tongue fell silent and he rose, interposing his body between
Pierrine and the colonel. It was evident that the latter had heard
nothing whatever of the appeal, for he was still staring at the girl.

Floréal strained until the rawhide thongs cut into his wrists, his bare,
yellow toes gripping the hard earth like the claws of a cat until he
seemed about to spring. Once he turned his head, curiously, fearfully,
toward his young wife, then his blazing glance swung back to his captor.

The silence roused Laguerre finally, and he rose. "Speak the truth," he
commanded, roughly, "otherwise you shall see your father dance a
bamboula while my soldiers drum on his ribs with the cocomacaque."

"He is feeble; his bones are brittle," said the son, thickly.

"As for you, my little Pierrine, you will come to my house; then, if
these wicked men refuse to speak, perhaps you and I will reach an
understanding." Laguerre grinned evilly.

"Monsieur--!" With a furious curse Floréal flung himself in the path of
the black man; the wife retreated in speechless dismay.

Petithomme thrust young Rameau aside, crying, angrily: "You wish to
live, eh? Well, then, the truth. Otherwise--"

"But--she? Pierrine?" panted Floréal, with a twist of his head in her
direction.

"I may allow her to go free. Who can tell?" He led the girl out across
the moonlit clearing and to the largest house in the group. He
reappeared, making the door fast behind him, and returned, stretching
himself in the hammock once more.

"Now, Congo," he ordered, "let us see who will speak first." Taking a
pipe from his pocket, he filled it with the rank native tobacco and
lighted it. The tirailleur he had addressed selected a four-foot club of
the jointed cocomacaque wood, such as is used by the local police, and
with it smote the suspended figure heavily. Old Julien groaned, his son
cried out. The brutality proceeded with deliberation, the body of old
Julien swung drunkenly, spinning, swaying, writhing in the moonlight.

Floréal shrank away. Retreating until his back was against the table, he
clutched its edge with his numb fingers for support. He was young, he
had seen little of the ferocious cruelty which characterized his
countrymen; this was the first uprising against his color that he had
witnessed. Every blow, which seemed directed at his own body, made him
suffer until he became almost as senseless as the figure of his father.

His groping fingers finally touched the candle at his back; it was
burning low, and the blaze bit at them. With the pain there came a
thought, wild, fantastic; he shifted his position slightly until the
flame licked at his bonds. Colonel Laguerre was in the shadow now,
watching the torture with approval. Maximilien, the other soldier,
rested unmoved upon his rifle. Floréal leaned backward, and shut his
teeth; an agony ran through his veins. The odor of burning flesh rose
faintly to his nostrils.

"Softly, Congo," directed the colonel, after a time. "Let him rest for a
moment." Turning to the son he inquired, "Will you see him die rather
than speak?"

Floréal nodded silently; his face was distorted and wet with sweat.

Laguerre rose with a curse. "Little pig! I will make your tongue wag if
I have to place you between planks and saw you in twain. But you shall
have time to think. Maximilien will guard you, and in the morning you
will guide me to the hiding-place. Meanwhile we will let the old man
hang. I have an appetite for pleasanter things than this." He turned
toward the house in which Pierrine was hidden, whereat Floréal strained
at his bonds, calling after him:

"Laguerre! She is my wife--by the Church! My wife."

Petithomme opened the door silently and disappeared.

"Humph! The colonel amuses himself while I tickle the sides of this
yellow man," said Congo in some envy.

"I don't believe there is any money," Maximilien observed. "What? Am I
right?" He turned inquiringly to Floréal, but the latter had regained
his former position, and the candle-flame was licking at his wrists. "To
be sure! This is a waste of time. Make an end of the old man, Congo, and
I will take the boy back to his prison. It is late and I am sleepy."

The speaker approached his captive, his musket resting in the hollow of
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