Rope's End Page #3

"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

								

his arm, his machete hanging at his side. "So, now! Don't strain so
bitterly," he laughed. "I tied those knots and they will not slip, for I
have tied too many yellow men. To-morrow you will be shot, monsieur, and
Pierrine will be a widow, so why curse the colonel if he cheats you by a
few hours?"

Congo was examining his victim, and uttered an exclamation, at which
Maximilien paused, with a hand upon Floréal's shoulder.

"Is he dead?"

"The club was heavier than I thought," answered Congo.

"He brought it upon himself. Well, the prison at Jacmel is full of
colored people; this will leave room for one more--"

Maximilien's words suddenly failed him, his thoughts were abruptly
halted, for he found that in some unaccountable manner young Rameau's
hands had become free and that the machete at his own side was slipping
from its sheath. The phenomenon was unbelievable, it paralyzed
Maximilien's intellect during that momentary pause which is required to
reconcile the inconceivable with the imminent. It is doubtful if the
trooper fully realized what had befallen or that any danger threatened,
for his mind was sluggish, and under Rameau's swift hands his soul had
begun to tug at his body before his astonishment had disappeared. The
blade rasped out of its scabbard, whistled through its course, and
Maximilien lurched forward to his knees.

The sound of the blow, like that of an ax sunk into a rotten tree-trunk,
surprised Congo. A shout burst from him; he raised the stout cudgel
above his head, for Floréal was upon him like the blurred image out of a
nightmare. The trooper shrieked affrightedly as the blade sheared
through his shield and bit at his arm. He turned to flee, but his head
was round and bare, and it danced before the oncoming Floréal. Rameau
cleft it, as he had learned to open a green cocoanut, with one stroke.
On the hard earth, Maximilien was scratching and kicking as if to drag
himself out of the welter in which he lay.

Floréal cut down his father and received the limp figure in his arms. As
he straightened it he heard a furious commotion from the camp-fire where
the other tirailleurs were squatted. From the tail of his eye he saw
that they were reaching for their weapons. He heard Laguerre shouting in
the hut, then the crash of something overturned. As he rose from his
father's body he heard a shot and saw the soldiers of the Republic
charging him. They were between him and Pierrine. He hesitated, then
slipped back into the shadow of the tamarind-tree, and out at the other
side; his cotton garments flickered briefly through the moonlight, then
the thicket swallowed him. His pursuers paused and emptied their guns
blindly into the ink-black shadows where he had disappeared.

When Colonel Laguerre arrived upon the scene they were still loading and
firing without aim, and he had some difficulty in restoring them to
order. Blood they were accustomed to, but blood of their own letting.
This was very different. This was a blow at the government, at their own
established authority. Such an appalling loss of life seldom occurred to
regular troops of the Republic; it was worse than a pitched battle with
the Dominicans, and it excited the troopers terribly.

Perhaps he had been mistaken and there was no money, thought the
colonel, as he returned to his quarters after a time. Of course the girl
still remained, and he could soon force the truth from her, but she was
the only source of information left now that Floréal had escaped, for
Laguerre had noted carelessly that the body of Julien had hung too long.
It was annoying to be deceived in this way, but perhaps the day had not
been without some profit, after all, he mused.

The road to the Dominican frontier was rough and wild. All Hayti was
aflame; every village was peopled by raging blacks who had risen against
their lighter-hued brethren. Among the fugitives who slunk along the
winding bridle-paths that once had been roads there was a mulatto youth
of scarcely twenty, who carried a machete beneath his arm. In his eyes
there was a lurking horror; his wrists were bound with rags torn from
his cotton shirt; he spoke but seldom, and when he did it was to curse
the name of Petithomme Laguerre.

II

Floréal took up his residence across the border. The countries had long
been at war, so he found reason to change his name. He likewise changed
his language, although that was not so easily accomplished, and then,
since he had been born of the sea, he returned to it. But he could not
bring himself to utterly forsake the island of his birth, for twice a
year, when the seasons changed, when the trades died and the hot lands
sent their odors reeking through the night, he felt a hungry yearning
for Hayti. During these periods of lifeless heat his impulses ran wild;
at these times his habits changed and he became violent, nocturnal. As
he thought of Petithomme Laguerre he bit his wrists in an agony of
recollection. Women shunned him, men said to one another:

"This Inocencio is a person of uncertain temper. He has a bad eye."

"Whence did he come?" others inquired. "He is not one of us."

"From Jamaica, or the Barbadoes, perhaps. He has much evil in him."

"And yet he makes no enemies."

"Nor friends."

"Um-m! A peculiar fellow. A man of passion--one can see it in his face."

Hayti had become quiet once more--as quiet as could be expected--and the
former colonel of tirailleurs had prospered. He was now "General
Petithomme Laguerre, Commandant of the Arrondissement of the South," and
the echo of his name crept eastward along the coast, even to Azua.

The bitterness of this news finally sent Inocencio seaward in a
barkentine, the business of which was not above suspicion. He cruised
through the Virgin Islands, on around the Leewards and the Windwards,
seeing something of the world and tasting of its wickedness. A year
later, at Trinidad, he fell in with a Portuguese half-breed, captain of
a schooner bound on hazardous business, and, inasmuch as high wages were
promised, he shipped. Followed adventures of many sorts, during which
Inocencio became a mate, but made no friends.

One night when the moon was full and the schooner lay becalmed there was
drinking and gambling in the little cabin. It was the change of the
seasons, before the rains had come; the air was close; the ship reeked
with odors. Inocencio played like a demon, for his heart was fierce, and
the cards befriended him. All night he and the Portuguese half-breed
shuffled and dealt, drank rum, and cursed each other. When daylight came
the schooner had changed hands.

       *       *       *       *       *

Colon sits on the southern shore of the Caribbean, and through it drifts
a current of traffic from many seas. It is like the riffle of a sluice
or the catch-basin of a sewer, gathering all the sediment carried by the
stream, and thither Captain Inocencio headed, drawn on the tide. It was
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